Heart Attack

Not that I did it on purpose, but feeling a little fed up with life in general, I decided to have myself a heart attack and see what would happen. According to the experts, New Zealand is the land of world class medical services. So I asked the wife to call an ambulance because I was experiencing chest pains over and above the call of duty. It was probably a couple of years too late to worry about recurring chest pains but one has to be sure before pushing the panic button. Having made a decisive decision, I knew I would be better off in the hands of NZ's health professionals. They would know more about chest pains than I ever would.

The ambulance arrived staffed by two very much overweight young females carrying several batteries powered medical gadgets. I sat in my chair discussing the price of alcohol while they wired me for sound and satellite TV. Producing a vial of pink liquid, they squirted some under my tongue causing my head to explode. Apparently nitro glycerine is not only a high explosive but also a cure for lack of booze. I felt remarkably light headed and without an ounce of chest pain. It was the best I had felt for a long time. On the way to the hospital I was fed oxygen through a plastic tube, apparently this was standard practice for self diagnosed heart attacks.

The short-assed Emergency Ward doctor was a picture of health and possessed a 42-inch bust and 46-inch overhanging stomach. Despite my magnified tummy of many years standing, I felt my official obesity status was unjustified. Compared with the five feet nothing doctor, my six foot three inches and 120 kilos didn't seem out of proportion. The only fat I had was designed to keep the sun off my private parts. It also helped alcohol to evaporate in emergencies and promoted other stay alive procedures designed by my hard-working
imagination. Swimming in the shower was good exercise and my daily trip to the letter box kept me in reasonable trim. Consequently, heart pains were probably little more than my imagination playing tricks. But just to make sure I got value for my tax dollars, I threw a tantrum and pretended I was dying by waving my arms about and going, ahhhhh, several times.

The NZ health system is excellent providing you qualify to be on the active "LIST." But if you're not on the "LIST," you can die waiting for the free treatment you have being paying for all your life. Each year thousands of people are removed from the active list and sent home to die. Then the paper waving authorities proclaim that the waiting list is just about zero and haven't they done well, blah blah etc etc? This nonsense is of course politically inspired and as normal, the common people don't matter to the politicians. So it was to my
advantage to throw a wobbly and demand instant treatment. Having a regular internet readership of multi millions might have expanded my influence a little. But to be fair, the medical experts ignored the politicians and did what they do best. I suspect this is the main reason you're reading this today. But lets face it, political correctness suggests the real truth will never be known. So raise your forefinger to your lips, go shhhhhh and don't forget to wave a piece of paper to prove your point. You never know and depending how stupid you are. The NZ Government might well hire you as a ballpoint exponent.

Please remember that today's NZ politics is all about employing people at public expense in the hope they will vote for the political party that created their employment. Also remember that those pen pushers employed in the health system benefit far more than patients.

The ambulance drivers disappeared and I was parked in the corridor of the casualty ward on a most uncomfortable bed that could wind itself up and down and perform other electronic contortions at the push of a button. I had been doped with various concoctions to relieve my non existent pain and life seemed fantastic. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas and the commercialisation of Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer was in full swing. People drifted by and I waved at Bing Crosby dressed as Santa Claus. Scrooge said humbug to the security guard protecting the locked doors from unknown dangers and I beamed at General Patton chatting with Elvis and my nose tingled as the ceiling slowly disappeared.

I was conscious of the numbness of two fingers on my right hand. They had been numbing themselves for several months, so I knew there was nothing to worry about. My other fingers were perfect. My last thought was sadness at wasting the tax payers money on a false alarm. A siren wailed in the background as the fishing boat towing my bed into the elevator on my journey to paradise. My face sweated and it was peace in our time. I think Adolf Hitler must have seen me coming.

I was awoken about three hours later by the pen and ink brigade. Who was I, what did I want and had cigarette smoking ever caused me broken bones? I admitted to being alive and no, I had never had any broken bones and please come back later when I would be feeling a little better. No such luck. Seven pages of ticks in little boxes later, it was established that smoking was the cause of every illness one could imagine and that unplanned pregnancies caused childbirth. In all honesty I had never given thought to unplanned childbirth. Being a male, it didn't seem to matter. However, smoking was established as the cause of all heart attacks and thus hospitalisation was all my fault and I should have listened to the Herr Goebbels propaganda machine. When I pointed out that cigarette taxes raised about a billion dollars and only $200 million were spent on smoking related health problems, I was treated with contempt. So I raised two fingers and told the pen pusher to "F " off and go bludge a living from somebody else. Two Registered Nurses winked and raised their thumbs in agreement. The war between pen pushers and medical staff was ongoing. When it comes to the heart of the matter, I'll back the medical people before pen pushers anytime. Lets be logical, how many human lives have been saved by a ballpoint pen?

