The Hill, Anglesey.

The ceiling starts to move, slowly at first and then more quickly as the bed is propelled along the hospital ward. Voices call out 'all the best' and 'see you later' as you travel along. I raise an arm in acknowledgement. The last chance to cut and run is fast approaching as the porter pushes the bed towards the operating theatre. The bed clunks like a supermarket trolley as the wheel imperfections go around and around against the smooth floor.

Suddenly, a jolt as the doors to the anteroom of the operating theatre are pushed open. Blue gowned anaethetists look down at you in welcome. 'Do you know what you are here for ?' asks one. 'Heart by pass' I reply. He checks his documentation, 'and date of birth ?'. 'six-ten-thirty six' were the last words I manage to say before somebody shoots the anaesthetic into my hand ........ too late to run now.


Eighteen months previously was the start of Spring on the Isle of Anglesey, North Wales. It was late afternoon and I needed to catch the local post by four pm. As I pushed open the cottage door I shouted my intentions to Joyce, my wife, who was concentrating her artistic talents painting some strange looking bottles in the hobbies room. Onwards down the hill I walked, heading towards the post box which was located in a stone wall at about one hundred metres distance. From this point and looking east beyond the village and towards the skyline I could see the Snowdonia Mountain range in the crisp air. Nearer is the worked out Parys Mountain, which used to supply the worlds copper during the eighteen-hundreds. Further south past Caenarfon bay is the Cadair Idris Mountain which I had climbed years ago out of Dollgellau. 

Depositing the letter in the mailbox I turned around to retrace my steps. Looking over the sheep fields in the distance I see the northern most point in Wales and the Anglesey coastline around point Lynas. At this height the Cumbrian Mountains are just visible in the distance and, further west, the Isle of Man can be seen with Snaefell rising out of the Irish Sea. Beyond this and further west still, the Mountains of Morne in Ireland can just be seen poking out in the far distance. 
 
Starting back up the hill to our cottage was a little more effort, the short hill must be inclined nearly 1 in 4, (or so it felt). As I walk along, the elasticated cuffs of my fleece  jacket suddenly seem awfully tight. I slide my fingers inside the cuff to free the tightness and carry on. Halfway up the hill is a small plateau where I stop for a minute. I am not out of breath but have this sensation of my chest complaining that something is not right. A unique feeling never, ever been experienced in my sixty five years of life, more akin to a feeling as if the blood in an arm is starved from reaching upwards, but in the chest. After a couple of minutes the sensation subsides and I continue walking up the hill at a slower rate back towards the cottage.

Days later I am rushing around to my workshop to get on with some woodcutting. It is still quite cold and the fuel previously cut last autumn for the wood burning stove has run out. The cottage has oil central heating plus a supplementary wood stove which adds a cheerful ambience when lit. I have no mind to be outside for very long, but just to cut enough wood to keep the stove going a few more nights. My breath turns to steam as the cold air hits it, and as before I start to feel the same chest sensations. I slow down and things quickly get back to normal.

Later I mention the sensations to my wife and she insists on calling for a doctors appointment for a check up. In sixty five years I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have needed to see a doctor, most of the times for odd things like a tetanus shot when I've gashed myself. 

I wait in the waiting room, along with mothers and their babies, the odd teenager and a couple of old codgers like me. Eventually I am called to room three and the awaiting doctor. I relate the symptoms and seconds later am being chilled by a cold stethoscope as the doctor has a listen to my chest. Next my arm is being strangled as my blood pressure is taken. 'Sounds like it could be a touch of Angina' says the doc. 'We had better investigate further so I'll get in touch with the consultant for an appointment at Bangor Hospital. In the mean time here's a prescription for some pills and have the nurse do a cholesterol test for you'.

I am dismissed for now wondering what I have done to warrant all this attention. The blood is extracted under protest and a couple of days later the results are in. Cholesterol level is 5.5 which by all accounts is not high but slightly above the 5.0 norm. As a precaution, the prescription pills include anti cholesterol tablets, aspirin and Atenolol beta blockers. At first I am reticent to start taking the medication but my wife insists. The ritual of taking pills is soon established and I wonder why I suddenly need all these pills after going all these years without. Surely I can survive without them ? 

