Well they've got me again.  This time it's just as an alleged day care patient, but I've been told to "pack an overnight bag just in case".  Yeah well twice in the past month I've dropped into a hospital day ward, and twice they've kept me in for days. Fool me once shame on you, fool me THREE times...tsk.. I'm taking no chances.

This time I are forewarned. I am becoming a veteran bed blocker. This time round, as well as toothpaste and jammies,  my overnight bag will contain the following:-

• Tonight's dinner in the form of super nice salad.  I have considered a small bottle of chilled wine, but gone with fruit juice...
• DOUGHNUTS.  You can never have too many doughnuts in hospital. 
• Phone recharger.  Because as well as keeping everyone updated, the iPhone is going to have to cope as an all round entertainment centre.  I shall be checking blogs as well as doing my online sudoku y'know. Luckily every hospital bed comes well supplied with sockets.
• Trash magazines. Because at some point my brain will be mulch, and Cheryl Cole's life will suddenly appear more interesting than mine.
• Perfume. Because hospitals (and the commode  which seems to be permanently parked at the bed next to mine) stink.  I have sufficient stocks of Bergamot and Lime to spray liberally

Back soon, with or without stent...

Forget that The Bridge is yet again closed to high sided traffic as we huddle beneath 70mph winds; forget the steady drizzle that's been moving across the Pentlands since oh whenever - for  it is officially that time of year when we should be Slimming For Summer.
Yes it is that time of year again when we are told to get a  beach body/ smart diet /flat tummy in six, five or four days  via total fruit detox / food combining or flat out starvation ....You know the routine. 

Well, get this, this year, for a change I have cracked it.  Despite not getting out of bed for days on end, ceasing to walk further than 50 years,  and eating only jam doughnuts for a week, I am back at size ten.
Officially. 
Check it; I am very clearly wearing jeans which are labelled US size 2.
You read it here first. Obviously this is a diet plan which needs to be patented. All it takes is, wait for it, incarceration in St James' medical assessment unit for a week. Call me picky, but I can't eat within five yards of a commode. In a ward of six inmates only two of us were not elderly and bedridden. And bless Dr Jacobs who refused to consider for one moment, allowing me to walk out of that ward in the direction of to the hospital shop.
I existed on a bag of jam doughnuts brought in on day 2.

Laterwhiles, back home, I seem to have slept through any snack attacks. Which is a Good Thing since the Cherub is eating his way through foodstuffs faster than Tesco Online can deliver them, and it's been many a week since I considered baking even a pathetic wee flapjack.
The net result, peoples, is, two dress sizes down in four weeks.

Probably a good thing for world karma, that Ms Smug here is officially forbidden to fly or leave the country this side of Christmas.....

Obviously I never thought about this before.  What with being young*, and thin and fit, and eating healthily and all,  heart attacks weren't up there on my list of things to consider. It's fair to say that what plans I did have for my immediate future did not involve angiograms, statins and beta blockers.
Hey, times change. Here's today's news.  I've had some motivation, time and opportunity to consider  Non Systemic Mycardial Infarctions, and I can tell you this; recovering from a heart attack is phenomenally boring.  

I don't know if excitement is technically Bad for Me, but it's in short supply living within the terms and conditions of my release from hospital.

I may not
Drive a car. Any car, not a rally car, not a 4x4 off roader, not a family saloon, not even a Reliant Robin.  This is because the DVLA are quite clear that  sometime in the next four weeks I am likely to have a further heart attack whilst at the wheel.  Nice thought non? Moving swiftly on from that, let's just say living in the sticks without transport is not possible.

Walking over 100 yards is not recommended. There was great rejoicing when I  managed a 50 yard stroll with dog yesterday. Hold the front page  though.  The bus stop is 100 yards away.

Move loads.  On the plus side a hoover or bucket of soapy water is deemed to be a load.  On the downside, the novelty of not cleaning fairly wears off after two weeks of living with a moulting dog and 14 year old - not that the cherub is moulting mind you; he  just leaves a trail of debris behind him. He's 14, he can't help it. It's in his contract.


