Feel free to panic, Mr Mainwaring.

Since I was taken to hospital back at the end of 2009 with a suspected heart attack with what was eventually diagnosed as Gastroenteritis – that by the time it had been identified had almost completely healed by itself – I have nothing but sympathy for those who suffer from anxiety or panic attacks. Indeed, having been a stranger to them all my life up until that fateful day they seem to be a regular occurrence in my life, mostly minor or sometimes (as I’m suffering at the moment) incredibly terrifying.

Now I’m no hypochondriac but one valuable lesson I have learned is that no matter how bad you’re feeling it’s never a wise move to look up your symptoms on the internet. Slight headache? That’ll be a tumour then. Stomach ache? Cancer. Bleeding profusely from your ears and head only attached to your body by a thin bit of gristle? Actually, ignore that last one.

I blame the wonders of Doctor Internet (but mostly myself) for my first panic attack back in October 2009. I’d been feeling fairly grotty for a couple of days – which, with hindsight, I now know was the gastroenteritis – but still went into work on the Monday. However, sitting at my desk and worrying and unable to concentrate, I decided to go to NHS direct and enter my symptoms – Lack of sensation and/or tingling in arms? Check. Tightness across the chest? Check. Clammy hands? Check. “Submit”.

Call for an ambulance, came the quick response. Seek urgent medical attention. No word of a lie.

I could hear my heart thumping in my ears and I felt faint. I felt like I’d just seen my own gravestone. And somebody had carved 'Always in our hearts' on it. Fuckers. I staggered to my feet and across the office and asked one of my co-workers to ring an ambulance for me. “I think I’m having a heart attack”, I muttered.

The ambulance arrived in double quick time and I was taken inside. I was shaking so much that they had trouble administering me a sedative, and my ability to relax even when sedated wasn’t assisted by the ambulance driver saying she’d put the siren on to beat the traffic and radio ahead so a medical team could deal with me as soon as I arrived at the hospital.

Now, the fact I’m still writing this a year and a half later indicates that I didn’t die. Unless the last eighteen months have been one hell of a fucked up afterlife and I’m not in on the joke. Since that day I’ve had all manner of tests – initially they were concentrating on my heart, which turned out to be fine – although opinions still differ as to whether I’m suffering from arrhythmia or not, depending on who does my ECG. My lungs were fine, as were my kidneys and pancreas. The only way they could have done any more tests than they managed would have been with a post-mortem. And I refused to sign the disclaimer for that. Eventually it was the last set of tests months later concentrating on my stomach where a camera shoved down my cakey foodhole found the remnants of gastroenteritis that had nearly gone. A tiny little healed rash where once was a nasty virulent mess.

Problem solved. Worry over.

But it wasn’t. I’d have weeks of feeling fine followed by weeks of what I can only define as anxiety attacks. The majority of time said attacks are just uncomfortable – the annoying feeling of being pressed in the armpit, a general length of strength (or general tenderness of the skin) in the legs or arms.

A lot happened in that time – from the awful event of my Mum dying, to my brilliant wedding, and a pattern began to emerge. If I was too distracted to think about myself, it didn’t affect my life. If ever I stopped to think “I think I’m getting a pain in my chest” you can guarantee said pain would indeed be there and would get worse until I was too distracted to think about it again. So, all in my head, therefore easy to resolve. Just man up, right? Pull yourself together, David. A case in point is a recent example; the anxiety was really bad last week but on Saturday I went around to Dads to do some more work on the home made armour. During that time (and the few pints of John Smiths I had with him at lunchtime) I was too busy wrist deep in fibreglass and resin to even think about being poorly. I remember in the pub briefly thinking about how bad I’d felt in the morning but how great I felt then, but the reminder of how I’d felt that morning was enough. Over the next half an hour the pains increased until they were as bad as they’d been all week.

Over time the normal periods have lengthened and the bad ones lessened, but the last week or so has been really bad so I thought it put it into words must as to strengthen my own sanity as opposed to anything else. And hopefully to enlighten those who don’t understand the condition.

