The first presentiment of something not quite right was some breathlessness when I stood to wrestle something from the aircraft’s overhead luggage rack. And then, as I made my way through Perth airport it felt like I was walking up a down elevator. I ascribed it to a touch of anxiety about long-haul flights (never liked them). And so I downed a large Bacardi at an airport bar and nipped outside for a smoke … just to calm everything down and re-capture my equilibrium, you understand.
By the time I reached Melbourne to be greeted by our Clare, I couldn’t lift my own luggage. “Dad, you’re as grey as death,” she said. “I think I should take you to hospital.”
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“Behave yourself,” I replied. “It’ll be a touch of that thrombosis everyone gets on these flights. It’ll sort itself out.” For the first few nights I was staying at the apartment of my friend David Dick, then an executive at the Melbourne Age and now editor of the Daily Record. There’s a picture of me somewhere on Facebook at his place, sipping a large glass of red wine just an hour later.
It was only when I went to bed that it occurred to me this could be something serious. I began to feel some unruly activity in my chest and realised that this wasn’t good at all. Worse: it was probably too late to do anything about it and that I should probably accept my fate and ask God’s forgiveness for being a daft fud.
I also made a mental inventory of all those people I’d hurt or slighted and asked for mercy. And then I made my peace with those with whom I still had some unresolved issues. What with all that and three Hail Marys, a Glory Be and an Our Father I might yet have a wee chance of a fair hearing should I wake up dead in the morning.
Fortunately (or not, depending on your point of view) I woke in the land of the living and my daughter immediately whisked me to St Vincent’s Hospital in downtown Melbourne. They took one look at me and began kitting me out in the hospital gear and a drip. I love Australians’ propensity for plain speaking. “How did you not know you’d had a heart attack,” asked the consultant, astonished that I hadn’t immediately popped in following the flight.
Glaswegians also like to speak plainly. “Well, not having ever had a heart attack, how was I supposed to know,” I asked him. It’s not as though I’d had the falling-down-while-clutching-your-chest type of event you see on the telly. After the scans and a wee angiogram they concluded I didn’t need the hacksaw and staples routine. Some tablets and a couple of stents would do the trick.
“Is it because I’m quite a healthy specimen that I don’t need a bypass,” I asked the consultant. “No, it’s because you’re one lucky b****** and you need to be taking better care of yourself,” he said.
And besides, he pointed out, there was some old scarring on an artery, indicating I’d had some kind of ‘cardio event’ several years ago. It was only later that I learned that many of the male McKennas have been going down like skittles with heart failure since we first got off the boat from Ireland in the 1890s. My Glasgow consultant would later tell me that, in all probability, I was destined to get a heart attack at some point and that getting it when I was ‘relatively’ young and ‘relatively’ fit was preferable to falling over later in life.
I was working for The Observer at this time and they were keen that I write one of those arse-clenching pieces about kindness and being more appreciative of wur planet. But that’s not really me. So they settled instead for a lighter, self-mocking piece about my delinquent life choices.
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“Give us your blueprint for surviving a heart attack ten years on,” absolutely no-one has ever said. But here it is anyway. My handy lifestyle guide to living responsibly after a heart attack.
Alcohol. Rather than deny yourself the delights of the swally, maybe try putting an extra slice of fruit in your gins, vodkas and Bacardis.
Kevin McKenna won’t deprive himself of time in the pub. (Image: Newsquest)
Sex. When men write about sex there are no good outcomes, but the doctors kept mentioning it. So, based on anecdotal research among other heart attack survivors, I’d advise using the approach favoured by our international football team. Just leave all the fancy stuff to the continentals and only venture over the halfway line when absolutely necessary.
Pray. If you’re an atheist, don’t kid on you don’t get worried you’ve backed the wrong horse whenever you start feeling fragile and vulnerable. My Godless chums always ask for proof of The Almighty’s existence. But if you’re ever in a life-threatening situation, can you be absolutely sure he DOESN’T exist? So try a bit of praying now and again.
Swearing. Do lots of this. And if you recoil at the use of profanities, get over yourself. Read these f***ing sentences aloud minus these f***ing asterisks. You’ll feel better for it. Try to be a decent c*** and not a w***er. You only get one f***ing shot at this, so stop f***ing around. There: that’s better, isn’t it?
Silence. We’re always told to share our problems and open up more as a means of mental self-medication. B*******. You’ll just worry about over-sharing and that’ll make you more anxious. If you want to unburden yourself, get a dog.
Be cardio-smart. You’re going to have a dickie ticker for the rest of your life, so turn it into an asset. Need to make a last-minute cancellation for a party or an event full of sanctimonious rockets discussing climate change and pronouns? Just use your heart condition. To add depth to your little white lie, memorise all the terminology around heart health: the arteries, the valves, the ventricles and all the other tubes and chambers. If you’re really desperate, just say you need to have another cheeky wee stent put in. I’m up to about six, but I’ve only got the two.
It’s the wee changes that make all the difference. When you’re in the pub, choose a seat furthest away from the bar and volunteer to fetch all the rounds. That way you can get in your 10k steps a week in no time.
Kevin McKenna is a Herald writer and columnist. He is Features Writer of the Year and writes regularly about the working-class people and communities of Scotland