Up, Down, Up, Down...Now the other eyelid...

18 weeks down the line from a few heart attacks and quintuple bypass surgery and, on the whole, I feel pretty good. What? You didn’t know I’d had a heart attack? Where have you been? If you had been following my blogs you would know all about it. So go back and read the previous couple of blogs, but be warned, I have been told that they made a few people cry. Anyway, back to being 18 weeks on.

I have spent the last 8 Fridays at Cardiac Rehab. Basically, for people like me, heart attacks, bypass and heart failure, it is 8 weeks of exercise and talks. Exercises to help with the recovery and beyond, and the talks to give me the information I need to be able to live a life that doesn’t see me having another heart attack and shuffling off this mortal coil.

Week 1 was a bit of a shock to the system. I turned up to find that I was the youngest there, 54 and the youngest, who’d have thought it? But I wasn’t the fittest, by far. The first set of exercises took me 3 days to get over. Everywhere ached. I was shuffling around like the old man I thought I was. Georgina, 84, was fitter than me! It was explained that the amount of muscle mass and stamina lost is considerable during the 8 weeks post-op, that time when I can do nothing but let my body try and recover from what is some serious butchery. Over the following weeks I gained some stamina and a little strength. It was a real surprise to me as I never thought I was unfit. Fine, I could not run a marathon, or even sprint 100m, but mere weeks before the heart attack I was carrying railway sleepers on my shoulders. Suddenly I was as weak as a baby. Mind you, I still pulled… Georgina, 84, and Jill,69, seemed to like me, oh dear! By week 8 I was running and using weights. Not a Charles Atlas yet (I bet that not too many of you are old enough to remember him!) but improvement nevertheless.

Talks were about things that affected us, drinking, smoking, diabetes, medication, exercise, etc. The whole process from surgery to this point had seemed to fly by. And there were things I should’ve known that I didn’t. One of those things was the medication I was now taking for the rest of my life. And that was stupid. We should all understand what we are putting into our bodies, and why. We all know that smoking and drinking are bad for you, I think that is a given, as well as the fact that exercise is good for you. But what were Ramipril and Bisoprolol doing to my body? Why was I taking an aspirin in the morning and a statin at night? I know now. I know why some of them are having their doses increased and why I will, eventually, stop taking Furosemide. The practitioners who ran the rehab program ensured that all of us had the knowledge and tools to live the best life we could from this point. And we were like a little family. Having had a shared experience of the heart attack, regardless of whether we were stented or, like me and Georgina, cabbaged (Cardiac Artery Bypass Graft  or CABG, cabbage.) and as had been explained me at the beginning, in A&E, there is no such thing as a mild heart attack or severe heart attack. There is just the heart attack, it can kill anyone, or act as a warning if you are very lucky. I will miss Fred, Frank, Mark, Georgina, Jill and all the rest. I wouldn’t say it was fun but we laughed quite a lot. Megan, the practitioner who got us moving was a tyrant. But she was good. By the time the sessions ended I was knackered and sweating, fit for nothing else, but improving.

Another thing I have learned, and this makes me seem very ungrateful, is that I am still looking for an upside to all of this. I have yet to discover the fun. Everything I eat I have to investigate to make sure that there isn’t too much salt or sugar or saturated fats. Alcohol still reacts with my meds to affect my blood pressure. Sneezing still hurts my chest, as does coughing. Rolling on to my side in bed still makes my ribs ache. And all sorts of other things. I should be grateful to be alive but I am still pissed off that I didn’t get to Canada. When I finally get the money back from ATOL (Thanks Thomas Cook!) I will have spent £12000 on a holiday that I haven’t been on. Yes, full grump mode has been restored.

Next time I might talk about Spanish autumn and nudists…

Regards

Giant68 😊

Hospital food and a police raid...

Hospital food. The mere thought of it strikes terror into my alimentary canal. Having spent a couple of weeks in hospital recently I can attest that hospital food is not exactly cordon bleu. Breakfast was a choice of soggy cereal or soggy toast and a cuppa. Lunch, a prepacked sandwich or a bowl of soup. But the finest cuisine was saved for dinner. Several times I had a plate with some brown stuff, green stuff and, a sort of, cream-coloured stuff. Yum!  I wondered if it was deliberate in an attempt to, either, kill patients off or get them to go home as soon as their taste buds start working again. I was not surprised that the guy in the bed next to mine was constantly stuffing his face with bag after bag of crisps. Indeed, I did cheat one day and send a friend down to Subway to get me a wrap with lots of chicken and salad in. I didn't think it would be appropriate to have a steak  & cheese while recovering from heart surgery.