On to the internet and looking for some more details I find pages of information relating to angina, coronary arteries, bypasses, stents angioplasty etc. You name it and it's there complete with graphics and studies from the world over. This is serious stuff and I grapple with the terminology to get an understanding of the situation. They say a little knowledge is dangerous but here a lot of knowledge is mind boggling.

The cold weather has gone and the month of June sees me at Ysbyty Gwynedd for my consultants appointment. Bangor Hospital serves a large area of North Wales and as with most hospitals it has a chronic parking problem. To meet the appointment time means that at least a half hour should be allotted just to find a parking spot. Eventually a place is found at the wrong end of the complex which means an uphill walk to the reception area. Still its good excercise for me and I probably need it now that spring is well established.

I proffer my appointment note to the receptionist and she promptly points the way to the waiting area. It's a maze in this place with corridors running off in all directions. I try to remember the way back as I enter a side corridor leading to the Consultant Cardiologist waiting area. Again I proffer my appointment sheet and am told the Consultant is running a little late. I sit in the waiting area along with some other people already there. We look at each other with furtive glances wondering what each person's reason for being here is. The Consultant is part of the cardiac team from Manchester and who seem to have responsibility for looking after the North Wales population for the NHS.

Eventually my name is called and off I trot to be dealt with. 'Today we are going to put you on the treadmill' says the consultant. 'I'll be back in a minute, just strip to the waist so we can connect you up', and off he goes. I remove my top as a nurse enters with a rather nasty looking razor. 'Just got to clear a little space' she says and starts to do some creative dry shaving on my chest. 'This is so the adhesive connections can be removed later without stripping you down to the flesh'. I smile hoping she knows what she is doing.

Little disks the size of the old post war milk bottle tops are stuck all over my chest in various places, some burried in the space carved out by the razor.
Each disk has a press stud connector in the centre and the press stud backing is in contact with an electrically connective gel against the skin. The nurse asks me to hold a bunch of wires while she proceeds to connect each wire to the milk bottle top connectors. The other end of the wires are connected to the ECG machine which is located close to the treadmill. I feel as if I am about to be involuntarily activated like some victorian macabre Frankenstein experiment as I step on to the treadmill.

The consultant materialises from nowhere and gives instructions to start the treadmill slowly. I grab the handrail and start walking to nowhere as small adjustments to the ECG machine are made. 'Let me know if you feel any pain or discomfort' he says turning the speed up a notch. Easy peasy I think as the walk rate very gradually increases. Soon the effort gets harder and I am beginning to breathe faster. 'Everything OK ?' he asks as the ECG machine begins spewing paper out like there is no tomorrow. Now I feel the all too familiar sensations just starting. The angle of the treadmill seems to have increased and I am striding out at a fair old lick, it's heavy going. 'Enough' I cry, and the treadmill grinds to a halt while I puff and pant like an unfit horse. The ECG continues to record the heart impulses while I regain my breath. In five minutes I am back to normal as the consultant and nurse huddle over the results. 

'Diagnosis is confirmed' he says, 'You have a heart problem without doubt, just look at these charts'. He picks out a graph of particular note and points out the shape of the response, its change and recovery after the treadmill test. 'The slow recovery time indicates a problem, we will need to do an angiogram as soon as possible. I'll arrange a new appointment for you'.  

My worst fears have come true, all these years of so called physical fitness now seem to count for nought. The nurse starts disconnecting me and jolts me out of my thoughts as the milk bottle tops are pulled off. Thank goodness she cleared a path with the razor first I think as some stray hairs are uprooted. I now have a mosaic of pink patches in place of the connections and cover these with my top. Job done, time to get out of here.

