Post 17: “Go straight to A&E”
Vital statistics:
Temp: 36.4
BP: 107/61/60
Weight: stable 
Hair: Still all there 
Anything else? Embarrassingnessness
Yesterday’s pains are today’s nightmare.
I wake up and read on my phone Kindle until My Darling awakes naturally at 9 a.m. She’s not had a great time in the last day because of me, so I let her sleep in.
I test out how I’m feeling by telling her that I’ll feed Mr Vicious in the cool conservatory and come straight back to bed — which I do — and she asks if I’m okay.
I sit on the bed and reply with an uncertain, “Okay, but still a bit breathless,” as I breathe heavily beside her. “But I will check in at the day centre, just in case, to put us at ease.”
“Good,” she responds.
I find the number on my phone and ask for guidance. I’m passed onto a nurse who asks me what the problem is…
I now feel a bit of an idiot explaining yesterday’s events.
Midday, after a shower, I started to be simultaneously breathless and had a dinner-plate-sized pushing pain on my chest which lasted 15 minutes — something I’ve never experienced before. It took an hour before I was feeling better, and although I spent the rest of the afternoon resting in bed, I didn’t feel right even though both symptoms were gone.
This morning, I feel that climbing the stairs is an effort and brings back a light chest pain and heavy breathing — but it’s not as bad as last night when I climbed the stairs to bed and nearly collapsed when I got there.
“Do you have chest pains now?” the nurse asked after patiently waiting for me to finish making light of my problem.
“Yes, but it’s only very mild compared to yesterday,” I explained.
She said, “Go to A&E now. We can’t help — they can.”
After hearing this, My Darling jumped out of bed and repeated again and again something like, “I knew I should have taken you yesterday,” while she got ready to take me to the local A&E.
I was still reluctant and felt a fraud — especially when I looked so well and felt only a very minor indigestion-type pain in my chest. I felt fine.
We got through the reception process and were triaged in the first quarter of an hour using the HEAT card, with some embarrassment due to presenting no symptoms. An ECG and bloods were taken after initially checking all my vitals.
Then we waited with the rest of the Friday A&E traffic.
We had our masks on and looked like worried Covid loons, while everyone else chatted to each other, and coughs and groans permeated the very busy but mask free waiting lounge.
Each minute I felt more of a fraud, sitting there for ages, tired and wanting to go home, lie down in some comfort and perhaps watch some TV. But I was stuck there like a naughty gosson trying to get a day off school with an imaginary cough.
“Mr U,” a staff member called.
Here we go, I thought — and we followed him through Majors to Bay 25, where he pointed at a sexy backless gown and said, “Put that on and get on the bed, please.”
I suddenly changed from being a cheeky gosson to being a dutiful patient — suddenly propelled into this serious clinical environment I’m not used to.
My Darling looked at me with even more shattered and nervous expressions. But as she works her early shift right here as a clinical orderly, she found herself being supported by the wonderful staff who could see she was struggling with what was happening.
After an ECG and being put on a monitor, there was an X-ray and ultrasound tests, and later a CT scan. But by then we had the sobering news that the doctors were not dealing with a fraud — oh no.
They were trying their hardest to understand the data, which was telling them that I have had a heart event — possibly an attack or clots — but why was I not doubled up in breathless pain?
I could see that My Darling was now beside herself with grief.
She was beating herself up about not bringing me sooner.
I kept telling her that it was me who poo-pooed being serious about yesterday’s pain because it all dissipated and I felt fine.
But the tears in her eyes told me I couldn’t help her with my words of comfort.
It didn’t help that 32 years ago on this day, her beloved mother died — only three months after the birth of our first son.
This was not a good day by any stretch.
The 25th of April is a very sensitive day for her — a Memorial Day she keeps in her own way, missing Mammy more and more each year.
After a few hours of tension in Majors Bay 25, we saw a lady in a pinkish uniform who announced herself as the chief heart consultant.
She explained carefully and methodically what had happened and what was to happen:
(pulmonary embolism bilateral)
Two seriously large clots in the lungs, which are to be got rid of in the next two weeks.
I was told I’d be admitted for the next two or three days while I’m continuously monitored — even though I have no breathlessness or pain.
So, my blog is now being written from a very unusual place for me, because this is my first ever night in a hospital.
I was born at home and have been lucky enough throughout my life to have never needed any overnight medical help — till now.
This will be interesting, as I’ve heard lots about how good or bad things are inside, and now I’ll find out for myself.
Before I finish up today’s blog, I should say that although I have a pre-existing heart issue — atrial fibrillation — these clots are suspected to have been caused by the chemo infusion that has made my blood stickier.
Another side effect that’s noted on those sheets we are given before approving its use on us, but I feel a tad unlucky that it’s happened to me.
I refuse to get off the Loop.
I still have no pain, nor symptoms.
I had the biggest cuddle and kiss from My Darling as she left me tonight.
I remain positive and await a successful de-clotting.
Tricycle One — halfway through, and maybe a postponement of Tricycle Two.
I will tell all as I go on my merry way.
Sleep well, My Darling.
Sleep well, readers.
