17th May

I’d woken this morning with a hangover, which was strange because I hadn’t had a drink for 3 or 4 days. I don’t drink much anyway, the odd glass of wine with a meal, a beer or two on occasional trips to the pub. So I wondered why I was feeling so bad. Perhaps I’d died a few times in my sleep and maybe the continual process of death and miraculous resurrection had been too much for my body and a headache was its way of saying it couldn’t cope. I don’t recall anything in the Bible though saying that Jesus woke from his death with a blinding headache. Although given the description of the crucifixion, which is probably the most hideous and painful death imaginable, a headache probably wasn’t even worth a mention in the pages of scripture.

I stumbled downstairs and found some paracetomol and took a couple along with my first blood pressure tablet and an Acia Berry extract capsule, which I’d read on the internet was good at increasing energy and helping with weight loss.  I then thought I should have read the blurb that comes with these things to see if there was any kind of conflict in taking them together. I unfolded the leaflet that came with the blood pressure tablets as I felt that this was the most important. It expanded to the size of a broadsheet newspaper. It had IMPORTANT INFORMATION ABOUT THIS MEDICINE – PLEASE READ BEFORE TAKING in bold letters written at the top of side one. It then went on to give this important, possibly lifesaving information in what I think was 0.5-point typeface. Impossible to read, even with my glasses. I resorted to taking my glasses off and whilst moving them back and forth to bring the words into better focus, began peering through one lens only with one eye tight shut and the other wide open in the way that used to make the astronomer Patrick Moore look like a mad scientist. Which was apt because that’s exactly what he was. I managed about two sentences before I decided it was too late anyway. Whatever fate awaited me due to taking a cocktail of tablets that were designed to bring pain relief and quite possibly save my life, but which might strangely enough, kill me would have to take its course. I thought about ringing Dr Longfellow for some urgent advice but he’d probably just say fat people, sorry, overweight people like me were going to die anyway, so why worry.

Exercise is the key apparently to good health and well being, although I’m led to understand a lot of people suffer serious injury, heart attacks and even die whilst exercising, which for someone like me about to embark on an intense get fit regime is a little worrying to say the least.  I’d planned an hour of intense high impact aerobics before work, which I’d complete whilst watching one of the digital TV music channels. What better way to get the heart pumping and the arteries unclogged than to work out to a little Gangsta Rap, RnB and Hip Hop at 7am. It didn’t work, Beyonce came along wearing a pair of tight fitting gold pvc shorts, some bling and little else and I thought I’d rather watch her work out than continue myself. It was really good for my heart rate though. In fact most of the music videos I watched featured scantily clad women dancing provocatively around rather overweight and I must say somewhat unattractive men with gold teeth, gold rings, gold necklaces and bracelets, who spoke in a language I didn’t understand. Yes it was English but generally undecipherable, although I did pick out ‘right there honey, uh huh, right there.’ which seemed to appear in all the songs I heard this morning.  I got bored though and after breakfast took the brisk ten-minute walk to work where I sat down in front of a computer for nine hours. I returned home at a little after 6 pm absolutely knackered and settled down front of the TV with a glass of red wine or two, which as everyone knows is really good for the heart, hence, progress made.

16th May

Like several million other people I’d made a New Year’s resolution on the 1^st of January to lose weight and get fitter. So, here I am today at the start of that process. The reason I was in Dr Longfellow’s surgery this morning was that because I’d had two blood pressure checks in the last few months, both of which were on the high side and it was suggested I get the cause investigated. Also, like my dad before him my brother had recently been diagnosed with prostate cancer. The other issue, which Dr Longfellow hadn’t seemed to notice yet, which for a doctor with 40 years of medical experience to fall back on was causing me some concern, was the fact that I’d died in my sleep. What a surprise that will be for him, I thought. Although I must admit for a dead man walking I looked pretty good.  I’ll wait for him to say something, if he doesn’t I’ll bring it up later, I thought.

The blood pressure strap around my arm pumped itself up, held its breath for a few seconds like some steroid fuelled weightlifter before letting out a long sigh of relief.  Dr Longfellow then announced that yes indeed my blood pressure was a little on the high side, but that’s usually the case with fat people like me. Then he corrected himself, overweight people like me.  Fat is a derogatory term apparently and is not to be used because it can damage a person’s self-esteem and quite possibly shock them into working towards a healthier lifestyle, and we wouldn’t want that would we.

