Fainting Fit

Way back in the depths of winter and after omitting to eat any breakfast, I quite literally keeled over in the middle of the Supermarket in a local town.

I had been on the mission of purchasing myself some lunch, but as this Smallmarket is less momentous than a snake’s shoe cupboard, I was having difficulty finding something that I actually wanted to eat. Usually when I venture into this Tinymarket, the choice for lunch is a pot of cold pasta smothered in some dubious sauce, an egg and cress sandwich or a tin of Weight Watcher’s tomato soup. The problem I have is that I don’t like cold pasta, I refuse to pay more than £2.50 for a teaspoon of egg mayonnaise, some green bits and some soggy brown bread; and I hate tomato soup. I especially hate Waist Watcher’s soup because the tins are smaller than any other brand and you are starving precisely 17 minutes after you have consumed it.

So I gathered some items for dinner that evening and as I studied the tins of Waist Shrinker’s soups again; I fainted.

The next thing I remember is sitting opposite a Paramedic in a store room in the back of the Minisculemarket wired up to a heart machine and when I asked what had happened he told me that I had suffered a seizure.

The drama continued as I needed to ring my colleague The Event Organiser, to tell her that I was on my way to hospital and could she please bring me my handbag; but I had left my mobile phone on my desk. Also on my desk, was the Post-It note with the office telephone number written on it, because even though I have worked for this company for 5 years I can never remember their phone number. Oddly, especially when you consider than my very small brain was still trying to reboot itself, I remembered the phone number of the office and was able to dial it without hesitation on the phone that was handed to me. It is especially strange because when I glanced at the Paramedic’s notes, I asked him who had given him my parents’ address. I then realised that it had been me that had given him the address, just as though the last 17 years of my life had vanished over a tin of Weight Observer’s soup.

By the time we made it to the hospital it was 5pm and to make things worse the damn place was absolutely crammed with sick people, which made me want to go home immediately. In fact this brand spanky new hospital was so completely inundated with people of the sick variety that I lay on a trolley in the corridor for the remainder of my visit.

I had already rung Other Half to let him know that I was not capable of feeding myself properly, but it was around 6.30pm when he rang me back as Britney (not her real name) was worried and asking how I was. The conversation was brief and went like this:

“Mummy? Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m fine sweetheart,” I replied “I just hadn’t had any breakfast and I fainted.”

“Where were you when it happened?”

“I was in the middle of the Supermarket, trying to get some lunch. How embarrassing, eh?”

“What aisle were you in?”

“Er, the soup aisle.”

“Okay, bye.”

At 9.30pm I decided that I was not going to wait any longer to be seen and rang Biker Brother to ask for a lift home. After all, I had been given 2 ECG’s, my blood pressure had been taken twice, 12 pints of blood had been siphoned out of me, it was now 8 hours since I had fainted and I STILL had not had anything to eat. I can assure you that at that point I could have eaten a vat of Waist Monitor’s tomato soup, several egg and cress sandwiches and a large bucket of cold pasta smothered with a dubious sauce, without the need for any cutlery.

As I was trying to sneak off my trolley to go and wait for my lift, I was called by the nice receptionist and seen by the Doctor at 10.20pm. He apologised for my wait and advised me that I must not drive until I had been seen by the Consultant at the Epilepsy Clinic at the RVI in Newcastle and that there was a 6 week waiting list for appointments.

Obviously to say that this was bad news is like saying that the Daily Mail is occasionally a bit liberal with the truth.

The nearest bus stop to my house is 3 miles away and of all the buses that stop there, none of them go to any of the places where I work.

I had never (and I mean this in all honesty) realised exactly how rural this area is.

So I did what every modern, mature woman with a partner and child does in times like this; I rang my Dad.

And so for 6 weeks, the Vintage Tractor Enthusiast gave me a lift to work and Biker Brother collected me and brought me home (in his car, not on his motorbike). Other Half took Britney to school and started work later than normal and Granny Weatherwax and the Vintage Tractor Enthusiast collected her from school and brought her home. The Resident Vet and Kamikaze Girl (thank God she doesn’t drive like she rides) collected and delivered me for equine duties and my usual work at home continued to arrive via email and a small red van every morning.

Despite the horrendous inconvenience derived from failing to make time to eat, there were however a few benefits from not being allowed to drive. The first is that it saves you an absolute fortune in diesel, honestly it’s truly astonishing how much you can save. The second is that you are always on time, as when you ask someone for a lift they tend to appear on time or even arrive early. This means you aren’t running out of the house carrying your coat, handbag and travel mug and you arrive at work completely cool, calm and collected. Thirdly and most importantly, if you are invited to any social occasions you can get absolutely shitfaced.

