Crook

When one has spent a significant amount of a 48-hour block of time sitting on the toilet, one’s bottom tends to become, er, numb.

But my concern isn’t that I have eaten precious little since lunchtime Wednesday (which I haven’t).

Or that I have a numb bum (which I have).

My concerning thought is about the barrowload of meds that I take, twice a day, to bed my heart surgery in.

Meds

Meds

For example, have all the internal goings-on affected how the all of the drugs are supposed to be absorbed?

Heart Attack Diary: #11

Getting really emo

 

I thought it was just me.

But a recent foray in to an appropriate group on Facebook gave me a lot of reading on this topic.

There were a large number of posts that informed me that what I’ve been experiencing is ‘normal’.

I watched The Lake House over the weekend, and cried my eyes out.

Not over Keyarnoneenoo’s actoring.

It was the story.

Or possibly the blessed Sandra Bullock.

Either way, I cried like a girl.

It is quite common, apparently, for people who have had a heart attack to be emotionally susceptible.

So that sortov explains why, when I woke up this morning and heard the US news, that I felt so sad.

Cold

My dog’s got no nose.
How does he smell?
Quite fragrant really.

 

One particular side effect of having had a heart attack is the sudden unavailability of OTC medication I had previously taken for granted.

Around Thursday last week I began to notice the onset of some unwanted but seasonal symptoms.

By Friday the cold was in full swing.

In a non swinging kind of way.

Obv.

The sudden sneeze attacks, the gradual opening of the sluices on the upper levels of the River of Snot (leading, with relentlessly efficient rapidity, to the inevitable downward deluge of mucus), and all of these goodnesses accompanied by a cough so violent it could stun an elk at 25 paces.

That kind of full swing.

Normally I would just load up with a perch or two of Paracetamol, take on board a bushel or several of Lemsip, and continue ploughing through my duties like a slightly underpowered ice-breaker.

Except it seems that I have to learn a new ‘normally’, in some areas of life.

Lemsip, for a start, is now a banned substance.

It contains a substance called phenobarbitone (nb, this isn’t the correct ingredient, but it’s the closest to the correct name that the spellchecker on this phone will allow).

Short of, under cover of the darkest of dark evenings, me donning a hoody pulled hard down over my face, slinking in to the village Shell petrol station, and illicitly buying some contraband Lemsip, those particular meds are now just distant memories; the recreational drugs of my recent past.

So too the aforementioned quantities of Paracetamol.

Gone.

Instead I have to grin and bear it (though the discovery of having a sultry young maiden vigorously massage industrial quantities of Vic’s in to my chest, back, and shoulders, led to some unexpectedly pleasurable sensations).

There has been experimentation with some fringey, alternate drugs.

A bucketful of a honey, lemon, brandy combination led to a deep, dreamless sleep.

Not so much drugged, more medicated as a newt.

The chest needs to be kept a close eye on.

I am keeping in practice by becoming ever more familiar with the chest of the most accommodating sultry young maiden.

Hers being easier to study than mine.

Obv.

Anyway, at the first sign of a possible chest infection I have to head straight to the doctor at a rapid canter, so she can throw even more drugs at me.

Something to do with the infection causing all kinds of problems for my already-working-at-full-pelt-post-heart-attack-chest-recovery-unit.

Yes, it’s a thing.

Apparently.

Anyway, as these things do, even though the cold is not a virus, it has spread.

To the unfortunate but still very attractive sultry maiden.

This evening the poor lass is plainly stricken by the same symptoms from which I am still recovering. From.

So tonight I shall apply the honey, lemon, and brandy mix.

And then I shall wait upstairs, ready with the vat of Vic’s.

To her back, shoulders and, of course, chest.

All in the name of medical science.

Obv.

Heart Attack Diary: #10

It’s a small world after all

 

At 2pm this afternoon I was sitting in the waiting room, waiting for my Cardiac Clinic Follow-up.

The purpose of this particular follow-up clinic is so that the cardiac specialist nurse can check on the health and well-being of the patient, check on the patient’s recovery strategy, and make sure that the meds we have to take aren’t interfering with life, the universe, and everything.

‘Hello chap!’ said a voice.

It was AD (not his real name, obv).

I used to work with AD in my previous job, where he was a senior manager in IT at a FTSE top 10 company.

It turns out that AD had a heart attack on the same day I had mine.

He had a few more stents put in than I.

That two senior managers in IT should have a heart attack on the same day is perhaps not much of a coincidence.

But we both live in Nottingham.

And we both worked for the same company.

Now that’s a bunch of coincidences.