“I’ll put you on a course of tablets which will hopefully bring the level down. We’ll start on a low dose of 1.25 mg and build it up to 10mg over time.” said Dr Longfellow. I wondered why not save time and go straight for the 10mg dose. He read my mind. “We don’t go straight to 10mg because your kidneys might fail.” I died in my sleep, what’s a little kidney failure compared to that, come on doc get a grip!  “I’ll need to take some blood to check your cholesterol, how’s your diet?”   “Err, pretty good, lots of fish, plenty of salad, I usually hit my five a day.”  What I didn’t say that the fish usually came with plenty of chips, the salad came with plenty of pizza and my five a day would often include a Terry’s Chocolate Orange, a pack of Starburst Fruit sweets and occasionally a twin cone fruit flavoured luxury ice cream.  

As my blood was being taken my eyes were drawn to a jar of jellybeans sat on top of the doc’s roll top desk. They were a highly colourful oasis in a sea of faded magnolia walls and drab olive green carpet.  “Would, you like one? The doc offered. “I usually give a couple to children when they’ve had an examination, but I can see you’re tempted.” “No, no thanks I don’t do sweets.” I lied. They did look wonderful though, bright, vibrant and I knew they would taste fabulous. Dr Longfellow suggested we check my weight. I took keys and mobile phone out of my pockets, slipped my shoes off and breathed out as I hopped on the antiquated scales, which were a set of those cast iron ones with a bar on the top along which you slid a weight until the bar balanced. “14.12.” announced the doctor.” Is that what you were expecting?”  I nodded. “I think I’ve shed a few pounds this week. “ He didn’t seem convinced and after consulting a couple of charts and a screen on his computer that showed a set of figures split by a curved line with a red section above and a green section below he said  “Okay for your height you’ve got a BMI (Body Mass Index, which apparently is the daddy of all Mass Indexes) of 55 which means that 55% of your body weight is fat. Which means you’re borderline obese.”  His mood became sombre. “According to this chart you need to lose between three and five stones to be the ideal weight for your height. “ Couldn’t we work on increasing the height?” I asked. His face remained stony cold.  “I think Mr Moore at your age diet and exercise is the only option to ensure you remain as healthy as possible for as long as possible. If we can get your blood pressure down then there’s no reason you shouldn’t live to a reasonable age. You’re going to have to work hard though because you’re obviously at risk.” He shuffled his computer mouse around and the printer chugged into life before spitting out my prescription. “Is there anything else?” he quizzed as he handed me the green slip of paper. Okay, so he still hadn’t noticed that I had died in my sleep, which made me consider his diagnosis of the state of my health with a little scepticism. I scanned the walls of his office noting his certificates and diplomas of achievement. Obviously all his years of training and experience and his accreditation with the BMA, GMC and others hadn’t prepared him to be faced with a living, breathing corpse. Although I guess the framed copy of the Hippocratic oath meant that he’d made a commitment to helping fat people. At least that was something.

I began hesitantly, “Well my wife has been monitoring my night time activities in recent months and she feels, based on her knowledge of someone else’s experience, that I’m suffering from Sleep Apnoea.  Sleep Apnoea is a condition that ultimately means that several times a night for a few seconds, to all intents and purposes, you pass peacefully away on a regular basis.  Then, when the brain realises there’s a malfunction, it fires off a wake up message that results in an enormous gulp of air being taken in which in turn shocks you awake coughing and spluttering and wondering if you’ve just swallowed the cat. This goes on several times a night. The main problem, apart from continually dying, is that sufferers rarely get a decent night’s sleep, no matter how tired you are when you go to bed. 

I knew Dr Longfellow would need to compose himself after the realisation struck that he was talking to a dead man, here, live, in his office.  He didn’t seem too bothered. “It’s often associated with fat people.” was his not that comforting reply, before once again correcting himself. “I’m sorry, overweight people. There are tests that can be done but I’ll need to refer you to a specialist sleep clinic. He went on to say that many people decide to live with the condition because the treatment often means you don’t get a decent night’s sleep. Err; I’m sure there’s something ironic in there somewhere. You seem to have one of two choices. The first is wearing a mouthpiece during the night, which pushes your jaw forward, a bit like a boxer’s gum shield. The second was to wear a facemask at night and you have a constant stream of air blasted at you under pressure. Dr Longfellow said one of his previous sleep apnoea patients had gone for this option and described it like travelling down the motorway at 70 mph and sticking your head out of the car window every 5 seconds. That’s got to help you sleep hasn’t it!

Another few clicks of the doctor’s computer mouse and I had an appointment in 2 weeks time at a specialist sleep clinic 20 miles away. 2 weeks I thought, I wonder how many times I will have died in my sleep by then.  Feeling somewhat glum at the apparent seriousness of my health situation, I left the doctors and headed off in the direction of a nearby Pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I cheered up when I remembered there was another supplier of well-being products on my route home. The Olde Fashioned Sweet Emporium on Penny Street was bound to have some Jelly Beans. Progress made.