My first few days in the hospital was a rude awakening. Everything ran with military precision and meals were delivered at the promised time. Medication was administered every four hours, 24 hours a day whether I was awake or asleep. It seemed a little strange to be woken up just to be given a sleeping pill. I had numerous pills for this and that and to add insult to injury, I had an injection in the stomach to thin my blood. With my blood flowing like diluted beer, my entire stomach turned into a battle area. It turned purple in protest. Not that anybody took any notice.

I had so many cardiographs, blood pressure and various other tests, I lost track of the number of patches stuck to my skin. I was a dumping ground for used electrical sockets. I was plugged into so many TV screens, I felt I was famous. I was glad that the medical people knew exactly what they were doing, but I wish they would take the time to tell me what was happening. It was mind numbing sitting there like a ripe tomato waiting to be plucked and eaten. I didn't have a clue what was going to happen next. The only time I was allowed to think for myself, was fill in the menu card for the next 24 hours. Breakfast gave me a choice between porridge and milk, or porridge and a little packet of marmalade. Lunch and dinner were much the same. Thus inmate Broughton inhabiting Cell 3 on Coronary Care Death Row avoided starvation. The food was tasty and nutritious but I would never gain any weight.

It soon became obvious that the bulk of the highly qualified medical people were not New Zealanders. Many of the doctors were from darkest Africa and the nurses from Asia. The student loan system in New Zealand basically means that talented Kiwis have to go overseas to earn enough to repay their student loan in a reasonable time frame. Trainee doctors and nurses from Asian and Africa could earn more here than at home. Once they had necessary qualifications and experience, they too took off into the wide blue yonder of better pay and conditions. New Zealand was just a stepping stone to financial and emotional security. And
good luck to them. NZ taxation and social regulations has crippled initiative faster than rivers flow to the sea.

None of the electronic tests showed that I'd had a heart attack. So along came a busty Asian Dracules and I allowed her to suck upon my wrist for a while. Within two hours my blood count showed that a massive heart attack had changed the chemical composition of Dracules's breakfast. It was now official: I was a victim of heart failure. Thus I was a danger to the health system and the doctor indicated that I had to be dealt with before Christmas or the paper shufflers would put me on their 500-year waiting list and send me home to await their convenience. That night I staged a heart felt protest by refusing to wake up for my sleeping pill. Plainly I was suffering from an acute coronary by refusing to watch television in the day room. Having read the heart pamphlet, I had all the necessary symptoms and was well in credit with my tax payer dollars. What could possibly go wrong?

With all the medication I was taking, I felt on top of the world and mentally seducing sexy Dracules seemed like a good idea. My heart might be faulty but there was nothing wrong with the rest of me. Stimulating race relations seemed an ideal way to pass the time before death us do part. When life seems depressing one needs something to uplift the imagination. Unknowingly Transylvania's most famous female resident fitted the bill.

The experts decided I needed an anagram. Apparently dye is injected into the heart and endless xray photos taken. This shows what went wrong and why the heart attack actually occurred. I was given a battery-driven razor and told to shave my groin. It didn't make a lot of sense because my heart was in my chest and not between my legs. But who were I to argue with the hair stylists in white coats? I was wheeled downstairs and into an operating room with numerous TV screens along one wall. Ignoring my shaved groin, my right arm was kidnapped and subjected to much abuse. Drugs and tubes were inserted and covered with a sterile plastic sheet in case of thunder storms. My head was too low to see the screens but I noticed a male nurse yabbering into a cell phone while standing in front of a large notice that said, "No cell phones allowed." About half an hour later it was all over. The anagram showed that the left side of my heart had three blockages. Two, 60% and one 90%. The right side of my heart was perfect. Now I was able to boast that I was going to have a treble bypass. Not that I had a clue what a heart bypass actually was. Come to think of it, where would they get the actual bypass material from? Surely they wouldn't use roading material like gravel and hot tar? Wasn't blood pumped around in a tube, or something?