After meeting my Consultant he agreed that I had fainted, said there was no need to contact the DVLA and sent me on my way after I had promised that I would return to Newcastle for an EEG to test the electrical activity of my brain (good luck with that one) and an MRI scan on my head.

So 2 days ago and a full 6 months after throwing myself to the floor of the Punymarket, I went back to the RVI to get my test results.

The excellent news is that my MRI showed nothing apart from a brain which I took to be an excellent start. I even asked to see my scan so I could report back to the people at Miserable Finance Limited who had occasionally suggested that I didn’t have one. And it was actually worth lying in a drain pipe for half an hour just to have the opportunity to see my own brain in such glorious clarity. (I did notice that there is a kink in the cartilage in my nose, but given the circumstances, I didn’t think it was worthy of a mention.)

The EEG showed that at times my brain emits voltage fluctuations resulting from the ionic current, which basically means I sometimes have brainwaves that are larger than normal. Unfortunately this affliction does not mean that I am gifted but is something that occurs in 25% of the population; and the Brain Experts have no idea why.

So here is what I have learnt over the past 6 months:

If you see someone faint, do not attempt to lift them up as this can cause them to fit. Check they are breathing, raise their feet and if need be, roll them into the recovery position. Do not try to sit them up or lift them.

I now know that telling a Paramedic that someone has had a seizure without knowing anything about the patient’s medical history or simply by using the words “fit” or “seizure” can cause a person to lose their driving licence for 6 months.

A faint can look very, very similar to a seizure, patients can twitch and shake and it can look very frightening. The Consultant showed me this video and I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s not how you think a faint should look.

If you have to go for an MRI scan on your head, wear the blindfold that they offer you. Otherwise you’ll have 30 minutes of lying in a claustrophobic tube, listening to Radio 2 whilst screwing your eyes tight shut willing yourself not to open them.

If you do have to visit the RVI, go to Za Za Bazaar’s in The Gate for lunch. At least then if you are screwing your eyes tight shut in the MRI scanner at the old General Hospital, your tummy will be full. Hell, there’s even a chance you could fall asleep with your blindfold on after eating that much especially if Steve Wright plays some really boring tunes.

If you know anyone who is going through something similar to all of this, do not under any circumstances inform them that you know someone who wasn’t allowed to drive for X number of years after having a seizure, because frankly it’s not what they want to hear. You may also find that saying “Oh I have a friend who has epilepsy too” might trigger a fit of a different nature and leave you with a black eye and a dazed expression.

And ultimately, laugh, offer love selflessly and live as though you have awfully little time left.

When I panicked my way out of the MRI scanner, I noticed the cartoon pictures on the outside of the machine. The Nurse told me they were there to try and encourage the little children to stay calm and lie still while they were having their scan.

Enough said.

Sunny Dorset

Britney (not her real name) has knickers with the days of the week emblazoned on the front of them.

Why on earth don’t they don’t make these pants in adult sizes? Can you imagine how useful they would be for those of us who rush from pillar to post never knowing for certain what day it is? They would also be so very useful when it came to leaving a telephone message:

 “Hi there, I was meant to get a kerosene delivery, erm (a quick check down the front of your jeans) yesterday and I’m just worried that I’m going to run out.”

Or:

“Hi, it’s, erm (a quick check down the front of your jeans) Thursday, can I get someone to come and service my boiler please?”

Or:

“Hi there, it’s erm (a quick check down the front of your jeans) Friday, could you call me when you get this message? Thanks.”

I appreciate that it could be a little embarrassing if you were in the middle of a meeting and had to pretend to study the wall for a second to check what was written on the front of your knickers, but it would be so much more professional than writing TUESDAY on the back of your hand in biro pen.

It’s particularly difficult to know what day of the week it is when you are self employed.

I usually hinder The Assassinator and The Resident Vet (Kamikaze Girl having gained employment and thus moved to London – the bitch) with their horses on a Thursday but occasionally Office work will get in the way of this arrangement and I have to ride their horses on a different day of the week. This causes immense confusion, not just to myself and The Resident Vet who co-ordinates the entire operation, but also to my household and all of my Childcare operatives as well.

It’s hard to be organised when you are never sure where you are meant to be and this is perhaps the reason why I went on holiday to Dorset with Other Half and Britney and failed to pack any shorts or suncream.

