I THOUGHT I HAD FOOD POISONING - IT TOOK 4 DAYS TO REALISE IT WAS A HEART ATTACK

The day my heart attack occurred had started completely normally.  

On that balmy September afternoon two years ago, I had made it home in a good mood and was looking forward to enjoying the fine weather. 

As I was thinking about whom to invite for join me for a long walk or bike ride, I felt a sudden, crushing pain in my chest. 

Within seconds, I was drenched in sweat. 

As quickly as the pain came on, it subsided. As I was concerned, it was an adverse reaction to a vegan pasta dish I had eaten earlier in the day and paid it no mind. 

I was 43, active and healthy. With no family history of heart disease, there was little reason for me to consider myself a candidate for a heart attack.   

Over the next few days, I felt various upper-body aches and pains. I recall very little sleep and wasn’t able to keep food down. 

Despite this, I returned to work, pain and all, repeating the ‘I’m fine’ charade for four working days. 

By the end of day four, my symptoms had started to intensify, this time to the point where walking five or six yards became an ordeal. 

I made it home and decided to talk through my ‘bad food poisoning’ with my family, several of whom are doctors. It was only then that they finally got me to understand that this was not food poisoning and I needed to visit a hospital. 

At A&E, I introduced myself with, ‘I’m having chest pains,’ and I was seen relatively quickly. 

The words ‘myocardial infarction’ (a heart attack, in layman’s terms) were mentioned within seconds of an ECG. 

I also overheard mutterings of, ‘he really doesn’t look the heart attack type,’ in the background – a phrase I would hear several times that day and beyond.    

‘Oh, OK,’ were the only words that came to mind when I heard this. 

Perhaps the event’s magnitude hadn’t fully registered, so I remained calm.  

After further tests, an on-duty registrar appeared in the A&E waiting area. To my surprise, he said: ‘You appear to have had a heart attack, and quite a major one at that.’ 

Perhaps owing to my pragmatic nature, my reaction was calm. I was raised to be stoic, and stoic I would be. Whatever this illness was, I had survived it. The worst, as far as I was concerned, was over and I would be fine.   

My case was expedited, and I was moved to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital soon after, where an immediate operation was arranged. 

My biggest regret is that I didn’t listen to my body sooner

On arrival, it was reassuring to find an 18-strong team, led by Dr Fizzah Choudry, waiting for me. 

Team members introduced themselves and their respective functions before advising that a stent, a small tube to unclog my blocked artery, would be fitted as part of a process known as a coronary angioplasty.   

Within minutes, I was in the cardiology lab. Odd as it may sound, I was excited as, under local anaesthesia, I would watch the whole thing live on a big screen to my left. 

Injecting, poking, prodding, and navigating blood vessels ensued; the professionals held various discussions over and around me and at one point, I recall someone exclaiming ‘Yes!’  

The stent had made it to its station. 

Doctors told me that around 30% of my heart tissue was now dead. I was very weak and could barely make it up a flight of stairs, but I was home just one day later to begin my recovery. 

This was my first experience of feeling physically vulnerable, which took some days to get my head around. I was fortunate to have had my mood and self-esteem buoyed by family, loved ones and friends being around me or at the other end of a telephone.

If anything, I grew to enjoy the attention, but there were several, ‘Why me?’ moments.   

Much medication was prescribed, some of which I shall continue to take for life. 

Six weeks were spent recovering at home, which proved trying at times. 

Two or three days of being fussed over and waited on are very nice; 42 days of sitting around doing not-a-lot were, for me at least, a stress I had not bargained for. 

During this time, it dawned on me that, presenting myself at hospital on day one, rather than at the end of day four, would have meant much of my heart would still be alive. 

Looking back, my biggest regret is that I didn’t listen to my body sooner. 

As I continued recovering, I received a call from Brian Coleman, the award-winning head of cardiac rehabilitation, based in London’s Whipps Cross Hospital.   

His advice was basically ‘get out of the house, do more and do what you can’ – something that would prove prophetic and just the push of positivity I needed. 

Within hours of his call, I dusted off my bicycle and rode to my first session with Brian’s ‘Cardiac rehabilitation ‘Wild Bunch’ cycling group, jointly run with the London Cycling Campaign. 

I cannot express just how important being part of a support group is. 

Everybody there was a heart attack survivor and, as well as regaining strength and making new friends, I felt able again. I was no longer the only person in my ‘you don’t look the part’ boat. 

Two years on from my heart attack, I am back at work and still hearing that same phrase, only now I take it as a compliment. 

I would urge anyone who experiences symptoms like mine to dial 999 straight away; don’t be tempted to dismiss the signs and wait to see what happens, like I did. 

If I had acted on the first day, 30% of my heart would have been saved. 

My recovery was fortuitous, but I know that the recovery would have been better had I taken action faster. 

Symptoms can vary from person-to-person; it’s never too early to call 999 and describe your symptoms. Visit nhs.uk/heartattack for more information. 

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