With the growing season in full swing its time to sort out the garden and check on the seed trays in the glasshouse. Already the Asparagus is shooting up and providing a few tasty spears. The Strawberry bed is looking more lively and the weeds need to be hoe'd before it becomes a major problem. Got to keep it under control I think as I don my protective helmet  and eye cover ready to do battle with the petrol strimmer. Having finished my regular work as an electronic circuit designer, I can now do all the strimming in one day instead of fitting it in as and where I can. How was it possible to do a full days work and still do all the other jobs needed when fully employed remains a mystery. 

Summer officially starts and things are warming up nicely, the ritual of pill taking continues and no further Angina problems have occurred. We go for long bicycle rides along the new coastal path from Colwyn Bay to Rhyl. A week of house, horse and duck sitting has been requested by our youngest daughter so they can spend a week on the Isle of Coll in the Western Hebrides and we are glad to oblige. Life goes on.

August arrives and with it a letter informing of an appointment for cardiac catheterisation for mid October in Manchester. Our holidays are usually planned to coincide with the end of summer so that in September we would generally head South into the continent. That's a good time and now we can be away for six weeks so we immediately start making plans for the South of France. We start to prepare the Motorhome for its journey. It really only takes a few days to stock up some food and clothing, get the ferry tickets and check the water and oil levels. I get the list out and we tick off each item...batteries, bikes, swimwear etc.

The end of August soon arrives and we are all systems go. The trek to the port at Dover is usually about ten hours on a Saturday including stops. The ferry we aim for is 19.30 as this is lower cost than earlier in the day. Still, if we arrive accidently on purpose, so to speak, in time for the earlier ferry, as long as there is space we will be sailing at 18.00. This puts us in Calais one and a half hours later at  20.30 local time. Having had a rest and meal on the boat it is now only a short hop to the overnight stop. Two days later sees us flaked out soaking up the Mediterranian sun near the french town of Grau Agde some twelve hundred miles south of Anglesey. 

Four weeks later we are heading North once again this time to find a space in the Paris camp site of Boise de Boulogne along side the Seine. Cutting through the park past the famous Longchamps racecourse we are soon cycling down the streets of Paris along the marked out cycle tracks. Down the Champs Elisees and into the Jardin des Tuileries  leads us past the Louvre Museum to the Notre Dame Cathedral. How pleasant it is to forget about medical matters!

At home on Anglesey a letter from the Manchester Royal Infirmary is retrieved from under a pile of accumulated mail sitting on the doormat. The appointment for the Angiogram has been put back two weeks to the end of October. As a none urgent case I am not too concerned about the small delay since the summer has not produced Angina discomfort of any significance. In warm weather, the lungs seem to absorb oxygen more quickly so that the demand for higher heart rates is reduced.

With my wife as co driver I present myself at the Manchester hospital to be directed to the day Ward. The medication I have been taking has been examined and now I have to change into paper knickers and a smock which has a gap down the front the size of the Mersey Tunnel. I lie on a bed trying to look as if I do this all the time when a nurse enters with the proverbial dry shaver. I try to cover my modesty as she clears a path to allow the insertion of a catheter into my Femoral Artery in the groin . I wait.

Soon a porter arrives to transport me off to the operating theatre where I shall be examined. I jiggle myself from bed to the theatre table and look around. It is a large open area, not unlike a car workshop but clean. Along side me is a student waiting to observe the procedure. I smile nervously at him and he responds by showing a row of dazzling white teeth against a very dark face. It transpires he is from Nigeria and is here as a student at the Manchester Royal Infirmary which is a teaching hospital. Near to the side there is some form of instrument panel with a display screen attended by two blue gowned anonymous men.

The consultant arrives and asks me if I am OK and looks around to confirm all is ready to commence. My paper panties are unceremoniously ripped apart leaving no thought of modesty and then a super cooled cleaning swab is soon chilling my nether regions. Next I am swabbed with Iodine and then the serious business of inserting the catheter into my Femoral Artery is started. I feel the small incision, not painful, but there none the less and a gadget is inserted to allow the catheterisation to be progressed further. Soon all manner of things are being inserted into the artery and I get some minor sensations as the consultant manipulates wires up towards the heart. The two anonymous blue gowns are monitoring pressures, blood flows and whatever else as the probes wind around my arteries. 

