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.