February 2004 - A funny thing happened to me. It was quite a laugh actually, and I think the ridiculousness of the situation was what got me through it all.
Imagine if you will, myself at the Quinta along with six volunteers ... we'd all been working hard in the garden and I felt tired so went for an early night, (along with the phone as I was expecting a call), while the rest of them had a party in the next door room.
I ran myself a bath, had a good soak but started feeling increasingly unwell, and collapsed as I climbed out.
There I was on the floor in the nude, unable to breathe and with a huge pain over left hand side of chest ... whoops, thought I, feels a tad like a heart attack, so, lucky enough to have the phone within reach and the doctor's number in the Algarve in the memory, gave him a bell and whispered symptoms down the blower.
“Yep”, says he, “sounds like the ol' ticker, Frank, but I can't get up to you, too far away, and you really need to get to a hospital.”
All this time the party was getting rowdier next door ...
OK, so we used to have two lines, so I rang the other one, but heard the increasingly drunker voices telling each other not to answer it as, “It'll be for Frank and he's got the phone with him.”
No help from that quarter then ...
OK, so ring the Emergency Services ... you must remember, I'm still on the floor, can't breathe, can just whisper, a little bit stressed, coming to terms with the seriousness of the situation and starting to wonder whether I'll see daylight again ...
Dring dring …. Dring dring …
"Emergency Service"
"Good evening, I seem to be in a bit of trouble ..." and I explain the problem.
"Right, OK, what's your address and we'll get an ambulance straight over to you."
I give them the address.
"Aahhh, sorry, but we don't send ambulances to your area."
"Whaddyamean? You're the National Emergency number."
"Yes, you're quite correct, but we don't send ambulances to your area ..."
A tad perplexed, but not in a fit state to start asking why not, I asked, "So what happens now? If I don't get to hospital I'm probably going to die."
"Yes, that's a pity, but you can try the local Fire Brigade; it’s their responsibility.”
"Can't you transfer the call?"
"No"
"Can't you ring them?"
"No, I'm not allowed to, you'll have to ring them yourself."
"But I don't know their number!"
"Well, go and get a pen and paper and I'll give it to you."
"Excuse me, I don't think you understand, I'm on the floor, unable to move, in extreme pain. I thought I'd explained this to you."
"Yes, you had. Well, if you can't get a pen and paper you'll just have to remember it, OK? Ready? 283 882171. Good night."
Click.
Well, as luck would have it I got the number right and 45 minutes later, still on the floor, I heard the ambulance arrive and knock on the door of the party.
In the meantime I'd phoned some of my nearest and dearests and wished them goodbye as I seriously didn't expect to survive, quite fun really, speaking as it were from beyond the grave - my sister had even sent a fax with the relevant info to our fax number, in case any party-goers wandered through the office, but unfortunately no joy there, anyway, lets get back to the action, the next bit in English, Portuguese and Portugish.
Knock knock.
"Hello, good evening."
"Yes we've come to get the ill person."
"No ill person here mate, you've got the wrong address."
"Are you sure?"
"'Course I'm sure, look, we're all perfectly OK."
"Oh. We had a phone call from someone here having a heart attack."
"Not from any of us, matey. As I said, wrong address. This is Quinta do Barranco da Estrada."
You can only imagine my thoughts as I listened to this conversation barely 10 ft away ... but then, bless his cotton socks, the ambulance driver came good.
"Yes, that's the address we've got; are you sure there's no-one else here?"
"Well, there's only Frank and he's gone to bed."
"Please can you check if he's OK."
"If you say so, but he’ll blow a fuse for waking him up ..."
10 mins later I'm being wheeled out on a stretcher, thinking that the last thing I'd see of the old Quinta was the cobwebs on the ceiling.
Whizzed to the local cottage hospital 45 mins away, where they couldn't find anything wrong.
"You'll have to go to the main hospital in Beja, (an hour in the opposite direction), tomorrow for a couple of X-rays just to be sure. Come to think of it, they're going on strike tomorrow so we'll get you over there tonight ..."
Once more into the ambulance to go hurtling along country roads through the night and being examined and x-rayed before spending what remained of the night in the corridor outside the cold turkey unit listening to some poor girl going through the motions, before being sent back home the next day with, “Well, we can’t find anything wrong with you; probably just a strained chest muscle. Try not to work so hard in the garden, OK?”
Sitting on the terrace at home later the next morning I decided that breathlessness, an over-riding feeling of lassitude and a complete - by now - absence of any pain over my chest, did not add up to a strained chest muscle and I had to get myself to a doctor I trusted, so hopped into a motor down to the Algarve with the X-rays.
An hour or so later...
"Good morning Frank, now what's been going on, ahh your X-rays, let's have a look at them. Ummm … OK, sit down. Right, I just want to get this straight ... they let you out of hospital with this???!!! Your heart's 25% too big, look, you can measure it with a ruler ...”
It turned out to be Pericarditis, a viral inflammation of the sack surrounding the heart. I survived, but the only real remedy if it should happen again is to take some aspirin and take it easier.
Anyway, I survived, and now have it officially that I'm a big-hearted bloke.
Photo courtesy of Depositphotos.com
