There Is F*ck-All Wrong With My Heart!
Two weeks after the Cardiac Ablation, which was supposed to correct my Atrial Flutter, I experienced a mild attack, and then, about ten days later, a more serious episode that lasted for over two hours. I tried to phone Dr L, who had performed the procedure, and was told by his receptionist that she would inform him of my concerns. Two weeks later she phoned me back and, on hearing that I was still alive, said that Dr L suggested I consult my cardiologist in Hermanus and get her to send him an ECG. Accordingly, I phoned Dr M’s rooms and was told she was fully booked for the next five weeks. What could I do other than wait, and try not to have a heart attack in the meantime?
Anyway, to cut a short story even shorter, I saw the woman on Tuesday 9 April 2024 and she conducted a number of tests that included the following, as itemized on her account:
Consultation: £1237.40. This involved greeting me and asking how I was feeling. I told her I wasn’t a hundred percent, because I was worried that I might have another attack if I over exerted myself. She raised her eyebrows and looked at me sceptically. The receptionist was called and I was led into the room containing all the expensive equipment. As can be seen in the photo, I removed my shirt and shoes and sat on the table waiting to be examined.
Cardiac Examination: £4288.50. She felt my pulse, took blood pressure, listened with stethoscope, and shaved some of the hair on my chest before sticking a number of electrodes in place. Lying on my side with arm under head, I watched her at work in front of her fancy computer. First, a two-dimensional examination and then a dopler examination followed by an MMode examination. She did not register surprise, or alarm, or delight, or any other emotion that would give me a clue as to what was going on with my dicky ticker. When she was finished with this, the most expensive part of the examination, she strapped a harness on me, and told me to get onto the treadmill.
This was a brand-new adventure.
“I can see you’ve never been on a treadmill before,” she said with contempt.
I struggled to get the hang of it, but then found my rhythm and began marching at a brisk pace. After a while I thought to myself, heck, this is a poor substitute for taking a genuine walk. No fresh air, no changing scenery and no possibility of a chance encounter. Boring, man, boring. About five minutes went by before she slowed the machine and brought it to a halt.
After removing the harness and ripping off the electrode stickers, along with a quantity of hair, she told me to get dressed and come through to her office. There she explained that she had found no abnormalities, my valves were in perfect working order, and there was nothing to stop me leading a normal life. In fact, I should increase my level of fitness by taking more strenuous physical exercise. A bio kineticist would be useful in this regard. I didn’t bother to ask her what a bio kineticist did for a living. Furthermore, I should stop taking the blood thinners, which were prescribed for patients who were at high risk of an imminent cardiac arrest. In conclusion, she said she did not need to see me again.
As we were leaving, the receptionist presented my wife with the bill. Her eyes widened and then narrowed to slits and I could see she was grinding her teeth. When we got to the car she broke the bad news. £6231.60! And we had been in there for just over half an hour.
“Well,” I said, as we headed for Pearly Beach, “at least the scan was covered by Medical Aid.”
I was referring to the £12000 CT scan I had undergone four days previously. It was the six-month follow-up to see if Big C was still under control, and was covered under Oncology by our Hospital Plan.
“I suppose we should look on the bright side,” she agreed. “you have now been given a clean bill of health and there shouldn’t be any more medical crises for a while.”
“Yes, but one never knows what is waiting round the corner. There might be nothing wrong with my heart now, and the cancer seems to be under control, but that scan left out my brain as well as my genitals and legs. It also showed multi-level advanced spondylosis of the lumbar spine, which would account for my stooped posture, and might eventually lead to you having to push me around in a wheelchair.”
“Forget it. You can push yourself around in a wheelchair. And you can stop drinking if you are worried about your health. I’ll stop buying that cask wine every week.”
At this point I thought it wise to steer the conversation in a different direction .
We had just passed over the Klein River at Stanford, so I said, “This new bridge really is a disappointment. We don’t have a view of the river any more.”
“Purely functional and without any imagination. The design shows a lack of respect for nature and turns a bridge into just another length of road. Remember how you used to tell the children about the weak brown god?”
Years ago, I had shared my enthusiasm for TS Eliot’s Four Quartets and told the kids that the river is a strong brown god, ‘sullen, untamed and intractable.
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten by the dwellers in cities - ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated by worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.’
Whenever we crossed the old bridge, I would say, “It might look like a weak brown god now, but wait until you see it in flood.” And when we did see it on a few occasions after exceptionally heavy rain, they were suitably impressed, as were their parents, the feeble stream having been transformed into a huge, bloated brown body of muddy water moving like a giant serpent on its way to the lagoon.
“People are stupid not to respect the presence and the power of nature”
“They do so at their peril,” I said. “It’s like refusing to accept the natural process of mortality. They resort to belief in everlasting life rather than overcome the dread of death. I mean, what is so scary about being dead, for Christ’s sake?”
“It doesn’t scare me,” she said, as we narrowly missed crashing headlong into a 20-ton truck loaded with gravel. “In fact, the sooner we all die, the better. What we need is a giant meteorite to wipe us out, once and for all.”
“Quite so. But not just yet, if you don’t mind. First, I must enjoy life for a bit, having been assured there is f*ck-all wrong with my heart.”
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