The worst thing about panic/anxiety attacks, call them what you will (I’m going to start calling them “Sinister Colin”), or at least in my case – (I don’t claim to speak for all sufferers of this, everybody has their unique experience) - is that they’re self-perpetuating.

A slight pain in the arm that might just be from a knock or from having slept on it funny becomes a full blown ache because you’re constantly thinking about it. You’re so sensitive to changes in your body because of the adrenalin that’s firing your neurons into overdrive , and the nervousness tenses your muscles. Which makes your arm ache more.Which is the one of the signs of a heart attack, right?

That pain in your chest that started just as a little bit of tightness, probably just indigestion? You can’t stop scratching it or rubbing your hands over it for reassurance which is irritating the skin and making it sensitive. Which then makes you aware of every bit of discomfort that little bit more. And chest pains? They’re the killer, right? And the pain has probably spread to your back – and that can only mean there is something wrong with your pancreas. You read the symptoms on the internet.

If I sit back and think about my symptoms for a second - which oddly enough won't appear until I do think about them, here they are in order:

1. My back is aching.  Not until I mentioned it here, but I can definitely feel the chair is uncomfortable against my back.
2. My right wrist is sore - It feels as though somebody has been scratching at the skin.  Oh hang on, somebody has.  It was me, worrying about my sore wrist and rubbing at it.
3. My right arm feels inflamed, like it's been sunburned.

The odd thing I could do this until I ran out of body parts - which would make for a lengthy blog post, just not a very exciting one.  For every single part I concentrate on, I can find some kind of pain in it.  But only because I'm thinking about there being some pain in it.  I fucking hate my brain at times.

I’m not daft. I know I had a full MOT less than a year ago and it’s hardly like my body decided to suddenly atrophy and fall to bits the second I had my last doctors appointment out of spite, but the mental signals are very, very strong and very, very scary. And no matter how reasonable and logical I try to be about it, when the signals hit I have very little control over reason and logic any more.

You’re desperate to forget about them and think about something else, because that’s the key to getting better. While your blood pressure is elevated through fear the pain will always be there, but it’s so difficult to ignore it because these are very real confusing signals your brain (which is in turn incredibly confused from the mixed messages your body is hitting it with) is firing out.

I’ve gone through most of my life with a perfectly clean bill of health with very few visits to the doctors needed, but it seems that I’m become a semi-permanent fixture in my local surgery. Admittedly most of my visits had been for their (eventually successful) attempts to track down what was actually wrong with me, but my last one last week was simply, I feel, for reassurance. That I’m not going mad, that I’m not seriously ill.

Funny – I’d intended to write this as a guide for coping with anxiety but the more I write, the more I realise how badly equipped I am to do that. I’m not coping with it. I’m living with it, and it’s an unwelcome and evil house guest. At times it’s completely overtaking my life and threatening to overwhelm me, and I know it’s stupid and I’m worrying my life away over absolutely nothing but when you’re woken up by pain at 3 a.m. and you’re left with nothing but your own thoughts in the darkness it’s a genuinely terrifying thing.

Oddly, having a bath helps me.  The second I get into a hot bath the odd signals stop almost instantly.  Same with sitting on the toilet.  Odd, but there you are.  I've never been as clean, on the inside or outside.

So, there you are. Soul bared. Take it as a lesson in how not to cope with anxiety at best, a rant for me to vent my own frustrations at worst. I’ll be the first to admit I coped very badly when my wife was first diagnosed with depression a while back – I was the first to say “Pull yourself together” because I just didn’t understand it. And now I realise how harmful, naïve,cruel and futile a thing that is to say. You can’t just pull yourself together. The brain is a stupidly complex and ridiculous thing, and I struggle to convince it that we’re not dying. You'd think it would be back me up every now and then - we're in this together for the long haul, after all.

Stupid brain.

Adventures in Gastroscopy

At long, long last it would appear that some headway is being made as to how come I've felt so awful since last October. Regular readers of my blog are no doubt familiar/sick of* my jaunty and oh-so-entertaining health reports, but finally I can say today that a milestone has been reached.

