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THE DOCTOR was a locum from Poland, and pleasingly thorough. But she was worried about my heart.
“It’s very slow,” she said.
“It’s always slow,” I replied.
“Forty-three beats a minute is unusual.”
I explained that I ran a lot, but she still insisted I go to the hospital for an ECG, “just to make sure”.
And so, a month later, I am sitting in an outpatients’ clinic, wondering why the only magazines available in waiting rooms and clinics are women’s magazines. The middle-aged man in front of me, like every good Boy Scout, is prepared for this, and plays football on a mini-screen. I enjoy some simple breathing exercises as the surest way to bring mind and body together.
“Here’s your ticket, Mr Parke. Now go and wait at the end of the corridor.”
At the end of the corridor, bent figures sit silent, and an electronic numbers board flashes our number when it is our turn. It is just like Argos, when your item is ready for collection; so I feel at home.
A man leaps up, saying, “I’ll have some.” A coffee trolley has just appeared.
“It’s a pound,” says the volunteer assistant.
“Oh, no then,” says the man. “I thought it was free.”
The volunteer smiles wearily. Those of us with dodgy hearts probably need not worry too much about our savings. Suddenly, the electronic board shows “95”. That’s me.
“Hello,” says the nice Australian nurse. “Now, I”ll just need your top bare, and you lying on the bed.”
I love the collapse of social rules in medical settings, and soon I am stripped and lying next to a woman I have never met before.
“We’re just going to wire you up, and see what we see.”
She is working in England because it is such a good place to travel from.
“It takes six and a half hours of flying just to leave Australia,” she says. “That can be depressing.”
Meanwhile, back to my heart.
“It’s very slow,” she says.
“It’s always slow. I run a lot.”
“That may explain things. The heart is a muscle, of course, and the more it’s used, the stronger it is. Full-time marathon runners have heart rates in the 30s. That wouldn’t get most of us out of bed. But, if you don’t mind, I just want to show this printout to a cardiologist. I see a slight problem. I’m sure it’s nothing, but best check.”
A slight problem with my heart? Hmmm. In the following 15 minutes, I plan my final few weeks on earth; it is mainly about the nature of the goodbyes, and a desire to enjoy the scent of flowers.
“The cardiologist says you’re fine,” she says on her return. “I just had to check.”
Tomorrow, she is off for a holiday in Croatia, and I — who knows? But, for the moment at least, the goodbyes will have to wait.
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