I stared at the computer. The red text box stared back at
me, its unambiguous wording refusing to budge – CALL AN AMBULANCE. If I was
having a heart attack it would be sensible to follow the NHS Direct website’s
instructions. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
When I woke the chest pain was still there. It worsened with
movement, especially sneezing and made it hard to do much of anything. The pain
had been slowly building since Boxing Day and my self-diagnosis attributed it
more to industrial quantities of brandy butter than a cardiac complaint.
Boxing Clever
It was my girlfriend’s frustration at my transformation into
a wincing invalid that drove me to seek advice. I phoned NHS Direct and spoke to a man who sounded exactly
like Frank Bruno. I wondered if taking thousands of blows to the head is good preparation for
advising people on medical emergencies.
He led me through a series of alarming
questions, ending with ‘are you bleeding profusely?’ Thankfully I was able to
answer no but I couldn’t help imagining a person so polite that they would wait
until directly asked to point out this fact.
Frank continued.
‘Have you taken any illicit drugs in the past few days?’
‘Paracetamol.’
‘Not that kind of drug.’
‘Ah, um, no. Oh wait – there was a dubious cookie I
accidentally ate on Christmas Eve. But that did more mental harm than
physical.’
Frank laughed. The deep, reassuring laugh that I fondly
remember from his ringside chats with ‘Arry. I felt confident from his
amusement that whatever I had was not life threatening. This was confirmed when
he put me on hold. An instrumental track filled my ears, relentless and devoid
of melody. I can only speculate that this rhythmic bombardment is designed to
act as a kind of sonic life support machine for the most serious of cases. The
driving beat encourages the patient’s heart to keep pumping. Were they to play
One Direction or Miley Cyrus, for example, callers would no doubt lose all hope
and stave their own heads in with the telephone.
Frank came back on the line. He offered no clue as to what I
was suffering from but he was clear that lights and sirens were not necessary.
I phoned my GP and was able to get an appointment that morning.
I drove most of the way in second gear as moving my left arm
to reach the shifter aggravated the pain. Other drivers reacted badly to my
slow speed and high revs by tailgating me and trying to pass. It was an
unwelcome glimpse into old age.
Call a Priest or a Doctor?
I explained my symptoms to the doctor and he asked me to
remove my shirt, which I did. Painfully. Prodding of the ribcage followed and I
winced at certain points in his investigation of my chest.
‘Could you have strained your muscles lifting or carrying
anything recently?’ the doctor asked.
‘No,’ I replied, sure that shovelling Christmas pudding and
operating a remote control could not have caused tears in my muscle fibres.
‘Well, in that case I think you have Devil’s Grip.’
He said this as if it was a perfectly normal sentence, like ‘have a good day’. I was somewhat taken aback and wondered
what was coming next. Perhaps he would recommend that my firstborn should be
left on a hillside to be devoured by crows. Thankfully his eyes did not glow red and he continued quite calmly.
‘It’s a virus that causes inflammation of the intercostal
muscles between the ribs. Get some Ibuprofen gel for the pain and it should
clear up in a week or so. It’s rarely fatal.’
So the Dark Lord had singled me out for special
treatment but was not going to kill me. The doctor wrote DEVIL’S GRIP in
capital letters on a piece of paper and handed it to me. As if I was likely to
forget a name like that. It would be like forgetting your head was on fire.
Later on the internet filled in the gaps left by the medic. Its proper name is Bornholm disease or epidemic
pleurodynia…
‘…the distinguishing
characteristic of this disease is attacks of severe pain in the lower chest,
often on one side. The slightest movement of the rib cage causes a sharp
increase of pain, which makes it very difficult to breathe. The attacks strike
with a feeling like an iron grip around the rib cage.’
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I don’t make New Year’s resolutions as I consider every day
an opportunity for self-improvement. One week I might be learning Arabic, the
next I’ll be perfecting the art of juggling while riding a unicycle. Life is
one big adventure. But if there is one thing I will do my best to avoid in
2014, it’s the Devil and his excruciating grasp.
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