A scanner is positioned so that when a pulsed x-ray source is activated it will illuminate the heart and its arteries for an electronic pictorial record. I feel like a Star Trek victim. 'I'm going to inject some material into you which might make you feel a hot flush', said the consultant. 'Nothing to worry about, it will soon get back to normal, ready all round ?'. The blue gowns acknowledge ok and the injection starts. I feel like I have wet myself as the mixture feeds into my body. There is some rapid activity around me as the consultant adjusts the x-ray source and checks scanned results. A camera records the data as he spots the cause of the angina, it is a partial blockage of the coronary artery, left descending. 

'All done' he says as a long catheter is withdrawn from my groin. The student holds a cotton wool pad and presses over the wound to stop my life from bleeding out. A high tech plug is inserted into the artery which will later dissolve as the artery seal is re grown. Its rather like a pop gun rivet except there is no rivet gun action and the device is of a special compound. The bed arrives and I shuffle over from the operating table as the medical people gather to inspect the results. I am propelled back to the ward for a thirty minute rest and recovery still clutching at my paper knickers. 

Later the Consultant appears and I ask what he has found. ' It appears the M1 has a blockage', he says and I wonder why he is talking about the main London Motorway out to the North. Perhaps it is jargon for a particular artery and I ask if it can be fixed with a Stent  to convert it to a wider four lane road. The response is no, it has to be a bypass and that was that. I am stunned by the thought of such a major operation as my wife and I prepare to leave the day ward.

With my wife driving towards home, my lifelong need to eat creates a flash back in my mind and I begin to wonder if the problem I have is the result of to much food. I mean, how many portions of fish & chips or quarter pound hamburgers with cheese let alone the double cream pastries does it take to clog the arteries ? Not that I have put on that much weight really, only 12 stone 7 pounds or 80 kilograms in to days jargon. Then again, perhaps this is payback time! 

It is well known that the National Health Service has long waiting times for elective non urgent operations and I was in no hurry to be at the top of the list. All urgent operations are dealt with quickly so I expected to have at least another year to get used to the idea of being opened up. That was fine by me since I wasn't an urgent case and was quite happy to leave space for the more needy. Still, the clock was now ticking.

It would soon be November and Christmas would be upon us. We decided to get past the festivities and head out to warmer climates some time in the New Year. This time the South of Portugal and the Algarve seemed a good prospect so plans were laid for a trip in late January returning early March to escape the dull English winter. Before travelling, we called the hospital and told them we would be out of the country for a while. No problem, the list was still long with plenty being added to it. It wasn't as if there was a shortage of patients and the hospital needed work.

Spring and Summer came and went and still no word so I called to check if I was still on the list and had not been forgotten. According to the latest Government edicts, no one was expected to wait more than twelve months for an operation. That meant I could expect to be called at the latest in October so we decided on a short trip into Holland in early September, taking the bicycles of course. Again I called the Manchester Infirmary to make sure nothing was imminent and they added a note to my record that I would be unavailable for two weeks. 

Inevitably, when we had returned and sorted through the mail there was a letter asking me to attend Bangor Hospital for a blood test and Chest x-ray to see if I was fit enough to undergo the upcoming procedure. The check up appointment was for the previous week and I was scheduled for the big job at the end of October. It was now the third week of September. I called the Manchester Hospital and they said no problem and re arranged the check up for a week later. 

The check up was simple and quickly dealt with, my legs were inspected for suitability in extracting a Saphenus vein which would be used in the bypass procedure to provide blood flow around the blockage. My lungs were checked to be clear as this is most important to aid post operative recovery, then a little blood was extracted for a final test. The Manchester Cardiac liaison team were present to explain in detail what to expect from the upcoming operation and were excellent in their presentation. All in all I began to accept that these were dedicated professional people who knew what they were about. The next stage is preparing one self mentally to be completely and utterly in the hands of the medical team, I mean it happens every day so why get het up about it?

