Welcome To My Palpitations (Part One)

This article has been submitted by a GrownUps member. GrownUps accepts no liability for its content and the views and information contained within are not necessarily those of the GrownUps website.

A memoir

© DJ Ryan June 2008

It should have been just another Tuesday night, me at home, enjoying quick-fix pasta and a nice Pinot Noir. But tonight’s side dish is an uninvited gyration in my heart. I’ve had this sensation before it usually stops after a few moments. Unfortunately though, this one seems to have its own agenda.

Several hours later and I’m up from bed for a glass of water. My heart is still doing the bingady-bong thing but the moment I stand up there is also dizziness.

I lie down again and try some meditation, chanting the mantra thing. I’m drifting away nicely when the bouncing comes back. It’s only after hours of fits and starts that I eventually fall into an uneasy sleep.

Like an idiot, for 2 more days I kid myself that I’m in control of this situation. But then each night, sleep keeps me waiting progressively longer on its favour. My palpitations, once reassuring and familiar, have now developed an almost sinister feel. Its cold comfort, but my imagination just loves this, something new to obsess over.

Friday afternoon at the office and I’m sheepishly admitting to my work-mate David, that I think I might have a little problem. But when I add that my symptoms have always stopped eventually and that I didn’t really see the point in spoiling a perfectly good weekend, David is not impressed. "Now listen Mark,” he insists, “if you don’t make an appointment right now, I'm going to drag you to the bloody doctor myself."

And at three-thirty that afternoon I’m in the doctor’s surgery. He’s taken my pulse and listened to my heart, but he doesn’t’t look that impressed. Maybe I’m keeping him from his golf game or something.

“Okay Mark,” he prompts, “I guess we better take a reading.” He fiddles about with the leads of an ECG machine, and then begins connecting the sticky conductive ends to my chest, wrists and shins.

We have lift off! And for the moment, I am distracted by some whiz-bang technology. The results of my ECG have just been transmitted directly to the North Shore hospitals registrar, who is already coming back on the speakerphone. "Yes doctor, your patient is in Clinical, Atrial Fibrillation."

“So he should be admitted?” my GP asks, nonchalantly.

"Definitely," confirms the frazzled voice, “observation, at least overnight."

Am I hearing this right? An hour ago I’d been blissfully planning my weekend and now they’re talking overnight observation.

My doctor looks up from his computer. I’m his last patient; he’s ready to go home.

"Will we need to call you an ambulance Mark?”

"Ah, you mean right away?" I ask.

"Yes Mark, they want to monitor you as soon as possible."

I'm in Clinical Atrial Fibrillation, and now I'm in shock.

"Oh ... no ... someone from my work will take me. I think."

Fifteen minutes later my friend David is driving me to the hospital and he's doing his best to distract me. Like most of his stories, I'd heard about his heart before, but am all ears, when he tells me that, because of his own ‘triple by-pass surgery’ he’s on some things called Warfarin and Sotalol. "They’ll probably give you both,” he laughs. “They say Warfarin’s a rat poison.”

For the remainder of the journey, we had a few laughs and by the time I’d arrived at the Emergency reception, I was feeling almost relaxed. But when I handed my ECG chart to the duty nurse she took one look at it and immediately ushered me into the ward. It was amazing. One minute I'm Joe Blow from off the street and next, I'm half naked man in a patients smock, being plugged into another ECG.

Within the first few minutes of my arrival I’m being grilled for information by, doctors, interns and nurses asking about family history, marital status and when I’d had my last meal. The nurses are wonderful; they’re professional, yet kind and nurturing. But as hard as I try, I can't avoid that ECG monitor and the sound of my delinquent heart, doing the irregular Watusi.

After nearly an hour of observation, they give me my first little white pill. It's Sotalol, a beta-blocker, and its job they tell me is to get my heart off the dance floor and back into an easy chair. Next, my gurney and me are wheeled to x-ray. There we do the click and whir thing from every conceivable angle. And while curiosity and anxiety do battle to control my mind, I do my best to make small talk with my jovial technician. This is obviously how she gets through her monotonous day. But quite frankly, by now, being the centre of everyone’s attention has definitely lost its sheen.

I’m trying to take all this seriously but there’s still been no real pain and to me, my symptoms seem kind of silly and benign. But as I lie there contemplating my inconclusive diagnosis, on the other side of my cubicle’s curtain it sounded like all hell had been unleashed. Forget your snappy “ER” dialogue and steamy romances in the wings; Friday night in this place, it’s just a river of self-inflicted patients, screaming, spewing and generally harassing the overstretched staff.