I was put on even more medication in preparation for my operation. The nurse would arrive with a plastic bucket full of multi shaped and coloured pills. I gulped down so many over the next few days that I had no room left for real food. My God, I could starve to death before Christmas? Maybe this was planned by the cost cutters bent on reducing expenditure on patients that avoided their slashing regime. So just to be annoying, I ordered a bottle of red wine for tea: but something must have gone wrong because it was crossed off the menu. The condemned man was refused his last drink. So much for the hanging tree tradition. Dying sober didn't really appeal to yours truly, so I would just have to make do with lusty Dracules and my over active imagination.

A new man arrived in the bed opposite moaning loudly. The stethoscope welders hurriedly shut the privacy curtains and tried to hush his protests at having been hospitalised three times in as many months but refused medical treatment because he didn't meet the paper crunchers criteria. He had a whole file of newspaper cuttings showing the level of injustice in the health system caused by cut backs and unrealistic bureaucratic expectations. It was obvious the doctors were on his side but mindless bureaucracy ruled the financial waves and his numbers didn't add up. He stayed overnight but was sent home in the morning. Then there was a Pacific Island man camped by the window for the last three weeks but because he hadn't been in NZ long enough, no money allowance meant no operation. I wonder how much his hospital accommodation cost compared with a two-hour medical procedure?   Sadly, the 'commonsense' word is not in the bureaucratic dictionary.

The wife turned up to borrow my credit card for safe keeping, just in case. It was heartening to know "It" really cared about me. But to make sure she didn't get carried away, I gave her the wrong pin number. I also suggested that if I didn't survive, the council rubbish dump was a lot cheaper that overpriced funerals. I was being practical. Being dead, I wouldn't give a shit what happened to me.

My medication increased as my operation drew nearer. Had I used the same drugs at home, I would have been locked up for a couple of centuries as a drug-crazed junkie. Instead I was regarded as routine medical procedure number CVa196493z2684P. The tag on my wrist gave showed the number in big letters, while my name was barely readable. After six days in hospital I had to identify myself by citing my date of birth 312 times. To prove who I was to myself, I checked in the mirror to make sure I was not a blackboard covered with random numbers. It was reassuring to realise that apart from the nine letters of my surname: there were only 87 numbers used to identify me. It was good to realise that all the numbers added up to me as a human being. It was befitting to be alive. It was reassuring to know that I was now on the government's data base as a computer generated numerical sequence. I counted my fingers just to make sure I still had the right number. I counted backwards on my left hand. 10,9,8,7,6. Plus the five on the right hand. Six plus five equal eleven. Thank God for the science of mathematics. I would live for another 120 years.

Tomorrow morning was "D Day." The dark side of Coronary Care Death Row was coming to visit. The Darth Vader of hatchet men was going to attack my chest with a Black & Decker power saw. Then he would split open my leg and steal some unused tubing and hook it up to my emotionally charged and somewhat damaged stay alive pump. Buckets of blood and gore would gush from my chest and wash down the drain of surgical convenience. Half a mile on nylon fishing line would stitch me back together and within a few weeks I would be as good as new. Well, at least as good as secondhand new. Well, at least I would have a 97% chance of still being alive.

A sleepless night. No breakfast except several million pills. The official sleeping sickness drug administrator was from Europe and informed me that between 100 and 300 injections would be pumped into my wrist to ward of the 3% chance of not surviving. He smiled when he said he'd only lost three people in the last six months. The ghosts of Christmas past, present and future? Humbug to the man. I would refuse to go to sleep. That would stuff him up completely. Besides, he needed a shave.

It was time to dress for the occasion. I was given a back-to-front nightgown about six sizes too small. It would have to be the most useless piece of clothing ever invented. Most operations involved hacking open the front of the human body. So why have the full length opening at the back? I couldn't even tie the ribbons. The garment was obviously designed by a committee of bureaucrats with their collective brain under siege and to hell with basic intelligence. Another while they're at it, edict, use cheap synthetic material with 'this is
hospital property, do not remove from building' printed all over it. No doubt each garment had an identification number recorded on a data base for accounting and depreciation purposes. Only the dead would be seen in public wearing the made in India back-to-front nightgowns.