I'm not sure about STD chicken...

I since heard that the government have drafted in Prue Leith to help sort out hospital food. Didn't they draft in Heston Blumenthal a few years ago, how did that work out? Obviously not well otherwise we would have decent hospital food. I don't understand why the government doesn't employ those with skill and experience in feeding lots of people. The Army Catering Corps. Surely those who can feed thousands on a battlefield a hot, filling meal can sort out this problem. 

Along with filling yourself up, there is the issue of getting yourself empty. Now, nurses seem obsessed with bowel opening. Every time they came round with the medication they asked everyone if they had opened their bowels. I was determined not to use a bedpan. Not dignified.  I would lie and say yes each time. Unfortunately, they are wise to this and kept giving me laxatives anyway. In the end, you have no choice. The pressure built up so high that I had no choice. I could've easily hosed down the whole ward. Not fun. I am sure that the nurses get used to it, but I was feeling a little sorry for myself at that point, especially when I was still going ½  an hour later...

As for the police raid, well, we were all by the window watching as several police vehicles came screaming into the hospital grounds and slid to a halt outside the Eye Unit. Coppers jumped out and ran inside. We watched for ages but saw no one come out. Disappointing. We would see the Air Ambulance landing but that wasn't excitement, for that to be landing here meant someone was having a really bad day. 

There's not a lot funny happening in hospitals. They've even changed the nurses' outfits to be more practical so I can't make any sexist comments about those. Although I still flirted shamelessly with them when I could. One poor nurse, a bloke, had the unenviable task of checking my backside for pressure sores. You've got to feel sorry for him! You can imagine them drawing straws for that job. 

Now I am home, I have been sat around at home for weeks, slowly building up my strength by walking every day and working my way through Netflix. No one can understand my burning desire to get back to work, although I think that my boss and my team will be glad to see me. 

I still have to attend the Heart Failure clinic, can't they give it a better name?? and cardiac rehab. The insurance company has paid out for our Canada trip that had to be cancelled, so we can go and rebook that for next year. Things are starting to look brighter. Apart from the fact that I have nearly finished Netflix...

Regards

Giant68 :-)

When did we become so impatient and so unconcerned with the plight of our fellow man? Or is this an attitude that we have always had, waiting inside, ready to spring out?
Having spent a couple of weeks in hospital I have seen some amazing behaviours, some good, look at what our surgeons and nurses do, and some bad as shown by Joe Public. I was tempted to make this blog a funny one, lets face it, the last couple were nothing to laugh about, but I thought about what I  had seen and decided that human behaviour is nothing to laugh about. Humans are selfish, out for what we can get for ourselves.
I was amazed, while being pushed around in wheelchairs and beds while in hospital, the number of people who won't give way or will barge through, almost forcing the porter to run them over with said bed or wheelchair. The worst was when I was recovering from the operation. It was only a couple of days after having my chest cracked open, but the medics like to get you on your feet quick, it helps your recovery, and a physiotherapist came to see me. She got me up and off we went. Now at this point, I am not very steady and the physio is supporting me as we stroll through the corridors. At one point we came across a group of people coming towards us. At the narrowest point in the corridor they forced their way past me, pushing me into the wall. If I had been fully fit they would have bounced off of me, or I would have punched someone. But no, they carried on without an apology.

