Misty, moistly, mornings

The first cold fogs of November cloaked our area on Monday and Tuesday. I took these two shots as the sun started to burn the mist away. The rays fell rather spookily on the war memorial.

What are the Signs of a Heart Attack?

More than 220,000 people suffer from heart attacks in the UK each year, and sadly, about one in three die before even reaching the hospital. Heart attacks need to be dealt with immediately. The odds of surviving a heart attack are significantly improved if you are treated within 90 minutes of experiencing the first symptoms.

Despite being a medical emergency, too many people delay calling for an ambulance when symptoms start.
Research from the US has found that men waited an average of two and a half hours before contacting the emergency services, and women took even longer.

A likely explanation for this is that people know only one of the main symptoms of heart a heart attack - chest pain - but don't know the others. Even then, if the chest pain is mild, heart attack victims often put it down to a bad case of heartburn or indigestion. So how can you tell the difference?

Heart Attack Warning Signs
The common or 'classic' symptoms of a heart attack include:
Pain in the centre of the chest
Chest pain which spreads to the arms, neck or jaw
Chest pain and feeling sick or sweaty
Chest pain and shortness of breath
The less commons symptoms of a heart attack include:
A dull pain, ache, or ‘heavy’ feeling in the chest
A mild discomfort in the chest that makes you feel generally unwell
A pain in your chest that can spread to the back or stomach
A chest pain that feels like a bad episode of indigestion
Feeling light-headed or dizzy as well as having chest pain
Heart attack symptoms differ from person to person. Chest pain can vary from mild discomfort in the centre of the chest to severe pain which is often described as a heavy pressure, crushing or tightness.
But, for others, the chest pain may be relatively mild, but accompanied by some of the other symptoms, so recognising a pattern of symptoms is key - 'heartburn' with breathlessness and sweating needs to be checked out.
Both men and women can experience common or uncommon symptoms of a heart attack, or even a combination of both. Either way, they need to be dealt with immediately.

Mine was not classic. I'd been moving carpets downstairs and was out of breath. My back ached and I thought naturally enough, maybe I'd strained my back. As I sat on a stool to recover the ache in my back got worse and I felt dizzy, so I lay down and that's when the pain in the chest came. The paramedics weren't even sure what was happening ...

The main point never to overlook, is that ANY sudden and vigorous exercise can prove to be fatal. It's this sudden exertion that did me in. Be careful, warm up and don't imagine you're still a twenty year old. I didn't and look what happened.

People Portraits

I'm slowly getting up courage to contact people who do or are interesting in some unique way in order to take their portrait. Not for profit, just for me. If they like the result enough to perhaps buy a print, that would be cool. But I give them the images in electronic form anyway. I found this film maker and discovered he was in fact local, so I said hello and he kindly allowed me to take his portrait. Robin King is an interesting guy who is struggling to make his own films. Never easy. Some of his previous films are very impressive. Check them out HERE. I would have liked to shoot him in his working environment but that wasn't possible. So we met up for a coffee at at small cafe and I took a few snaps as we chatted. Here they are.

If anyone knows anybody that would be a suitable subject for my lens, drop me a line!

Walking

Well, I finished my re-hab fitness course and went for my re-assesment to see how much fitter I am ... erm, I'm not. My heart rate was in fact higher than when I was first tested. Ooops. I did manage to walk a little further though, well, about six inches.

I put this aberration down to being an incredible example of male fitness to begin with. But they didn't buy that.

'Have you been following the exercise regime? 30 minutes for five days a week?'

'Erm, well no, sometimes...'

I was then beaten over the head by the two women specialists until I promised to do more in future. Darn. Last week (I pleaded in vain), I was walking the length and breadth of Britain, honest!

Well, parts of some cliffs that were near some rather nice pubs along the coast, at least. But I was walking!

Certified Fit (sort of)

After six weeks and twelve visits, I was finally given the Certification of Survival by our favourite Commandant, Jo. Her guards put their whips and whistles down and my fellow inmates gathered around to wish me well. No sooner had that formality passed, than Jo was pressing me to sign up for Phase 4 of the rehabilitation. I can't think why, but maybe she senses something of the masochist in me. It's probably a very good idea. (it says here)

This week also saw Gina 'The Ring Master', remembering her routines for once. Last weeks Blonde Moments forgotten. Well, that is until she blotted her copybook right at the end by missing out a vital stretching exercise. I think she was a little distracted this week. Indeed, several of my fellow inmates including myself, noticed Gina's fawning favouritism to one particularly handsome newcomer. She spent most of the exercise following him around with his drink and giving unwarranted 1-1 attention to the dismay of her other, sadly abandoned charges. Tsk tsk.