Having spoken with a Gastroenterology specialist a few weeks back about my persistent abdominal pains, this morning I went to University Hospital for Gastroscopy. I'd been dreading it for a number of reasons, firstly because I'd heard all kind of horror stories about how uncomfortable the procedure is, secondly because I was worried that they'd find something (stomach cancer is the new popular favourite candidate for illness in my head) and thirdly, that they wouldn't find anything at all and that I'd be stuck feeling like this forever.

The initial stages of my appointment basically involved explaining the pain I'd been having to a nurse which was then followed by the daunting stage of signing various disclaimers (Yes, I was aware that the procedure might perforate my stomach, Yes I was prepared to be rushed down to theatre should the worst happen, No I wouldn't mind my organs being transplanted into somebody more worthy should the worst come to the worst).

Nervous as hell and shaking like a dog shitting glass, I was ushered into the room where the procedure would be carried out. Dressed in just one of those oh-so flattering gowns and my jeans, I was told to lie on a bed on my side. A mouthguard was fitted and then they showed me the tool that would be inserted down my throat for some candid hot oesophagus on stomach action shots.

I'm not kidding you, I'd expected modern technology to make much smaller fibre optic cables. I work with them for a living for data comms and wasn't expecting to see this pencil thickness monstrosity which would shortly be setting up home in my belly.

I was told in advance that there were too methods of premedication; I could be sedated (still concious and aware of what was going on, albeit incredibly relaxed) or have some throat spray (which would wear off after 45 minutes, after which I would be back to normal). I opted for the Xylocaine throat spray which, as I was warned, tasted of banana. The horrible chemical banana taste you get in cheap foam banana sweets. Still, it worked and soon my throat felt very relaxed - so much so, in fact, that I was having difficulty swallowing.

The procedure? Uncomfortable, but only momentarily. As they slid the camera down my throat (with me having to do a big gulp at one stage to politely move my epiglottis aside), my sick trigger was activated a good four or five times. No actual vomit, but painful, harsh retching. Once the initial discomfort was one, it was merely slightly uncomfortable. I couldn't feel anything in my actual stomach but it seemed to last for an age.

A whole four minutes later I was told that they were removing it, and out it came. I was then told I was a brave little soldier and given a wollypop, and all was well. That last bit was a lie. They showed me a photograph of the inside of my stomach (to be specific, at the "area extending from the antrum through the inferior pylorus and lesser curve prepyloric region" - Inferior Pylorus? I've got a fucking awesome pylorus, I'll have you know). The picture I was presented with looked like a huge raw pink blob sitting on a wall of red.

And this is the good news. Looks like I've been suffering from Gastritis (again, to be specific "A mild erythematous/exeduative with no bleeding within"). The camera took a biopsy whilst it was in there, but it looks like a simple stomach infection - possibly (and most likely) H.Pylori - Treatable, and not life threatening. Hopefully within a couple of weeks I'll be shot of this thing for good. It's only taken them eight months to narrow it down to an actual condition within various people trying to convince me it's all in my imagination.

The cinema lied to me. I was expecting Donald Pleasance and Racquel Welch to be launched on a life-or-death mission in a microsubmarine to face the deadly threat of my all-powerful stomach acid :)

* - delete as applicable

The tomato in the respirator

Almost exactly a week since the phone rang with dad breaking the news about my mum, it rang again this morning. Since leaving Mum last night we could see she was in a bad way, and I'd said my goodbyes then - strongly suspecting I wouldn't see her alive again.

After the promising update of yesterday she'd taken a turn for the worse. She was still refusing to wear the oxygen mask, and nobody could force her to do so - it was ultimately her choice after all. We'd chatted for a little while last night, but it's clear that her mind wasn't working properly. There were occasional glimpses of my mum, but mostly masked behind the frightened facade of a confused little old tired woman who had given up the exhausting fight. She asked me to switch the kitchen lights off as nobody was in there, and also asked me what time Dad would be back from work. She'd also asked why somebody had put a tomato into her respirator.

Tara and I talked at some length when we got back home. I admitted that if I could have pushed a button to end mums life there and then, I would have. It hurt me to see her suffering in such a way - She hated the mask and with hindsight it was a cruel thing to revive her after the initial incident of last week. Albeit if anything it was a small blessing that we got to spend some time with her before she went; not everybody gets that luxury with their loved ones, and for that we consider ourselves blessed.

