In the beginning...

I suppose I’d better start at the beginning. Half a lifetime ago, when I was 36 I had my first heart attack or myocardial infarction. It was a pretty rough time. My wife had just given birth to my son only three months before, plus I was in negotiations to buy a business. I had a sudden crushing pain in my chest and the feeling that something was very, very wrong. I can’t really describe the pain other than to say it hurt like hell.

My wife (a lady who you will get to know quite well in these jottings, and to whom I owe an incalculable amount) called the ambulance and I was duly carted off to hospital, connected to all the paraphernalia of heart monitors and the rest of it. I was diagnosed, treated wonderfully well and discharged some ten days later with instructions on how to modify my life and to stop smoking.

I didn’t, primarily because I’m a fool, and consequently had another one when I was forty. This one made me sit up and take notice, but somehow the smoking thing still defeated me even after two attacks. This second one was much more severe, though still relatively minor in the scheme of things.

Shortly after the attack I received and appointment to go to Killingbeck Hospital (not the most inspiring of names for a place that heals the sick!) for an angiogram.