All told, (and joking apart), the program has been a great help. The staff involved with the Cardiac Rehabilitation have been incredibly friendly and encouraging and I certainly feel more confidant in myself, and in the ability of my heart to keep working as it should, and the exercise is actually enjoyable. Sort of. In a way. On to Phase 4 then ...

Coffin Dodgers Club

After they kick you out of the hospital bed, the tyrants convince you to start physical re-habilitation. For me, an expert and accredited couch potato of the first order, this is a daunting task. For six weeks we are frog-marched into the gym while evilly smiling black-shirted guards blow whistles in your face for the good of your health. Ok, well, maybe I'm exaggerating. A bit. They don't actually, really, wear black shirts. Afterwards I'm knackered, but apparently healthier.

Below are some pictures of the torture, smuggled out but don't ask how.

Jo Thomas, in the white shirt, is head Commandant in charge of making sure our hearts beat fast enough. Gina Smith, in the blue shirt and headset with voice amplification set to 11, is Obersturmfuher in charge of shouting and encouragement.

Yes, I'm being flippant. The fact is, this is helping me and I do appreciate it. Honest. No really, honest.

Lack of exercise BHA (Before Heart Attack) was a precursor to the event. I'm not fat, I don't smoke and I drink rarely. And I thought I was reasonably fit. I thought I could do strenuous work when needed just as if I was still 21. Wrong. Suddenly doing heavy lifting and carrying, macho style, did me in. So if, like me, you're pushing the wrong side of 50 and aren't particularly fit, you now have the perfect excuse to NOT suddenly clear the loft/garden/garage etc. Because it might well kill you ...

The Widow Maker

by Peter Davidson



I wound up dazed, disorientated but still alive on what I decided to name Walrus Beach on a Saturday night three weeks before Christmas 2009. Once I'd been plugged into the entertainments machine, wired up to an intravenous drip, oxygen and uncomfortably connected to my catheter bag, I was unveiled to my fellow walruses.

Opposite, a large and lugubrious man was sitting on an oversized chair next to his bed regarding me balefully. Once the curtains had been drawn back from around my bay, I raised my right hand and wiggled my fingers in a weak greeting.

‘You look like you've had a rough time, mate,' he said in response.

I consider this statement for a moment. ‘Well, I feel almost human again. Even if I don't look it.'

‘Harr, humour,' he chuckled, his large frame wobbling long after his laugh. ‘I'm Steve. Dangerous thing humour in a place like this. Isn't that right Dave?'

Dave was in a bed on Steve's right. A diminished looking late middle-aged man with a worried, long suffering expression rolled his eyes and gave me a wave. I waved back. There were a total of six of us in the ward. All heart patients. No televisions allowed to avoid any excitement. The ‘entertainments machine' were our heart monitors and Steve's machine was the most exciting, showed wildly irregular patterns.

‘I'm an enigma. They don't know what's going on with me.' He raised his arm and the pattern wobbled and changed. ‘See?'

Dave chipped in: ‘And look, it says my heart rate is 120 - even though I count it at half that! Bloody stupid thing.'

Only later does Dave mention he has a pacemaker and he's convinced the monitor is doubling the heart beat count. I like the black humour. If I'd been in a private room and on my own with no one to compare war wounds with, my time in hospital would have been much harder.

That first night sleep was difficult. But I officially became a fully paid-up member of the Walrus gang the next night, contributing enthusiastically to the discordant symphony of human and robotic sounds. In a fitful dream I was a despairing conductor, vainly trying to organise the coughs, groans and snores - punctuated by bursts of flatulence and mechanical bing-bong alarms – into some form of weird symphony.

To make sure everyone enjoyed the concert, a despotic nurse would regularly on the hour, wake and stick a needle in an arm. Although I managed to filter out all these sounds and eventually sleep, in truth it took me a long time to gain the confidence to close my eyes. Without the distraction of daylight and humour, my mind returned again and again to the event. The fact was, I could no longer trust my heart to keep beating.

The attack itself came without warning while lifting carpets. No dramatic clutching of the heart as seen in Hollywood movies. The exertion simply made me feel dizzy and out of breath. And my back ached. Nothing unusual I thought. I lay down on the floor to recover and that's when the chest pains started. My wife realised I was in trouble - even if I didn't - and called an ambulance. I'd given up trying to manfully shake off the discomfort, but by this time I didn't care what happened, the pain was crushing. I was also very cold and shaking, so much so the paramedics thought I might be convulsing. They decided to blue-light me to the local hospital.

As the ambulance arrived at the hospital the paramedic gave me a shot of GTN spray under my tongue to relieve the chest pain. It didn't work. The ambulance doors opened and the lights went out. I was unconscious in a flash.