In the end it was her own decision, and one that dad and I didn't have to make on her behalf. She didn't want the mask, and that was all that was keeping her alive. She didn't want to spend what little remained of her life attached to machines and wanted to remain independent and stubborn to the end. In Dads words, "She'd had enough."

She died before we got there. I went in to say my goodbyes and held her hand which was still warm and kissed her on the cheek. It's a cliche, but she looked like she was sleeping and would open her eyes at any second and moan that my hands were cold, or complain that I shouldn't fuss and should have been at work.

Again, typing these words helps. So many of you have expressed concern or simply passed on your best wishes, and this is the easiest way to convey what has happened.

Tara has been brilliant through all of this. Dad and I would have gone to pieces without her, and she's been an absolute rock. Dad and I have each other and will stay strong for each others sake.

Rest in peace, mum. If there is an God up there, she's bothering him at the moment asking Him where he keeps the Dyson.



R.I.P. Irene Court 1938-2010

Mum: An Update

Firstly, thanks for all your kind words over the last week. It's been a difficult time and all your well wishes have meant a really big deal to us all.

We've been to the hospital every day to see mum. She's getting a little better with every day, but has to spend much of the day in an oxygen mask and absolutely hates it. In fact as I write this Tara and Dad are in hospital with her - I've come back to work after a weeks absence - and she's refusing to have it back on. The fact she has been off the oxygen so long is causing hypoxia; this in turn causes confusion, hostility and memory loss. She's being nasty to everybody around her, and being her typical stubborn self. She's also so confused she's convinced she spent yesterday evening at home.

I'll be going there straight after work. Hopefully by then somebody has convinced her that the oxygen mask is for her own good. Every minute she spends in it must be hell - it looks painful to watch her breathing through it - but it's reinflating her lungs and doing her the world of good. For all intents and purposes, it's giving her her life back with each breath she makes through it.

There will be a difficult few months ahead of us, if indeed she ever gets fully better at all. We can only keep our fingers crossed at this stage.

When the phone rings

When the phone rings in the early hours of the morning, it can only mean bad news. Half-asleep Tara answered the phone in the early hours of Tuesday morning - it was my dad. Mum had collapsed a few hours earlier and had had to have the paramedics attend and take her to the hospital. Dad warned me that it was looking very bad. Tara and I got a cab to University Hospital where we were met in a room by a doctor and the head of surgery.

The doctor explained that mums lungs had stopped working. She'd been suffering from a throat infection for a while, and that coupled with her leukaemia just made things worse. The head of surgery was just there to confirm with us that as a life long smoker and sufferer from lung problems, that there wouldn't be any point in operating. The doctor told us to expect the worst. Her heart had stopped twice in the ambulance and the outlook was very bad.

A few minutes later we were allowed to see her; the frail little old lady we saw in the Resuscitation unit being kept alive by machines didn't seem to be my mum. My mum is a strong, opinionated and feisty woman - this weak helpless little old lady attached to an ECG, drips and a ventilator had pale paper-thin mottled cracked skin and looked like she'd lost every ounce of fight.

We sat with her as long as we could; holding her hands and just being there for her. I gave up looking at the display on the ECG simply because it was terrifying. Figures were fluctuating wildly, and scrolling bars just looked way too low. Machines were bleeping and red lights were flickering on and off, and mum just lay there in the middle of it all completely unconscious.

In the afternoon one of the doctors from the respiratory unit came to have a chat. He sat us down and closed the door behind him, and told us the situation. They had a new respirator unit they were going to try her on, to see if this could kick some life into her lungs. They'd leave mum on it for five or so hours, until the doctor had finished his rounds, and then a decision would have to be made. If the machine wasn't doing its job or failed to have the required results, all we could then do is dose mum full of pain killers and switch it off to avoid distressing her any further.

We waited, and it was the most terrifying few hours in my life. I felt so utterly helpless - my mum was lying in a bed fighting the most important fight of her life and there was nothing I do to help her.