The next three weeks drag out slowly until finally the big day arrives. We travel to Manchester the day before I am due to be admitted and stay overnight at my sister's house. In the morning we enter the Manchester Royal Infirmary which was opened in 1909 by King Edward VII and I hope the operating facilities have improved since that time. We have leaflets, maps, a compass and some extra clothing as we start looking for the Cardiac wards in this great hospital. I even have a Swiss army knife should it be needed. Eventually we find the facilities close to the emergency room which seems a logical place to have it. 

I present myself with some trepidation only to find out that the North Wales contingent are allowed a couple of extra hours to arrive due to the extra travel distance. We are placed in the waiting room with one or two other people to watch an asinine game show on the solitary television. Wafts of antiseptic smells mixed with cabbage, potatoes and whatever else is on offer for lunch drift into the waiting room. A strong thought of school dinner ladies blobbing out food for lunch fifty years ago emerges. Some people leave the waiting room and others enter to help break the monotony until finally I am called and led to an empty bed in the entry ward. This is it I think, and resist the action of changing into my pyjamas right away as I have another twenty four hours reprieve before show time.

I look around and nod at the occupants of some of the other beds. Some of these are sporting the latest in oxygen masks, some are attached to hat stands on wheels with bags of liquid hanging down. Two nurses are hauling around a large box on wheels from which medicine cups of pills are being distributed. They look so young, as if just left school and I begin to feel my age. One of the Cardiac liaison team arrives with a clip board and  pulls the privacy covers around the bed. She is here to officially welcome me and make sure that I am not an impostor who has somehow got lost in the hospital only to end up in my bed. She has a check list and proceeds to take all my details while verifying they are as expected. Soon we are on a guided tour and are being whisked hither and yon around the Cardiac wards, including the first stop out of the operating theatre. It seems well organised and I ask how many operations are performed each day. There are two Cardiac theatres and each do two operations a day. A  quick calculation puts the annual through put at about a thousand each year, quite a production line. 

Back in the ward I feel it is time for me to bite the bullet so I get into pyjamas and give my surplus clothing and other odds and ends to my wife for safe keeping. By the looks of things, I will be in cloud cuckoo land this time tomorrow so it there is no point in even considering visiting. Anyway, I leave all these questions to my wife as I kiss her goodbye. On my own now I settle in the bedside chair to watch the action as another new entrant appears with entourage. A blue gowned man and assistant arrives and pulls the privacy curtain around the bed. He is the anaesthetist come to ask the same questions again and to confirm I have no allergic reactions to drugs or foods. These are clever professional people and are keen to make sure all will go smoothly during the operation. I sign my life away on various sheets of paper and am offered an Epidural as an option in pain control. The thought of needles probing my backbone is disconcerting and I humbly decline this opting for whatever other pills and potions are available. Satisfied, they return to whence they came.

The daylight fades and I attempt to eat some food with little success. The smells put me off the food but I see that some of the other residents are tucking in with gusto. The tea wagon arrives and I am offered a drink. I try coffee but its flavour leaves a lot to be desired. There is a water jug on my table so I try that instead. The water has an earthy taste, like it has just been drawn straight out of the River Irwell. In some of my previous work, I have measured the main water intakes in other industrial and public buildings, including hospitals. My thoughts travel to below the hospital to the dingy utility rooms where the main input pipes take in the water. Sometimes this comes from underground Aquifers and I imagine all of Manchester's surrounding rivers dribbling water through various channels down to the underground aquifer. Usually water from aquifers is only used for industrial purposes since it is not purified first, I hope that the hospital water supply is treated.

It is late at night, there is a label over my bed which state 'nil by mouth'. Suddenly the whole building rattles and a great shudder is felt. Not a bomb but an earthquake. This I have felt before when I lived in California. Not unknown in Manchester but this seems quite local and I wonder about the upcoming operation. Nurses come into the ward asking if everyone is alright as those of us that are still awake begin to relax. Five minutes later a secondary shudder occurs, not as severe but still disquieting.  Sleep is hard to come by as I doze waiting for the witching hour.