Heart Attack Diary: #9

It’s not all sex, drugs and rock and roll

 

I continue to climb the walls and chomp at the bit.

Although that sounds like a near-impossible piece of multi-tasking.

Anyway.

I feel fine.

I feel ridiculously good.

I am bored rigid.

And yet by the time the early evening comes around, I feel really weary.

Is that an after-effect?

Or is that just me getting knackered towards the end of the day?

I’ve been told that I can no longer donate blood.

This makes me unbelievably sad.

Giving blood has something I’ve been doing for many years.

I know I’m a common as muck O Positive, but that’s not the point.

I’m on the national organ donor’s database.

Which is something.

I keep getting phone calls from Taylor Swift.

I wish she’d just stop.

I know it’s the beard.

And the motorbike.

But Jesus, Taylor, enough is a enough.

Give it a rest eh?

Heart Attack Diary: #8

It’s not just the heat. It’s the drums. The drums and the heat. Make the drums stop, Caruthers. Make the blessed drums stop!

 

I now have three appointments at the cardiology clinic.

They add up to two consecutive afternoons of back-to-back appointment fun.

I’m reading up on all my best jokes to keep the nurses entertained.

They love that.

Erm.

Yesterday, in the company of a work colleague, his partner and her 7yo son (and their mentile as anything dog), I walked five miles along the bank of the River Trent.

We walked around the National Watersports (no, not that kind) Centre for a bit, and then headed along the Trent in towards the Lady Bay Bridge.

I really enjoyed the walk, but we covered the ground much slower than if I’d been flying solo.

I might have a proper crack at that walk tomorrow.

My colleague had (probably) been briefed not to talk about work, so we didn’t. At least we didn’t in any great detail, just one or two generalities.

But we had a little tech chat or two (about non-work things), which was nice.

I have spent some time, over the last week, debugging a hacked website.

Mostly that involved just reading code, and googling some pretty esoteric .php and SQL.

The hacked website (one of mine that I left languishing for the last two years on a shared-by-many GoDaddy server) is now back online.

It’s not only been debugged, but I’ve gone to great pains to harden the security: validate all file permissions, remove the legacy users, put a new user in place with upgraded access requirements, delete the FTP user, migrate the MySQL database to a new MySQL database with a new root user and updated root access.

Then I updated the design, and modernised some of the functionality.

So it might be that the podcast could be making a return appearance.

There are some logistical problems that need to be solved, in order to make a return truly viable, but these are being worked on.

There are a couple of very good security plugins for WordPress now.

I’ve tried the iSecurity plugin, which is quite good, but Wordfence is very much my favourite.

Anyway.

Today I didn’t undertake any significant walking.

But I did take the ZX10R out for the first time since the ‘event’.

I was not reckless.

And was very careful.

My pulse may have quickened slightly when the garage door rolled up and I saw the pristine ZX10 waiting for me in all her Ninja blackness.

And my pulse may have continued to beat slightly quicker as I wheeled the ZX10R out and started her up.

But actually I felt fine.

And I took my pulse rate, just to be sure.

The good news is I haven’t forgotten how to ride a 1,000cc Super Sports Bike.

There is no bad news 😀

I grinned the whole time I was out, though I was only in the saddle for 90 minutes in total (two stops en-route).

And when I came back my pulse rate was unsurprisingly in the 72-74/BPM range, which is my ‘normal’.

So that’s alright then.

 

Heart Attack Diary: #7

In which the dark forces of the evil Empire attempt to gain ground through an alliance with the off-white forces of the slightly naughty Empire…

 

Here.

Evil Empire.

Is that why Orange have become EE?

Anyway.

The follow-up cardiac clinic appointment I was expecting arrived today.

I can’t help noticing that I have two cardiac clinics on back-to-back days. after I will have returned to work.

Oh well.

I walked miles today.

I could tell you how far I have walked today, but I’d get pretty extensively told off for it.

So my lips are totes sealed.

It occurred to me, during the long goodbye walk that it was just a few short weeks ago that we were enjoying life in our beach-front holiday accommodation on Majorca.

Or Mallorca, if you prefer.

We swam every day.

I had a daily goal to swim out to the yachts moored offshore.

During one of my daily swims, Sam took a photo from the apartment balcony.

She helpfully annotated it.

Daily swim in Puerto Pollensa

Daily swim in Puerto Pollensa

How things change so quickly, eh?