And one night I actually told a healthcare worker to fuck off. I know, bad language from me, who'd have thought it?
I am not sure that she was a nurse, wrong colour uniform. But she was doing work that I would have thought a nurse would do. She looked like an ageing European drag queen, a cross between Sticky Vicky and Danny La Rue, bandy-legged with blond nylon hair and a better moustache than mine. Apart from not being able to stop a pig in a passageway, she was a bit impatient. Having just fallen asleep one night, she decided that she would update everyone's patient notes. The notes were in folders wedged in at the bottom of the bed. Me, being a bit of a big fellow, filled the bed and my feet were across the notes. I had also just fallen asleep, and if you have ever been in hospital you will know how hard it is t get to sleep. Along comes Helga and shoves my feet out of the way to get the notes out. Now I am awake.
About 5am I decide I have to go to the loo, the pressure on my bladder has got too bad to ignore anymore. So off I go. This is not an easy trip as getting in and out of bed when you have had open-heart surgery is not an easy process. To start with, you can not use your arms to push yourself up, you have a sternum that held together with a bit of stainless steel wire and you don't want the bomb bay doors to burst open. Anyway, off I go to the loo. I do the business and head back to the ward. Helga is now following me down the corridor, pushing the weighing chair, and is anxious to get past. "Excuse me, I need to get past!" My, my, she is impatient, "Sorry love, you are going to the same place as me so you can wait" I totter back to the ward and start the process of getting back into bed, almost as hard as getting out. She decides that as I am awake she may as well take my weight. Why she didn't ask before I started getting back into bed, I have no idea. I refused to sit in the chair until she put the brakes on, she tutted at me then. Now the process of getting up, whether it is from bed or a chair, is to start rocking back and forth to build up a bit of momentum, then using legs only push up while hugging a rolled-up towel to your chest. This stops you from using your hands to push up and keeps the rib cage reasonably stable. When I did this to get up she decided to help by putting her hands under my arms and lifting. Painful. That's when I used some inappropriate language, for which I do not apologise. I feel that anybody working in a cardiac care ward should understand what has happened to the patients in it.
It was odd that I never seemed to see the same nurse twice. It was as if there was no consistency in the care given. When I was given the all-clear to go home it took twice as long to get out as different nurses were trying to find things out and not coming back to me. 'Why are you not wearing a Post Thorax vest?' I was asked several times. To which I responded with 'I don't know. No one has told me to wear one or, indeed, given me one to wear.' The nurse would then go to find out why I wasn't wearing one and not come back. Eventually, 2 days later, a nurse did come back, with a vest, and I escaped.
Don't get me wrong, these bad experiences are only a small part of the whole. The majority of the people who work in the NHS are dedicated professionals who give far more than their fair share to look after the patients in their care. The surgeons who cut me open and restored my failing body are phenomenal. The nurses who followed them are heroes. I couldn't do what they do. I refuse to get drawn into the politics of their pay and health service funding, but they deserve far more than they get. All they can have from me is my undying gratitude.

I will try and write a funny one next time.

Regards
Giant68

PS: considering I had a quintuple bypass after 3 heart attacks, I am hoping to go back to work at the end of this month. So I am doing ok, just in case you cared.
 

           

Deaths near Giant68 experience

So, now we come down to some real changes in perspective. Not the imagined changes in the last blog, I assume you've read it? The reality was something quite different from what I thought it would be.
You read how I was having these funny turns, and that it was probably angina, good job I am not a doctor. I phoned the surgery on Monday morning and asked for an appointment to discuss chest pains with my GP. I was told to go to A&E. 'No, I haven't got them now, I've had them over the weekend. I just need to talk to a doctor about it'
'You MUST go to A&E. Now.' That was it, final. As I was at work I told my boss how the conversation had gone. I was told to go to A&E.
So off I toddled, picked up the car, picked up Mrs Giant68 and off we went to A&E. The Accident & Emergency depts at hospitals are not places where I want to spend my morning but once booked in they whisked me through quite quickly. They insisted that Mrs Giant68 stay behind in the waiting room.
Next, I am connected up to various machines and blood is taken and I wait for the results. A cardiac care nurse turns up and gives me some aspirin. I wait a little longer. Meanwhile, I have texted Mrs Giant68 and suggested that she go and find a coffee and as soon as I know what is going on I will let her know.
Several people turn up at my bedside and one says 'It appears that you have had, at least, one heart attack. Probably more, and another is imminent.'
All of a sudden shit has got real.
I was given more aspirin, along with many other pills to fend off any more heart attacks. Looks like I am not going home today. I texted Mrs Giant68 with trembling fingers.
I thought that I knew the symptoms of a heart attack. Crushing chest pain, pain down the arm, possibly pain in the neck and jaw...  But I had been told that I had suffered a heart attack. No crushing pain, no pain in the arm, bit of an ache in the jaw. Obviously, there was some mistake here. They would do more tests and they would be proved wrong and I could go home.
It wasn't to be. I stayed in overnight, with the promise of an angioplasty the next day. They would insert stents into the cardiac arteries and I would be home by the end of the week.
Bad news seemed to haunt me this week. I had the angioplasty, fascinating procedure to watch, all under local anesthetic. More bad news. The cardiac arteries are too badly blocked for stents to help. I would have to have bypass surgery.
Have you ever been scared? Properly scared, I may die type scared? I have, and it is not a feeling I want again. I was now paying for all the fun I had during my late teens and twenties. The drinking smoking and general good living. The dirty burgers and bacon sandwiches, all those things you eat and do when you are young and immortal. Then comes a point when you are no longer immortal and that thread of life becomes very thin and frayed.
Surgery is booked for a couple of days hence and I am taken back to a ward.
All this time I am being looked after, poked, prodded, drained of bodily fluids, flirting with nurses etc, but what of those nearest and dearest? I am in hospital being looked after, how does Mrs Giant68 feel when visiting time is over and she has to go home to an empty house? And there is the possibility that 'Deaths near Giant68 experience' may become the real thing? I hope I never find out, it must have been a nightmare.
Surgeon visits my bedside and confidently tells me that they are going to do a quadruple bypass, not a triple, more bad news.
Eventually I am taken away to be given the milk of amnesia and carved open. I was taken just after lunch, about 12:30. I was woken at 5:30 the next morning, having had a quintuple bypass, or cabbages x 5 as they referred to it. Took me a while to find out what cabbages referred to, CABG or Cardiac Artery Bypass Graft.
I am now recovering nicely. Every day a little better. I feel good. Death did not come for me this time but he was close, watching from the corner of the room with my lifetimer in his hand. I was very lucky that he decided to turn it over rather than let the sands of life dribble away to nothing. But it gives you a different perspective. The sun seems a little brighter now, the cuddles from my grandsprogs are worth more, those moments with Mrs Giant68 much sweeter. It may sound very cliched but it is true, it is just a shame that you have to go through something like this to make you realise it. I don't mind admitting that when I got home and I was on my own, all the visitors had gone, I cried like a baby for 5 minutes when it all came crashing down into thoughts, just what had happened and what could've happened.
I am not going to turn into someone who bangs on about good living. Once I am recovered I will enjoy a glass of wine, or a beer. It's all about moderation. The Heart Failure team I have to see regularly, have explained this to me. Anything in moderation is fine, apart from life, grab that with both hands and wring everything you can get out of it. I intend to live to a ripe old age and, together with Mrs Giant68, see and do things that we should have done years ago.
Right, that's the serious stuff done. The next blog will be about being in hospital, laxatives, aging European Drag Queens and a police raid on the Eye Hospital. And maybe a few comments on hospital food.