Click. Just like flicking off a light switch, I meet oblivion. But not quite finally, yet.

Faces float above me, two men, a woman, their shouting. The woman has a blue nurse's uniform and she's telling me to try and be still. I'm squirming from the pain but I try. They're holding my legs. She's talking to me.

‘There's a risk of stroke, but we need to do this procedure, do you agree?'

Stroke? I don't want a stroke. I hear myself say the words. She reassures me it's a small risk. Do I agree? Damned right I agree.

Click. Again that light switch is flicked off.

Now another man is floating above me, shouting my name. I'm confused, why is he shouting?

‘No need to shout, I can hear you,' I tell him. He chuckles.

‘Sorry,' he says. There seems to be lots of noise and bustle. It dawns on me that what is happening might be serious. But I have no time to dwell on this thought, as ...

Click.

Again, new faces float above me. There's a huge jolt and I see my chest rise into the air. I'm almost detached from what is happening as I hear myself groan at the shock. A voice.

‘He's back' More voices, more bustle.

My wife and daughters are at my side. They look worried. Now I'm afraid. For the first time I feel like I might not get out of this. I take the chance to say goodbye. Then I ask my eldest about her new carpets, my youngest about the faulty car headlight bulb - has she fixed it? They get irritated but it gets my mind away. Then the pain is in my chest again. I recognise the symptoms now. I just have time to say: 'It's happening again,' before ...

Click.

Yet more strange faces appear above me, lifting me. I'm being manhandled onto a hospital trolley, they tell me I'm being transferred to Harefield, a specialist heart hospital. Hospital ceiling lights flash above me. I'm in a Hollywood film. Now I'm in another ambulance, the ambulance ceiling is smooth white plastic. I study its contours minutely.

Minutes or seconds later, time is seriously warped, I arrest again en-route, the ambulance bumps and sways and jolts to a stop, the doors open. Another corridor, a doctor pushes a form in front of my eyes, I must sign. I feel like swearing but haven't the strength. I scrawl my name and I'm in theatre. Pale blue walls and ceiling. Multiple LCD screens hang down as grey and silver machines robotically float over me while two surgeons work by my groin, sending a wire to my chest. I see my heart on-screen on my left, the wire tunnelling. I turn away and study the ceiling and listen, strangely calm. Apparently, I arrest again. I have no memory of the event. I'm back, watching the surgeons.

‘There it is, an hour-glass restriction, just suck these blood clots out, and there, good, push the stent further, go on, further, far enough do you think?'

These words came from a young, confident surgeon and he's teaching. I pray he's a good teacher. The student looks rather nervous to me.

‘Got it? Happy with that? You happy? I'm happy with that. Good. Close up.'

The young surgeon strides away to go behind a long glass partition where the techs are controlling the xray imaging device that is floating over my body.

‘Good. Good.' He shouts from behind the glass.

I whisper to the student, a registrar, who is diligently closing me up. ‘Hot-shot surgeon?'

He rolls his eyes and nods, his hands working. ‘Damned good teacher though.'

Out and pushed down the corridor to the ward I'm introduced en-route to the sister in charge. She has flame coloured hair and I compliment her on it. She raises her eyebrows slightly but smiles.

‘Feeling better, are you?'

And I realise I am.

'You've got colour back in your cheeks, always a good sign.'

That night, I have a passing 'event' that brings the crash team running. For the briefest of seconds, I felt my heart stop.

'You all right?' One of the team asks, checking the monitors that sounded the alarm.

Nothing feels very normal anymore.

The next day brings the consultant to my bed for a chat.

'Well, you've had a lucky escape, five hours since your first attack to surgery is longer than we'd like. You had a blockage in the left anterior descending artery, an L.A.D, which we sometimes call the widow maker of attacks. But, you're still here, and you should be home in three or four days.'

I'm astounded. I'm alive. I've beaten the odds. The primary angioplasty procedure combined with the quick actions of the surgeons and their skill, saved my life.

I'm only fifty-eight, I've never smoked, I'm not terribly over-weight and hardly drink. If I can have a heart attack, anyone can. And frankly, it's a matter of luck where you happen to be when you have an attack for the odds on your survival.

I live less than a mile away from Frimley Park Hospital where they are aiming to get any heart attack victim into surgery within ninety minutes of the ambulance arriving at the scene of the attack. But to do this they need expensive machines and currently they have a shortfall of £700,000 for one more to make the service efficient. They have launched their Heart2Heart appeal to raise these necessary funds. Helping a little towards this goal, I've set up a charity donation site that sends funds directly to the hospital.

Do please consider donating – your life may well depend on it!




If you can, please donate as much (or as little, every bit helps!) as you can towards the target.

Thank you!