The time passed and we were told the brilliant news that the machine was working; it was forcing air into her lungs and breathing for her but it was working nonetheless. She was still critical, but would be moved to a private room in the respiratory unit. She was semi-conscious as she was being wheeled up, and asked for a cigarette. She was wheeled into the room and after a few more hours was taking off the new bit of kit and put on a nebuliser.

She was tired but awake and able to speak. She wasn't very coherent - the amount of oxygen they'd given her saw fit to that - but we were able to sit with her and talk to her for a while. She was insistent that she needed to go the toilet despite the fact she was cathetered up, and wanted to go outside for a cigarette. The doctor came around and told her in no uncertain terms that she didn't need to go to the toilet, and the machine was a one-shot operation. If she smoked again, the machine wouldn't work a second time.

Dad and I had to have the unpleasant but necessary task of what would happen if the worst came to the worst. Mum and Dad had discussed this eventuality between themselves in the past, and the last thing mum would want is to be stuck as an invalid in a bed tied to machines for the rest of her life. The cancer along and the problems with her bag destroyed her; in eighteen months she went from being an independent strong woman to somebody dependent on others for getting around. She's physically aged in that period, looking more and more like the 72 little old lady that she is.

Now it's Friday and we've spent all the time we can with her. I'll be going to see her again later. She's still on the machine but it's doing a little less work for her every day. She's not out of the woods yet, but it's looking a lot more promising that it was four days ago. She's be in the hospital for a long time - in all honesty, it might be forever - but my mum is fighting. She's slowly and surely returning to her old self, and fingers crossed everything is going to work out.

More Medical Woes

So, after thinking I was shot of the chostochondritis after a couple of weeks, I was feeling good again. Until about a fortnight later (around a week and a bit ago) the pains in my chest started again and have been gradually getting worse. Beginning to panic again, I went to my local GP on Friday who put the fear of God into me by pointing out that the hospital might have been too hasty with their conclusion of Chostochondria and that he was going to put me forward for some more blood tests (starting a few days later) to find out what was wrong. The word 'Angina' was mentioned which didn't exactly put me at rest. He put me on a low dose of diazepam for the anxiety, enough to last me about a fortnight.

That evening I had a really bad attack of pain in my chest and armpit, and was taken to our local walk-in centre where the doctor suspects I may have sprained my pectoral muscle. The GP at the walk-in centre still thinks its chostochondritis, but noticed my breathing was a little wheezy so prescribed me some steroids to last around a week to deal with that.

So I'm now on a combination of ibuprofen, paracetomol, diazepam and steroids. This morning I woke up at three with a really bad attack; it literally felt like my heart was going to stop. Even now several hours later my chest wall is really tender, especially around my side. Worrying about it makes it worse as my heart races, but I'm finding it hard to think about anything else at the moment.

Fingers crossed the blood tests will reveal something positive that can be done about this - I'm bored of feeling like this now, and I'm scared.

Where are those pesky health packs when you need one?

Yesterday morning at 4 a.m. saw another panic attack; Again, stinging pains in my chest and the feeling that I couldn't breathe. The increasingly atrophied sensible part of my brain knew that I wasn't having a heart attack - the fact that it was beating nineteen to the dozen and that I was pacing around was evidence enough of that - this didn't stop the primal instinct part of my brain screaming "Fuck!Fuck!You'reDyingGetSomeHelp!Fuck!Fuck!" at me for two hours though.

NHS Direct were duly called by my ever-patient girlfriend and an ambulance was dispatched. As before, I was shipped off to hospital for a bout of ECG/Blood Pressure fun - along with two lots of blood letting; should have only been one - the first batch haematised on the way to the lab though.

With the pain in a more identifiable point on my body than last time - located most definitely in my sternum that was sensitive to the touch - a diagnosis was made, which both doctors agreed with - that I'm suffering from Costochondritis.

Although patients will often mistake the pain of Tietze's Syndrome for a myocardial infarction (heart attack), the syndrome does not progress to cause harm to any organs. It is important to rule out a heart attack, as the symptoms can be similar. After assessment, doctors often reassure patients that their symptoms are not associated with a heart attack, although they may need to treat the pain, which in some cases can be severe enough to cause significant but temporary disability to the patient.It can also be triggered off by coughing or sneezing.