 It's a long night but at six in the morning I am rousted by the ward lights being turned on and the sound of the tea wagon rattling along. I am gasping for a drink as I watch the wagon pass the bed. Half an hour later I am approached by a nurse sporting a razor. 'Can you manage this or shall I?' he asks. I look at him askance, 'Need all surplus hair removed down to the bikini line'. I have an electric shaver with me which has a built in clipper so I take this and a few of his dry scraper razors and head towards the shower. Ten minutes later I am standing in a pile of fuzz as I finish off the arms. I shower and watch the remains of my sixty odd years of growth disappear down the plug hole. Back to the ward I go for inspection and the privacy curtain is closed around me. The nurse approaches and I have some more clearance work to be undertaken. I can't see what the problem is until I put my spectacles on. Five minutes later I am released feeling like a chicken prepared for the oven. 

A nurse arrives to tabulate and bag all my worldly possessions. I shan't see these again for some days. I put on a gown which has a single tie at the back, nothing else. My bum feels the draft as I climb back in bed and wait. Soon a hospital porter heads towards my bed, looks at my name tag and enquires 'Ready?'. My time has come as I lie back to look at the ceiling.



Slowly my consciousness returns. I feel no pain or any discomfort as I become aware of my surroundings. I appear to be in a large room filled with cocoons like the ones you see in sci fi movies where bodies are kept in suspended animation. I am conscious of a mask covering my face with a strange smelling wind blowing into my nose. It is oxygen in its undiluted state providing my lungs with as rich as possible of that life enhancing gas. Tubes are connected into my body in various places, some where they have no right to be, and I am adorned with a pair of long white elasticated stockings like some Elizabethan  actor. The stockings are intended to offer some protection against a remote possibility of deep vein thrombosis. I sink slowly back into unconsciousness and oblivion.

Hours later I regain my awareness for a few moments. I look at the ceiling and it appears so low that I could reach out and touch it. All of the clones are still in the cocoons, the mask still feeds oxygen and we are all still connected by various tubes to the mother source. Day one after the operation is progressing normally with the highly skilled staff monitoring each of the cocoons for signs of hatching. I am propped up trying to make sense of the goings on around me but my mind floats away to never-never land.

Help!, I am being detached from my life source and the cocoon I am contained in appears to have become a bed. I am on the move to another ward complete with rolling hat stand and dangling plastic bags. The mask is plugged in and the oxygen envelopes me once again as I peer around in my new environment. The ceiling seems further away now and there are other beds around me. This is the high dependency ward where the level of skill required is still very high but the need for constant monitoring is lessened as the body continues to repair itself. Helping hands have freed me from the bed and placed me in a chair alongside. My brain is beginning to function as I try to communicate with visitors, apparently with some success, but my memory of this is vague.

Day two and I try a cup op tea. This tastes vile so I abandon it for a sip of the River Irwell water which is sitting on the bedside table. With my oxygen mask off, the food smells which float around mixed with the antiseptic vapours make me nauseous so I opt for the mask instead. I am rousted to sit in my bedside chair again and weak as a kitten I am guided back to flop down. I look across at various faces covered by the Mickey mouse masks and I try speaking to my neighbour through my mask but the words come out like Donald Duck. The roaming pill box on wheels enters the ward and the nurse fills a medicine cup to the top with an assortment of multicoloured smarties. Some are so large that they get stuck as I try to wash these down with the extract of Irwell. One escapes from the bedside table like a wayward pea rolling away down the ward. After a search it is found and discarded but another is substituted in its place. Later the nurse decides I am dehydrated due to lack of Irwell intake so I am re attached to a bag of liquid overnight, at least there is no taste to sense with the drip.

