Saturday, January 4, 2014

The Hand of Satan

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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