Heart Attack Diary: #6

*settles down for a quiet evening*

 

  • A large pyrex baking dish is dropped on the stone tile kitchen floor. The noise of impact was heard in three counties
  • 7yo projectile vomits an impressive amount of liquid around the lounge
  • The (hellishly loud) garage burglar alarm goes off. I run through the house and open the garage door to find one of the #RescueKitties sitting between the ZX10 and the 250N, looking very puzzled

All of these things in the space of 20 minutes.

Look.

I’ll say this just the once.

I’VE HAD A FUCKING HEART ATTACK, YEAH?

I’M SUPPOSED TO BE HAVING A SHEDLOAD OF PIECE AND QUIET.

CAN WE PLEASE RETURN TO PEACE, QUIET, AND A STRESS-FREE EXISTENCE?

Thank you.

Heart Attack Diary: #5

Our plucky hero continues to carry out undetected crimes whilst recuperating

 

Oh God I’m So Bored!

I’ve illicitly hung out two loads of washing.

And had a long walk around the village.

I didn’t learn much, during the latter.

There’s a vacancy for a parish councillor, if you’re interested?

And the house that they knocked down and are now rebuilding is coming along.

I’m sure there was a perfectly good reason for knocking down a fine house, just to build another fine house in its place.

I think the #RescueKitties are actually talking to me.

Through their meow voices, not through the power of their minds.

Because that would be weird.

Obv.

In health news, I’ve had a letter about an Echocardiogram appointment, but I think this is a different thing to the Cardiac Rehabilitation appointment that I’m expecting.

I’ll give it a few days, and if the Cardiac Rehab appointment hasn’t arrived I’ll call them.

In myself I’m continuing to feel good.

Bored, but good.

The funny thing about recovering from a cardiac event is, apparently, that one mustn’t push too hard.

Because pushing too hard will put stress on the recovering object (which, in this case, is one of the three arteries that feed my heart).

And stress on any artery with a tear, even though it now has a little metal tube inside it, to strengthen it, is not good.

But there is no hard and fast rule about what is (either) sufficient exercise, (or) too much/stressful exercise.

Or, for that matter, where the line between the two begins to get blurry.

And for someone such as me, used to a lot of cardio exercise, knowing where sufficient ends and too much begins is a meaningful piece of information.

I walked five slow miles yesterday, and six brisk miles today.

Never out of breath. Neither set my pulse racing.

The downside of all the walking is that I’m beginning to run out of unwalked routes; covering the same old routes is just dull.

If it wasn’t for having to continue safeguarding my wrist, I would be out riding right now; the weather is so good that it’s almost a crime being indoors.

Drinking (not alcohol, obv); one does a lot more drinking in hospital.

Those frequent visits from the tea trolley.

Whereas, by myself at home (because the #RescueKitties are rubbish at making hot drinks), I have to make an effort to stop whatever it is I’m doing, and get in to the kitchen for a brew.

And I miss work.

Because I love my job.

*goes in to the kitchen to make a brew*

Heart Attack Diary: #4

Death by Daytime TV

 

  • Homes Under The Hammer
  • Street Auction
  • Bargain Hunt
  • Jeremy Kyle
  • Loose Women
  • Cowboy Builders
  • The Wright Stuff
  • Four In A Bed (not as exciting as the name implies)
  • Escape To The Country

The list of mediocrity that is Daytime Drudgery TV goes on and on.

Let’s be clear, I haven’t sat through these.

I sampled a couple, briefly, and then hit the off switch before you could say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

Thanks, daytime TV, but I’ve had a heart attack, not a brain attack.

Annoyingly I feel fine.

Normal.

Normal for me, obv.

So I’m finding all this ‘slow down, take it easy, do *gentle* exercise, don’t rush, I told you to take it easy, stop doing the washing up, don’t make tea, no really why don’t you bloody take it easy, don’t do the laundry, stop doing that thing now!’ really difficult to cope with.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a good patient.

This one time at band camp RAF Hospital Wegberg, a few days after an emergency admission from my squadron, I slipped out of the ward late at night and went to a disco up the road at RAF Rheindahlen.

I got in to some trouble over that.

Oh, the neighbour’s dog has stopped barking. We had a chat, the neighbour and I, yesterday afternoon.

There’s a tentative offer from me to take the dog for a walk, if that might help?

This hasn’t been taken up yet.

And I had a long phone call from the Cardiac Rehabilitation Unit.

The bottom line is that I have a follow-up appointment, back at the hospital, in a few weeks.

And Ruth, the friend who edited Crossing The Line, has suggested that if I’m bored I could go back to writing, to fill the time.

Which is really nice of her.

But man, I just wish I could be out there *points to out there* doing something.