Putting it together then,  my verboten list includes, shopping of any type, getting to the doctor, deer hunting, trapeze  and freestyle dance routines, bathing the dog, travelling to Cannes, hanging out the washing, gardening, air travel, drag racing, returning books to library, getting to a cinema, changing the bed linen (FFS, really), walking around Roslin chapel or the East Neuk, or Dalmeny estate, or Craigie Woods, or anywhere I would want to walk the mutt, swimming, paragliding, kickboxing, eating at McDonalds, travelling to my spiritual homelands of Glasgow, TK Max or Bali.  I could go on, but it's getting depressing already.

Suffice to say, I will not be checking out Mr Beastie's blog.  Scarlet Blue's already comes with a medical warning....



*Listen up, technically  50 is YOUNG. You 35 year olds take note of how time creeps up on you now....

As part of my individual rehabilitation programme, I've been issued with my very own Heart Manual (Post MI Edition).
It's not as romantic as it sounds...

This is how it works. There is a chapter a week.  Each week I should read a new chapter and learn how to reduce my risk factors by eating healthily, reducing stress and generally leading a righteous life. 

Exercise routines suitable to my level of recovery are given for each week.

As my manual points out, since I've ended up in posession of this manual Someting Has Been Going Wrong. It might be an extremely good plan to quit with the eye rolling and stick to the programme..
In a whole new spirit of total cooperation, therefore, I'm following the manual to the letter.

I'm doing the exercises.

Step 1
Complete exercise routine as follows:-

1. March on spot for 30 seconds
2. Bend knees 5 times
3. Raise arms above head 5 times
4. Step onto bottom stair and back again 5 times
5 Sit on chair and get up with arms crossed 5 times.

Step 2
Sigh

Step 3
Reassure the dog.  From day ten I should be walking 50 yards from the house.


 

Sometimes, sometimes, just sometimes my life runs like the well oiled machine it really is. A doctor’s appointment at 9 meant I could drop the cherub off at school to make sure he got there in time for his exams, his Big Standard Grade exams.
See, all grown up and efficient!
And that's me, not the Cherub..

I am,  in fact, so efficient that I have booked a doctors appointment a mere two days after first feeling chest pains (pfftt.. getting old or what? really need to give up smoking…ohh, dizzy and not well, Jesus I’m going to look stupid sitting on the wet grass here).
Have I ever mentioned I hate hypochondriacs?

I am so efficient, that for a change I am not late for the doctor’s appointment.

For a change I’ve even factored in the time I’ll need to wait and collect the New Drugs I expect the doctor to give me.   For tis a little known fact how slowly the chemist ladies move, and how long it takes them to pile through the first methadone prescriptions of the day).

Except the doctor doesn’t give me a prescription.  He writes a letter to A&E.  This is a precaution, something to do with internal wranglings within the NHS, you know, coulda, shoulda, woulda been the Chest clinic, but first A&E.
Ha! See how good this is? I’m helping maintain funding for our local A&E, and getting another hour off work. 
A quick text to work “They’ve just sent me to A&E, might not be in till lunchtime”
A&E doesn’t look like it needs any more visitors when I get there.   But then some of the visitors are policemen so they probably don’t count.
 
My wee Lithuanian nurse does an ECG, takes blood, and is apologetic as she waves me off back t the general waiting area, “If dere is anythink wrong we will call you soon, but it may be  awhile (shrug, pfft) dere is no more exam rooms!”
Well she put my file in the wrong pile.  I’m called back before I’ve found a seat in the waiting room.
Before you can say “Myocardial Infraction”, I have my own trolley in an examination room, a hospital gown, a second  and third EGC, more blood taken, an, X Ray – yeah, and a Cardiac Nurse explaining to me that I have had a heart attack.
Which is nuts.
This is a heart attack.

This is me.  Feel free to spot the couple of hundred differences..


I argued the toss then texted work again.  “They say I’ve had a heart attack. Probably safe to say I won’t be in later today”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, it's been quiet round here lately.
One reason would be that they don't have wi-fi over at St James infirmary - where I was admitted following a wee heart attack.

Well I've been released back into Community Care.
Watch this space. We'll have twelve weeks or so recuperation...