My underpants were removed as a security precaution. Apparently they can get in the way of officialdom drawing obscene pictures on my stomach. My belly button and I were starting to feel a little apprehensive. Was there no privacy left in the world?

The air chilled as I was wheeled to my fate. They parked me in the 'knock em out first room' adjoining the 'Phantom of the Opera Theatre.' A garden hose and three-way tap were installed in my right wrist. The hairy faced sleeping sickness administrator said I wouldn't remember the last words I said.

"Bollocks!" I remembered replying. Then the Titanic hit an iceberg and sank beneath the sea
of conscious memory............................................................................................

I was alive and kicking in the 'make sure they don't keel over afterwards room.' I felt on top of the world and looked eagerly around. It was a large room with probably six Titanic survivors fully wired by Sony Electronics and the space program. I had my own 'repair all the loose bits,' nurse. She was highly competent and well into her fifties. Teenage nurses would be out of their league at these post operative procedures. My Filipino Miss Nightingale knew exactly what she was doing. This was excellent because I didn't have a bloody clue. I had more wires and plumbing than a ten-story building, and had I rolled over, I would have strangled and hung myself a number of times. There were people everywhere and generally speaking the rougher they looked, the higher medically qualified they were.

My throat was dry as a drought and I welcomed the ice cream offered by the 'starve em to death' catering people. My constitution was a little freaked out and I spewed ice cream all over the young girl's small breasts. When I offered to lick them clean the whole room burst into laughter. She was a good-looking Asian wench and the offer still stands. One must do one's best for race relationships in our intolerant world. There's a lot of fun being a dirty old man. Unfortunately, the ladies don't take me seriously (dammit). Then it was off to the Coronary Care Perceptive Ward to decide if I would pull through and get over losing my ice cream. Its real name was the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). It was strange but I felt as though I had been there before. There was a window in the corner and I instinctively knew the outside stairs would meet a platform two floors down. I knew where the toilet and shower room were, and the TV room. I called the wife and apologised for surviving, and would she please return my credit card as I was thinking of going on holiday in the pay-as-you-go TV room for a month. It had been an interesting but tiring day and I shut my eyes to save on electricity and remembered nothing more.

A while later I noticed a button hanging from my chest. I pushed it to see what would happen. Almost immediately I felt a rush of adrenalin and my pain subsided a little. I pushed again and felt marvellous. Whoopee! I had my own built in supply of morphine. Sherlock Holmes must have been an ancestor of mine. I sat pushing the button and reflecting upon my good fortune. High in the hills and dreaming about an obliging Dracules was a good way to pass the time. Imaginative women are hard on the knees but what a marvellous way to survive heart surgery. I sat back and enjoyed myself.

As Winston Churchill said, "men occasionally trip over the truth, but most are silly enough to pretend nothing worthwhile ever happens." That was one mistake I had no intention of making. The morphine button fitted my thumb perfectly. Closed eyes glinted and lips curled. Ride em cowboy! No wonder Dracules was a folk hero in Transylvania.

My sleep was interrupted by nurses doing whatever nurses do in the middle of the night. My blood was counted and heart rate monitored electronically and by old-fashioned stethoscope as well. A Star Trek laser gun was fired in my right ear to measure my temperature. 36.4c was apparently ideal. I wondered if my left ear was any different. Morning was a bit of a strain. I didn't feel hungry and I discovered there were four plastic pipes hanging from my stomach about four inches above my belly button. Along with my morphine bottle there were several plastic containers holding God knows what dripping into my arm.

I didn't feel human any more. I was a carcase of blood and guts kept alive by medical techniques probably thousands of years old. It was if the methodology was more important than my survival. Things must be seen to be done according to the book and I wasn't allowed to read the instructions. If I passed away, the pen pushers would put a cross in the little box instead of a tick. The basic routine must be followed and my existence was immaterial to the establishment.

Stuff the establishment. I pushed my morphine button five times and transferred to Baker Street in London. Sherlock Holmes would look after me.