So there you are; I'm not dying, but still in a considerable amount of pain - and don't feel entirely stupid in thinking I was having a heart attack. Knowing my luck I've ended up with Costcutterochondritis, a much cheaper homebrand variant.

I thought I was going to die today.

I've been feeling grotty since last Friday -a weird clutching feeling in my chest coupled with a lack of circulation in my left and right arms. The latter isn't so new; I've always had poor circulation - however, the former was worrying me. So much, in fact, that I packed up the fags and waited over the weekend to see if the feeling got any better.

This morning the same dull pain was there, but I went to work regardless - the intention being I'd go home if it got too bad and make my way to the NHS drop-in centre in Coventry.

At around eleven o'clock though it got really bad. So bad in fact, that I had to ask somebody to ring an ambulance for me. As I was asking for this, I staggered and nearly collapsed. Somebody sat me down and the ambulance turned up within minutes.

The paramedics lay me down and after asking the usual questions about my allergies to treatments (none), any ongoing medical problems (none) gave me some Aspirin and some spray under my tongue to thin my blood. She confirmed that my blood pressure was way too high and rang ahead to University Hospital in Coventry to get them to prepare for me as a precautionary measure. They injected me with something on the way to prevent anxiety - I was shaking so much as I was absolutely terrified; My breathing was short and my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest - I genuinely thought that every breath would be my last. I can't remember ever being as scared.

I was rushed into Cardio where they stuck me on an ECG and took some blood samples. Tara works at the hospital so came and met me shortly after touchdown. After speaking to a very pleasant cardio doctor called Steve, he verified that he didn't think I was having a heart attack but was concerned as to why I was feeling the clutching pain in my chest. They moved my trolley off to another room where a few doctors came in and asked me some questions (basically verifying what I already knew; that I smoke and drink too much) and took a proper full blood sample. A senior doctor said the worrying thing; That they didn't think it was heart related but needed to establish that it wasn't one of a myriad of horrible other things wrong with my liver, pancreas, kidneys, lungs, etc.

I was rushed into X-ray - a process that took mere seconds - and returned to my bed.

The next hour or so was horrible. I was dreading a doctor walking back in with an anxious expression, pulling the curtains across and telling me the worst. I've punished my small frame enough over the past 38 years for bad news not to be entirely unexpected.

But the news was good; Both blood test and X ray were clear - my organs appear to be functioning at full capacity without anu problems. I was discharged and just told to take painkillers for the chest pain and rest up for a few days; whatever it is should just pass, I've been told - and if it doesn't, I just need to see my GP. What felt like a heart attack was probably just a panic attack; I've never had one before, so have no idea what they should feel like.

So, now I'm back home - dosed up with Anadin and waiting for this chest pain to pass. I'm aware that this blog entry seems to be making a mountain out of a molehill ("individual wastes the time of the NHS thinking he's having a heart attack") but it's my bloody blog and I'll feel sorry for myself all I want. And I got to ride in an ambulance with the sirens blazing, albeit not in a way I'd really recommend to anybody.

Update Schmupdate

New Years Resolution: Must update blog more.

Well, another resolution fucked up :) Still, this can be the first of a flurry of posts now life is returning to normal and I'm discovering the existence of free time again.

First, my mum. Regular steroid treatments have definitely caused the lymphoma to shrink, but she's been in and out for regular tests to find exactly where the cancer is. Two weeks ago she started losing her balance and found herself incapable of walking, and now the doctors think they may have damaged her back whilst performing a variety of biopsies. Her and dad just came to visit, and it was good to see them again. She's in good spirits, although worried - and dreading the doctors cutting into her back again.

Secondly, work. The product has reached the finals of an industry award which is being presented next month. This is one rare thing in my life I'm being very smug about; I did 99% of the work on it, after all. Sometimes seems all the hard work was worth while - the customer is happy, and that makes me happy.

Anyway, I promise regular updates in future. I have a lot to blog about now, so watch this space. Pax.