Taking it to heart

After the confusion, when the cheery ward boy almost stumbled into the ECG chamber as a matronly nurse ordered me to take off my shirt, came a brief relief. During the long absence of Dr Daruwala, who was giving someone a heart echo test, I assured myself that at the right side of 30 and with no previous records of heart aliment, it was unlikely that I was having a heart attack.

In fact, compared to the other patients who were wheeled in with tubes attached to various parts of their body or were bumped along corridors on narrow stretchers in semi conscious state, I was in the pink of health. Now, if only my pulse rate would subside and agree with my brain, I would not be on the table in the first place.

Nor would I have made the rude exit from Indigo Deli without tipping the waiter. This happened when I thought the symptoms were too pronounced for comfort. The room seemed to dive like I was on old Long John Silver8217;s sailing boat. And people and sounds seem to recede in the distance. I had the distinct feeling that the pig, which I had just consumed, was going to have his revenge.

I was relishing pork ribs while ingesting a vodka martini. Suddenly it seemed that the gods, who probably disapproved of my merriment, were sending out a calling card. But I was in denial about the situation and thought a cab ride would soothe things.

After a laborious ride in the taxi, I found that doses of carbon monoxide do not work as a cure for anything. The hurried stopover at a seedy private clinic in my neighbourhood Kalina did not seem like the best solution either.

The doctor appeared to be an intern and looked at me with distaste as she noted that I had not only had a martini but a glass of wine before that. She tried her best to look sympathetic but could not keep the serves-you-right glint out of her eyes.

She tapped her pen and then took a shot: 8220;Alcohol may have caused the accelerated pulse rate, chest pain and near blackout.8221; Then she thought better of it and ordered a series of tests to be conducted as I cringed. And this was not due to that cockroach, who minutes before crawled over the bed I was laying on.

Thankfully, the nurse used a new needle for my blood test and the suction cups used to note the ECG were clean too. However, the advice that I should be 8220;hospitalized8221; seemed like hyperbole. The prospect of spending the night at this clinic instantly cured my I-am-going-to-die misgivings. The clincher came when the man in the next bed, made up for all my lacking symptoms of nausea. While he heartily heaved I made a stealthy exit, paid the bill and took all risks and responsibility in case I die overnight.

I clearly made the right decision. Dr Daruwala too vouched for it the next morning, after several tests and chest thumping. Strangely, no one could diagnose the cause of my racing pulse. My theory is it8217;s the Bond drink that left me shaken and stirred.

georgina.maddoxexpressindia.com