Hey up, I'm on the move again as day three dawns. The bed and I are moving out of the High Dependency ward back towards the ward where I first came in. By design or accident I do not know but the bed is slotted in exactly the same spot as when I first arrived. Now its the turn of other newcomers to look over to me as the oxygen mask is plonked on my face. I have one tube left feeding a dangling yellow plastic bag which seems to be stopped up. My bladder is becoming pressured and I need to relieve myself. I call a nurse who has a look at the plastic bag and adjusts its position. Soon my excess liquid has drained away and I am feeling back to normal.

This is the ward where patients are expected to take care of themselves up to a degree and the first order of the day is to have the last tube removed to become totally independent. Next is a visit to the loo to test those functions which have been put on hold for the last three days. It certainly is testing and it takes some time to get through the first activities. I shuffle back to the ward and speak to my neighbour to compare notes so to speak. Not a good idea as we end up suffering trying to suppress laughter. This is too much activity so I sit in the bedside chair to recover. 

The next job is a major undertaking in the shower. Somehow I manage to shuffle along with the aid of a nurse down to the shower room. I slowly remove my pyjama bottoms while sat down and the nurse peels off my Elizabethan stockings. This is like stripping paint from a round pillar and is very labour intensive. For the first time I see the long S shaped scar where the Saphenus vein has been taken from and while a little tender it is healing well. Still clutching my bath robe around me she discreetly exits and leaves me to get on with it. 

The shower head is solid chrome metal affair and can be controlled by hand or left in the wall slot. I turn on the shower, which only has a temperature control and set it to warm.  Fierce water jets shoot out in all directions, like a wayward fire mans hose, so I grab the handle to tame it. Now I only have one hand free and one hand holding the shower head. I try to soap myself and hold the shower head under control but as I change hands with the soap the shower head slips spraying water in all directions. There has to be a better way and I shut off the water to analyse the situation. The shower room is quite large and I have pulled the shower curtain to protect my clothes so I now force the position of the shower head to point away from the curtain and down to the floor. With the shower head attached to the wall again I turn on the water and hold my breath as the chrome handle tries to eject itself from the wall socket. Finally, success and I can approach the spray with two hands free to continue my shower. The strength of the spray is enough to strip paint of a wall and I am most careful to only allow small side streams to rinse me off in case my skin is pummelled to a pulp.

Peace at last as I sit down to dry myself. I have a new pair of long white elasticated stockings to unroll over my legs but before I can the nurse rattles to door and enters. She is carrying a fresh non stick dressing to protect my leg wound. Together we get the stockings on and I get back into my pyjamas ready for the long shuffle back to the ward. When I get back to the ward I collapse into my bedside chair like a jelly and close my eyes thinking of the ordeal I have just gone through. Things can only get better, or can they ?

The day wears on, more pills etc and at tea time I am visited by two of my grand children. My grand daughter has now just become a teeny bopper and is already familiar with hospitals having suffered broken bones by swinging into a tree on the end of a mile long rope. She strolls around with an air of confidence while her brother, a little younger, struts with his hands in his pockets making out like he is a man of the world. They are a sight for sore eyes and liven up the day. I offer a taste of the River Irwell water to my wife who nearly gags and immediately goes off to search for bottled water down in the staff cafeteria. Still not eating, I am left with a pack of 'Jaffa' cakes as my visitors bid farewell.

A senior nurse passes by and I ask her if she has anything to get my appetite back, the last effort was useless being a couple of little pills place betwixt lip and gums. She has the very thing by all accounts, and decides on an injection which I assume to be in the arm. Wrong! I lower my pyjamas and turn away as my leg muscle is penetrated by a long needle. The cure is worse than the complaint and I sit there recovering from the shot. Miracle of miracles, in an hour I actually begin to feel hungry, timidly I extract a 'Jaffa' cake and manage to nibble through one. Washed down with a draft from the bottled water my stomach accepts the offering gratefully. Its the turning point and I quietly thank my daughter for leaving the food as I settle down for the night.

The next morning, day four, I attempt some breakfast  and manage a couple of spoonfuls of corn flakes. I revert to my chocolate coated orange jam 'Jaffa' cakes and manage a couple before nurse Dracular comes around for my blood test. Not surprising I am short of Iron and Potassium so the next load of pills now include these as extra treats. 

