Part Two:
So, here I am in the hospital assessment ward wearing my NHS jim-jams and tethered by a 10 foot cable to a heart monitor. Oddly enough I feel fine. Apart from having bloods taken I’m left to my own devices.
I’m in a standard NHS 4-bed bay with three other men. Opposite is 21 stone chap with COPD and diabetes who looks like he will expire at any second. He’s wearing a too short t-shirt and low slung jogging bottoms so all I see is a vast expanse of belly pocked with white marks caused by what I assume is his diabetic pen. Next to him is a Len Goodman lookalike, only smaller and skinnier. He is a cheery eastender so naturally I avoid talking to him. The third chap is pleasant and quickly spoken. Turns out he’s a church minister and he gets plenty of earnest Christian visitors. Both him and Len are heart attack suffers of some sort are also tethered to monitors. We all feel like dogs on a leash.
Sadly, none of the nurses can be described as sexy.
Next day (Friday) doc tells me that my troponin level has come back positive indicative of a heart attack.
This leads to further discussions with the Barts specialists. I potter around all day, as far as my cable lets me that is.
Early evening the doc returns.
Me: “Is it good news?”
Doc: “define good news”
Me: “I get dressed and walk out of here”
Doc:
“because of your raised troponin level Barts want you over there ASAP so we are arranging transport.”
Me:
