I spent the weekend like any other; drinking too much, walking around, and talking shite. On Sunday I cleaned the flat while in the familiar haze of a slight hangover. I couldn’t have banged out fifty press-ups, but I certainly wasn’t in the horrors. I even helped a friend who lives nearby deconstruct some furniture for his upcoming house move. Generally speaking, I was fine. The Woman returned from Manchester in the afternoon. She ate a White Chocolate Twix and napped on the settee. I made myself a stoner meal and watched Youtube with the sound turned low. After I finished eating I decided to stretch and meditate. That’s when it started.
My breathing became laboured. What should have occurred automatically now required a conscious effort. I felt if I didn’t force the air in and out I would have stopped breathing altogether. A strong tingling sensation crawled up and down my arms and grabbed hold of the front of my throat. Again, I needed to concentrate on moving my jaw in order to speak. My temperature began to plummet and soar which made me shiver and sweat in turn. The Woman, concerned by my rapidly worsening state, insisted we dial 111. After relaying my symptoms the doctor advised I go to my nearest Accident and Emergency department. This was at roughly 7:30 pm. Going into a hospital during a pandemic is a dicey manoeuvre, but The Woman and I deemed it necessary when taking into account the quickness of my deterioration and the advice we’d been given.
When I stepped out of the taxi in front of the hospital I nearly fell flat on my face. My head swooned and my breathing was still laboured. I put on my face mask. The attendant nurse told me I would have to go inside alone. The Woman had to wait outside for so long she decided to get a taxi back home and borrow her mother’s car so she would have somewhere to sit that wasn’t concrete. I had a blood sample taken and received an ECG scan. By now my condition was steadily improving and I thought my visit, now two hours along, was almost finished. I asked The Woman to drive back to the hospital to pick me up.
Fours hours, a chest x-ray, and a string of inconclusive results later, I stepped out into the car park where my exhausted, devoted, reassuring querida waited for me. If my wait in a cordoned waiting area alongside sighing elderly women and wheelchair-bound men was bad, hers in the gradually coldening car must have been worse. It was a mistake to summon her so early. At home, she could have at least watched a film in comfort. And there was me, still inside, steadily returning to normal and suspecting my tests to result in nothing to worry about. It was a long, strange evening I won’t soon forget.
I haven’t been able to pinpoint the cause of the bizarre spell that incapacitated me. It not only worried me, but compelled me to reconsider my lifestyle choices. Some of these I will no doubt explore in the coming days and weeks in this blog. I will do whatever I can to avoid feeling like that ever again. At the worst point the thought flashed through my mind I might die. The only other time I felt like that was during an acute bout of food poisoning in Cambodia. It was little comfort at the time, but at least I could attribute the blame for my condition. Last Sunday I had no such luck. Instead I had the luxury of The Woman taking care of me; waiting, worrying, doing everything in her power to make sure I was going to recover. The entire experience demonstrated to me, yet again, that I have a rare partner in my life. Whatever happens in the future I will always consider myself lucky for that. I don’t know what I did to deserve her.
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