Each day a entourage of Doctors tour the ward checking on the progress of patients to see if they are well enough to be sent home. This creates more bed space for the next contingent who are presently dotted around the local area of Manchester and North Wales. The chief, a consultant, is attended by two would be residents complete with stethoscopes and clipboards, the head ward nurse and a hospital management person who looks after the patient appointments and general details pertaining to all patients. As they approach each bed, the residents remove the history folder on the bed base, glance at it and present it to the consultant with admiring looks and a little covert communication. The consultant looks up and smiles ' How are you doing to day, Mr ..... ?'. If the bed is occupied by a new patient, the entourage passes by without so much as a nod.

My turn comes and I dutifully answer all of the questions. My pain management is under control, I can walk about and apart from my slowly returning appetite I appear to be a prime candidate for release. They need the bed and the consultant asks if I live locally. 'North Wales' I reply. 'Hmm, I think we had better wait until to morrow, there is a bit of a weather front coming in and that's to far to travel at the moment', and off they go. I wonder why a bit of wind and rain should stop my release but it looks like I am still on target for being out on day five. Just another 24 hrs to go through, not to bad really. I fill my time doing the odd stroll around the wards, down the corridors passing people in all states of dress, some wandering around like zombies.

In the afternoon, the windows begin to rattle as the wind outside picks up. Small trees are bending over and the rain begins. By evening its a full fledged storm force ten, I'm glad that I am inside looking out, not the other way around. My wife phones in, can't make it for visiting as the power is out and there are trees blocking the roads. It's a major disaster country wide with roads blocked, vehicles blown over, power failures and disruption every where. I mentally thank the consultant for his foresight. The storm roars on and creates havoc with 90 mph winds recorded in Wales.

The day after, day five, all the emergency services are put to work to restore power lines and clear roads. The last storm like this was twenty odd years ago when great swathes of the south of England lost large amounts of woodland. Electricity people are brought in from the continent to help in the clear up and restore power.

With any luck I should be out of here today, as long as I can get some transport perhaps I can be out by lunch time. My medication has already been organised since it can take two or three hours to get it from the pharmacy if there has been no notice beforehand. The morning entourage finally arrives and the ritual procedures gone through. As long as I have transportation I can go and since I have already phoned to verify this there are smiles all round at the thought of another soon to be empty bed. The entourage moves on with the management chap whispering that he will be back to see me a little later.

A member of the cardiac liaison team and management go through the details of pill regime and pain management control with me, not that I have any real pain because some of the pills I take keep it at bay. I will be contacted by the management people for an appointment in four weeks which I am expected to keep in Manchester. When they are finally gone all I need do is to pack some stuff together, get dressed and wait for my transport in the form of wife and daughter. It's a Monday, exactly seven days since I arrived in the hospital and six days almost to the hour since I was in the hands of the surgeon. The surgeon I have never met although I know his name and that I wasn't put on a bypass machine during the operation. What can you say to these people who apply their expertise to you, who know nothing about you and probably prefer not too, less they get personally involved ? Thanks seems not enough.

 Two weeks later I am strolling down the lane each day, weather permitting, I am down to three Paracetamol painkiller tablets a day (just in case) and am eating normally. My leg has more or less healed completely and apart from the odd twinge, my chest is only bothered by the re growth of my stubble which catches on my Tee shirt, a small price to pay. My heart is pumping normally but I have to take care not to forget that it will take a little longer before I can go out chopping wood or climbing steep hills. I await the New Year with great anticipation.

At six weeks all the wounds are healed and I have discarded the elasticated stockings and need no Paracetemol. A previous visit to Ysbyty Gwynedd  at Bangor to see the Manchester support team for a final check up has been completed and I have been signed off. Here I spoke with the surgeon who operates with the consultant at Manchester and he fills me in with some of the questions still lingering. Finally, I have made the transition from patient back to normality thanks to the dedication of all concerned. 


Max Cottrell, Dec 5th, 2002