About nine o'clock two nurses turned up with a mobile operating table. Two of the drains on my upper stomach had to be removed. Apparently I was making excellent progress and they weren't needed anymore. Five minutes later they were gone wherever unwanted drains go and a couple of stitches sealed the gaps. Then my life support morphine and the drip feed bottles were made redundant. I couldn't work out what the hell I had done wrong to deserve such treatment. How could I possibly survive without morphine? To make up for the life support drips I asked for a bottle of red wine to help me make it through the night. Permission was refused.

Locked in my prison cell I awoke every hour to make sure I was still alive. By morning I was totally exhausted and couldn't find the button to raise my bedhead. The curtains were drawn and nobody could see my discomfort. I piddle fanatically to show my disgust but with my leak drain removed all I could do was wet the bed. Then a doctor from darkest Africa arrived, wrinkled his nose and said I could go home on Saturday morning. Obviously they were kicking my out because I had pissed myself. After cannibalising my heart, five days was all the time I was allowed to recover. Saturday was two days before Christmas and they probably wanted my bed for Father Christmas's reindeer.

That afternoon the two remaining drains were removed. What they didn't tell me was they were connected to about ten inches of plastic tube inside my chest. It was a weird feeling to watch the bloody coils emerge. A couple more stitches and I was a free agent again. No wires or tubes anywhere. It didn't make sense that yesterday I needed all sorts of wires and tubes, but today I didn't need anything. No wires or tubes, no wine or cigarettes. How could I possibly survive?

I had ice cream for tea and didn't spew it up. Maybe I was starting to come right? When faced with negativity, I decided to be optimistic and look on the bright side of life. The gathering storm was depressing. Then the heavy rain started, thunder rumbled and the window started to leak. Mentally seducing Dracules was no longer amusing, so I compromised and rang the wife to fill in the time.

About two in the morning the nurse decided my heart was bouncing along at 190 beats per minute. The heating unit in the ceiling had broken down and was pumping out freezing air. My heart was simply pumping more blood to keep me warm. The nurse said they'd had the same problem before. I was moved to a warmer prison cell, given metroprolol (whatever that is) and things soon went back to normal. I remembered the heating unit had been humming Johnny Horton's 'North to Alaska' for several hours.

Sitting in my armchair, I considered it was time to evaluate my circumstances. Home was where the heart was, but was my heart happy with me? If it tossed a coin and came up heads, would it be happy to continue beating on my behalf? But if it came up tails, would it have had enough of being treated with contempt?

In life there are always more questions than answers. I pulled a dollar coin from my pocket and spun it in the air. The best of three, I decided. It came down heads. I tossed again. This time it came down tails. This meant I had a 50% chance of both living or dying. I hesitated thoughtfully. Oh what the Hell! My thumb flicked upwards.

The coin hit the steel pipe on the edge of my bed and spun out of sight. I heard it roll across the floor. Then there was silence.

There was no way I could bend over, so I had to wait until Dracules arrived to poke her laser gun in my ear. I explained what had happened and would she please tell me if the coin was heads or tails. She knelt down and gasped. Then she stood and pushed the bed gently out of the way. My life was balanced on its serrated edge.

"It's both heads and tails." Dracules grinned. "I guess it's up to you."

She never said a truer word. My future depended on how I treated myself. My past lifestyle was over. No more excessive smoking and drinking. Giving up cigarettes would save a fortune but the odd glass of red wine was recommended by the medical profession. Besides, somebody had to keep the supermarkets in business.

I felt a lot better and put Dracules on my list of potential lovers. It was a very long list. Over the next few weeks I would review my roster of females I hadn't got around too yet. The future was my oyster, and I liked seafood.

The heating unit was humming Elvis's, It's Now or Never. I felt a lot better and leapt to my feet without conscious effort. There, I muttered to myself. I feel better already. Then I realised that Dracules had run off with my dollar coin. There's always a down side to the upside. But what was a dollar in exchange for such an exciting future? Especially with the fluffy bits to stir the imagination. For the first time since the operation my bowels moved. Oh shit! Life was getting back to normal.