Clearly my Mummy brain had not considered that a County 400 miles south of Northumberland might be a tad warmer than the windswept Cheviot Hills or the bitterly cold sandy beaches of Northumberland’s area of outstanding natural beauty. And as a result of my lack of planning, I still have a dark brown area on my left leg where I failed to apply Britney’s factor 50 suncream while sitting on the beach at Sandbanks.

Aside from this third degree burn on my lower leg and the enormous inflammation that cosseted my ankle, we had a fabulous week in sunny Dorset. By some coincidence our holiday managed to correspond with the remarkable heat wave that had engulfed Britain and therefore Dorset was enjoying temperatures which where similar to that of the southern coast of Spain.

We stayed in a proper chocolate box kind of house with a thatched roof and 3 foot thick walls, which kept the downstairs of the property extremely cool and the upstairs; as warm as your oven after roasting a chicken.

The cottage was on a small holding near to a place called Three Legged Cross and very much in the countryside. We had our own private patio and also (much to Britney’s delight) an outside bath. I’ll just point out that this was a factor of novelty, as there was also an enormous bath inside the property in the bathroom at the top of the stairs.

Britney revelled in using all of the available hot water in her twice daily outside bathing ritual. I had shown her photographs of the house before we set off on holiday and when I asked if there was anything particular that she wanted to take in her suitcase for our week away, she replied “Bath bombs” before adding as an afterthought: “2 for every day we are there”.

The owner of the holiday cottage had a small herd of Alpacas and every morning, usually only clad in her pyjama bottoms, Britney sleepily tottered across to the field to greet them as they congregated to have their breakfast. It took 3 days for her to remember that they were Alpacas and not Lamas, but they didn’t seem to mind.

I had been to Dorset a few times before we undertook this excursion down south and I have informed people on many occasions that Poole Harbour is only 70 miles from Cherbourg and that the sun is so much hotter down there and the winds are always very warm.

Clearly, having a child has made me either entirely lose my memory, or perhaps my brain simply couldn’t be bothered to travel further South than Northampton because I ignorantly sunburnt my arms on the first morning of our holiday sitting on the patio reading my book while everyone else was still in bed.

There was a pair of Bullfinches that came to the patio everyday to forage in the Forget Me knots and I adored seeing them. I have obviously reached middle age as I now love seeing the less common wild birds, especially when these are something of a rarity in my garden in Northumberland.

Staying in self catering accommodation made me realise that the people of Dorset use a lot of butter and I put this down to why our picnic sandwiches always tasted so good. Butter in Dorset spreads like margarine. Butter in Northumberland spreads like Tungsten. At home, after I’ve torn a great big hole in my slice of bread with a lump of solid butter, I give up and resort to the spreadable variety. The Aigle Welly Wearer says that you can tell what season it is in Northumberland by how near the butter dish is to the open fire. In the dizzy summer months the butter dish might actually be in the kitchen, but in January it will be in pride of place on the mantelpiece. This keeps the butter pliable enough so that you can actually scratch some butter from the block with a knife and not have to resort to using a cheese grater to make yourself a sandwich.

The People of Dorset also wear shorts all of the time. And they look normal. It’s not like that up here, people either wear shorts all of the time, even in November or they wear them once a year. The male once-a-year short wearers have legs that are as white as a hospital sheet and the female once-a-year short wearers have legs that are as orange as a 1970’s Spacehopper.

The coast in Dorset was a bit of a shock for Britney as she assumes that if you are going to where the sea meets the land, the joining strip between the 2 will be made of golden sand.

For fossil hunting, there are crumbling cliffs and a variety of stones that are very painful when aligned with bare feet. By contrast the sandy beaches of Bournemouth and Sandbanks have beautiful golden sand which is so hot you can’t walk on it with bare feet. We spent an afternoon happily roasting on the raked sand at Sandbanks and it was beautiful. The sea is shallow there and Britney and Other Half swam in the water that was many degrees warmer than the North Sea.

It took us 9 and a half hours to drive home and initially after getting out of the car and especially after the 31 degree heat of the roadworks on the M1, I was pleased to be home. Then as we drank Shiraz with our House Sitter, the Scottish Moose, we complained how damn cold it was up north.

The night after we returned from Dorset, I was sitting in our conservatory and 3 Bullfinches flew down from the hedge in the paddock and began rummaging through the gravel on the drive. I couldn’t believe it and I took it as a sign that Dorset was missing me too.

Sadly, I haven’t seen them since.