Regards
Giant68

Changes in perspective.

This is a piece I wrote last weekend, in the early hours of the morning not realising how my life would change over the next few days.

I haven’t written for a while. I guess that the original premise of this blog has changed. I started it as a grumpy bloke, writing about the things that, generally, peed me off. Children being taken to stately homes, bad drivers, selfish people, you know the sort of thing, all those things that annoy a lot of people but because we are British we keep to ourselves. With the dawning of the new job that changed.

All of a sudden I was a different person. No longer so grumpy but realising many things about myself. One thing is that I am a mediocre person. I know a lot of things about a lot of things. I can talk about Shakespeare or quantum physics, interested in everything but never really picking one subject to be good at. If you talk, and act, with confidence people will believe you know what you are doing.

I work in a primary school. 400 + kids who, mostly, seem to believe that I am indestructible. This enormous, giant of a man who strides around as if he owns the place. I can fix anything, and if I can’t I know someone who can. Strong as an ox and knowing more than their teachers (but only because I am older than them). For example; there was a block of flats being built opposite the school. The fencing around it was supported by sleepers, 9ft long chunks of solid timber. When they started to take it down I figured that some of those sleepers would be useful to make things for the school. I wandered over and asked the team taking them down if I could have some. ‘Sure. Help yourself.’ I picked one up and shouldered it. Now this was school kicking out time and the kids were streaming out of the school. And there was me, with this massive lump of wood on my shoulder, crossing the road back to the school. ‘Wow! you are really strong!’ I heard one shout at me. Another one who saw me in the false light. I made some comment and carried on into the school. What the kids didn’t see was me dropping it just round the corner and wondering if I needed to call the office to bring the defibrillator. All of a sudden I realised that I am no longer 24 but 54. Past middle aged, a grandfather heading to old age .I  made a joke about it and people laughed. So did I.

Now I am sitting here, at my keyboard, at 00:30 feeling my mortality again. I have had a few funny turns just lately, walking down to the shops, it’s woken me up for the last two nights. Now that is probably why I am awake at this time of the night. That tiny piece of the mind that is scared of the dark, of the monsters that could be hiding in dark corners has taken control because there IS something in that dark corner. Took me a little while to work it out, but these are the symptoms of angina. A symptom of the fact that I am getting old. I am definitely not 24 anymore. All of a sudden I feel 94.

But I am invincible and indestructible. Intellectually, I know that the doctor will do his tests and if it tells him that I have angina he will put me on tablets, maybe statins and a spray. I am immortal, with a little help from medical technology.