My good news philosophy must have shown on my face. Several people stopped to say hello and pat my shoulder. One doctor I had seen several times but wasn't involved with my case, paused and smiled.
     "Read you internet columns, my friend. Very good. You don't mince words."
     I laughed. "It doesn't matter what words you use. Truth is still the truth. But tell me something?"
     "If I can." He nodded.
     "Fair enough. Why is it that everybody I've asked in this hospital won't comment about the government's accusation that smoking causes cancer and heart attacks and so on?"
      He massaged his chin thoughtfully. "I guess they don't want to get involved. But as you know, there are many causes of diseases. If you overindulge the luxuries of life, you open yourself to all sorts of problems. If you insist on climbing mountains, you're more likely to get frostbite than sitting at home watching television. It's the same with smoking and drinking or riding a push bike. If you don't ride a bike, you can't fall off and hurt
yourself. It's only logical."
     "But why have world governments picked on smoking? Non smokers get the same diseases. Surely they realise that religion and politics have killed more people than a million years of smoking ever will?"
     He nodded his head in agreement, then stabbed a finger. "It's the power game, my friend. They know the bulk of the population are silly enough to believe anything government tells them, so they pick on minorities to get the unthinking majority on their side. Hitler did the same with Jews, gypsies and homosexuals. The NZ government picks on smokers because they're only 25% of the population. The 75% Jackass Mentality nod wisely and back the government no matter silly the accusations are. It's all about conning the gullible and buying votes. It's a trend that happening worldwide. That's why civil unrest and rebellion are increasing. NZ, like many other countries, is headed for trouble and that's why so many people are keeping their mouths shut. They think that if they don't take sides, they can't be blamed." Then he waved his fist aggressively under my nose. "If you quote me, I'll deny everything. You understand me?"
     "Yes Dr Kildare. I believe I do."

So Dr Kildare, a young man from Zambezi, or was it Mombasa, played by an aging Richard Chamberlain, or perhaps Richard Elisabeth Taylor Burton, strode off into the sunset of make believe innocence. Think carefully dear readers. Would you believe a doctor with no axe to grind, or politicians looking after their own interests?

My parole board consisted of Dracules, the tea lady and a couple of pen pushers looking for something to do. Dracules and Tea Bags had twice the brain power of the others, agreed with darkest Africa and voted for my release on Saturday morning. The pen pushers took about an hour and a half to fill in the forms.

Yippee! Things were looking up. Providing I kept my nose clean and didn't drop dead in the meantime, I'd be free in a day and a half. Celebrating freedom from the tyranny of the 'hack em to bits' brigade was emotional. I blew my nose to liberate it from potential parole destroying bugs. I had also reached the 600th occasion of citing my date of birth.

I exuded goodwill to all men to ensure nothing got in the way of my release from preventive detention. Apart from the exercise lady making me walk up and down the stairs, they left me alone to contemplate my destiny. Come 9am Saturday morning I was fully dressed and awaiting the wife to free me from Death Row. The heating unit was humming 'Please release me, let me go." Being the weekend, the regular staff were missing and I was unable to thank Dracules for her unknown contribution to the sexual revolution. But such is life. When one
door shuts, other like minded legs will obligingly open. One has to be optimistic when facing the real world called the wife. "It" arrived in due course and a nurse gave her my discharge papers so lovingly prepared by God knows how many pen pushers. Apparently they forgot the form that ticked off all the, 'keep their employment going,' essential bits of paper, and they had mislaid a yellow card detailing my current medication. It was still a very thick envelope.

Slowly I walked to the elevator and pushed the button to the green, flat earth society I so vividly remembered. While waiting I said to the pen pushers at the reception desk. "I lied 600 times. My date of birth is 1st April 1844. I was killed in the American Civil War in 1865. I was shot by Rhet Butler of 'Gone with the Wind' fame. He didn't give damn."

The elevator arrived and I waved adios to Death Row. The real world seemed so big and I sat with trepidation in the hospitals entrance foyer staring at the money making unhealthy junk food machines while "It" fetched the car from the over priced parking lot. NZ hospitals are all about money, not health.

An hour or so later we pulled into the driveway at home. With much relief I sat in my familiar chair and clicked the familiar remote for the familiar TV. The news program contained nothing new. In fact, the only thing that had changed over fifteen days of enforced incarceration, was my attitude to life and death. I looked at the wife and realised that our house was only a jumble of timber and roofing iron. It was the male and female relationship contained within, that made the topsy turvy jumble the organised shamble we called our home. Considering my recent past, it would be preferable to experience a reasonably stable future. But as history shows, there are no guarantees about life on planet Earth. So whatever happens in the foreseeable future.                                        Que Sera Sera. (What will be, will be).