It’s been such a long strange day, with unexplained body mischief that no one really needs. I don’t get much sleep and for the rest of the night I can only drift with the chorus of pagers, text beeps and persistently unanswered telephones. Then dawn comes, and with it the chorus of my ward’s awakening. The phones and pagers start up again, then I hear the rattling roll of what I guess is the breakfast trolley on its way. Unfortunately my anticipation is quickly drowned when, eventually, I get my cold piece of toast, washed down with stale, bitter tea.

The specialist arrives around nine and talks right over me to his doting gaggle of students, who seem to be there primarily to back up his sanctimonious tone.

"Too young for PS blah, blah. Went spontaneously from A-fib to Sinus rhythm.”

"Yes that's me," I chirp, “Mr spontaneous every time."

The specialist gives me a curious look then continues. "Mr Clarke, your assessment please? A nervous student gulps then does his own blah, blah and I watch and listen not understanding a word, till I hear. "So we'll discharge you Mr London, medication, 5mg Warfarin once a day, Sotalol twice a day, under the supervision of your GP. You'll need to have blood tests every few days so they can monitor your INR levels." All I comprehend from this is yes; I can get out of here, providing I agree to their multiple blood tests. Then the cardiologist gathers up his gaggle and moves on, leaving me in a mood good for both joy and anxiety.

When I’m sure there’s nobody coming back I quickly shuffle myself to the edge of the bed pulling back the blanket just in time to provide a full frontal flash for two student nurses who have come to change the linen on my bed. We all look embarrassed, they excuse themselves, I get dressed quick smart and then depart via the nearest exit.

On my cab ride home, I go deep into … what the hell just happened? Then 20 minutes later, I'm sitting outside a café with friends, trying to explain … what the hell just happened? It had only been 24 hours, but my god, it seemed like so much longer.

****

It’s two weeks later, a Monday, around 5 am. A tightening chest pain has woken me up. This time there’s no ignoring, no looking for distraction. By the minute, this pain is increasing in its intensity and now my heart is racing, my skin feels clammy and I feel light headed, but none of this is enough to prevent me mentally running down a check list, the check list. Symptoms of, I whisper the words …

"Is this … am I having a heart attack?” Now I'm having trouble breathing, and my left arm feels numb. I try to think myself through this. I've had these feelings before, not all at the same time mind. But yes, I'm no stranger to this level of anxiety. Unfortunately, at this moment, my over imaginative mind has a more substantial arsenal to work with.

My recent stay in hospital had been documented as potentially serious. And in the past two weeks, I'd had blood tests, more trips to the doctor, and letters from the hospital, advising of further tests into the cause of my heart condition.

I pick up the phone and dial 111. The operator's soothing voice asks my name and listens patiently as I run through my symptoms, which I qualify with, "I was in hospital 2 weeks ago with heart palpitations that wouldn’t’t stop."

"Okay Mark, while we've been talking an ambulance has already been dispatched and should get to you within 10 minutes …"

A short time later, there is not a siren, but the calming noise of a vehicle outside. The ambulance is here and before they can knock, I'm greeting them at my door.

"You Mark?” asks the paramedic.

"Yeah,” I grunt, “how’s it going?" He points towards the ambulance. “Do you need a hand?

The paramedic helps me into the back of the ambulance and straps me onto the gurney. Then a younger guy, under instruction from the first takes over and I’m thinking. Wow! With the driver, that’s three of them, all here for me.

Still with no siren, the ambulance moves off at an orderly pace and I’m caught somewhere between disappointment and relief. My trainee has placed a hissing oxygen mask on my face and now he’s checking through a list on a clipboard. “Mark, I'm going to give you something for the pain in your chest in a moment, but for now, just take a few deep breaths of the oxygen."

I do as I'm told and try to ignore the claustrophobic mask on my face. Then the questions come, methodical and in monotone.

"On a scale of one to ten, Mark, what would you say your pain is?"

I answer as best as I can, but when he asks about medication, I gesture to my Jacket. "In there," I gasp through the mask. “There’s a summary thing from the hospital, it'll tell you what I had last time. My pills are in there as well."

The older paramedic finds the summary and my pills in my pocket.

"We’re going to give you some Glytrin, just a wee squirt under your tongue. It should take the chest pain away, but you may feel light-headed or nauseous. Tell me, Mark, have you taken any Viagra, in the past 24 hours?" I heard the question but could hardly believe it. This was like TV. They said this kind of thing on those hospital shows. But I wasn't one of those people. The trainee guy looks nervous. He's almost hiding behind his clipboard.
"No nothing like that." I mumble, as he removes my mask. I taste the bitter liquid under my tongue then almost at once my head goes woozy and I feel like I'm going to throw up. They monitor my discomfort. "You okay Mark, is the Glytrin helping?

"I'm feeling a bit dizzy,” I mumble. “I think I'm going to lose …”

****

Read Part Two here.

Read Part Three here.

print