Chris O’Dowd

Chris O’Dowd

When the Heart of a Man Meets the Leg of an Elephant

I had been feeling well, as it happened. I was twenty-seven, carrying a few unnecessary pounds, a couple of which I had just picked up through an overly indulgent visit to a local kebab establishment. Otherwise, I was in fine fettle, I presumed, like a fool. I ambled along merrily from Stockwell tube with nothing but a song in my head, a spring in my step and a whistle in my pocket. (I always carry a whistle in my pocket in case any ad hoc refereeing needs doing.) But my merry meander was cut short, as, from nowhere, my chest tightened, my legs bore a knuckle and my stride became a stumble – my robust frame collapsing slowly like a poorly constructed flan.

I was lying on the footpath now, which wasn’t ideal. I was sweating, though it was a December evening in London, which also seemed unhelpful, at the time. As my human form slowly slumped across the concrete paviours, my left arm tingled in morbid excitement. The flapping flutter of my limb was understandable. It had never witnessed a heart attack before, let alone shared a body with one. Yes, readers, my heart, long my burden, was giving way at the tender age of twenty-seven. I had attracted the ‘rockstar curse’, it seemed, which was fittingly above my station. Even my heart lacked the humility to retire at a less notorious age. I was alone, phoneless and at the mercy of the commuting Samaritans of south London.

A passing skateboarder (Stockwell has a thriving skateboarding scene which I hope to embrace and indeed rule one day) came to my aid. I breathlessly asked him to call me an ambulance. He nobly sidestepped the comedic landmine and actually phoned for help.

The London Ambulance Service came swiftly, as is their wont. The dreadlocked paramedic asked me how I was feeling. He took my pulse and made me comfortable. He offered to contact someone to accompany me to hospital. (I was soon joined in the mobile health wagon by my ex-girlfriend, or ‘the one that got away’, as I’ve been told to stop calling her at home.) It’s worth noting that at no point during any of this did the paramedic make any mention of payment or insurance plans. Nor did he question my nationality or my means. In contrast, we live in California right now, where once my wife, deep in labour, was stopped from entering our delivery ward until all the correct paperwork was signed and filed. She stood at the reception feeling the baby crown like an evil prince until we were seen as financially fit enough for a bed.

Not in Stockwell though. That night, they gathered me up in their caring embrace, like an older sibling. ‘Don’t worry, pickle,’ they seemed to say. ‘We all have bad days, we’ll help you fight another!’ the sirens screamed.

It was mercifully quiet at Guy’s hospital in London Bridge. It was a Tuesday, I believe. My nurse’s name was Tina. She was Scottish and it’s true what they say, they’re just like normal people, the Scots. Tina was supremely soothing but took zero shit from yours truly. She recognised me from the telly but insisted the other fella on the show was the funny one, a point to which I reluctantly agreed. In some feverish attempt to bond with my carer, I informed Tina that my mother had trained as a nurse here in the 1960s and asked if maybe she knew her. Tina coolly informed me that she was fifty-six. So I changed the subject.

Doctors came and went. The A&E staff, who seemingly use their free time to take plate-spinning classes, lurched in and out of my ‘situation’. They strapped some wires onto my muscular torso and six-pack. There was an ECG machine, I seem to recall, but I’m no letter-expert. Assessments happened and I waited, all the while writing an unimpressive will in my head. As well as the first draft of my own eulogy.

Before too long, Tina returned. With a warm smile, and a hint of a smirk, she said, ‘We’ll keep an eye on ya Chris, but we’re fairly sure it’s just trapped wind.’

The air went out of the room. Probably looking for its friends, who were congregating within my chest cavity.

‘It’s not my heart?’ I asked, almost disappointed for some reason.

‘Your heart is fine, just go easy on the meats, there’s only so much room in there,’ she replied, her tone warm, her eyes already moving on to a patient in more need.

As I left the hospital, I wasn’t handed a bill that would cripple me but rather a pamphlet on healthy eating, which, of course, I ate immediately.

If there’s a lesson here, it’s probably the importance of exercise and that a meal served from something lovingly called an ‘elephant’s leg’ should probably be enjoyed in moderation. If there’s a moral, it is the glorious consistency of healthcare professionals. Even for idiots like me, they are there when we need them, and they are there when we don’t.

Thank you NHS, now, and always.

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