Until earlier this week, I'd never even heard the term. But now DVLA have sent me one. They reckon I may keel over at the driving wheel, and want to check me out every year. It's a long sad story. It started with raging diarrhoea in December eighteen months ago, and culminated this May, when I needed to renew my previous Licence at age 73.
Let's stay with the Medical. India hasn't been kind to me. First time (2011), I went down with Delhi belly, appropriately enough at the YMCA in the city centre. Let's be blunt - I had to mop up the bedroom floor with Jesus Streetpapers and hostel toilet roll. Second time (2013), I was caught in a general strike in Mizoram, and had to hazard five roadblocks to reach the Airport. This time (2016), I thought I'd escaped. But once home, I went for three days being able to do little else but groan in bed. Day four, I self-administered my emergency travel ciprofloxacin supply. On day five, I tottered down to our Medical Centre, vaguely feeling a fraud.
Mercifully, I got a full check-out, including stool samples and blood tests at Hallamshire Hospital. Within a week I was back for results. "No infection that we could find. You probably killed it. But has anybody mentioned your irregular pulse?" "Er, no." "It's very pronounced. Feel this..." The GP gestures to a medical student sitting in on the appointment. "Mmm..." "Has anybody mentioned your low blood pressure? You've had two readings in a row." "Er, no." "Do you feel faint when you stand up after sitting down for a while?" I blushed. At weekly Choir practice I always dread the: "Come on, on you feet, let's sing it right through..." At this point I would clutch for the chair in front of me. I admitted so. "Do you keep up your fluids?" More blushes. "I'm really bad at having enough to drink from after lunch onwards." "You should do something about that. And I'm worried about your blood proteins: a bit high. Better have some more tests, and an ECG."
I'm back again in another few days. My blood pressure is better. The ECG records ectopoic beats all over the place. "Not a real problem; plenty of people have them with no noticeable effects. But you'd better have a 24-hour test. And we'll refer you to Cardiology." Three weeks later, I was wired up for the ECG in Hillsborough, and set loose on condition that I didn't have a shower. I headed for the gym, and pounded out a five-mile run. I'd wanted to do my two-hour drive down the M1 at rush-hour, too, to record more stress levels. I wondered how near the edge I was taking things. The results showed that under exertion my heart-beat self-corrects. My low point is the middle of the night; I may just not wake up one morning. My GP referred me for chest X-Rays, for safety.
Cardiology at Northern General was another world. Blood pressure, BMI, another ECG, more blood tests, and then the consultant. Dr O'Toole squints at me. "I think we're looking at Mitral Valve leakage, here. It's probably your ectomorphic body - higher susceptibility. You could have had it for a while. Better see if you need some repair. You've got 16% ectopic beats. And there's evidence of Nutcracker syndrome. We'll need to check your blood for cultures. Watch your dental hygiene - an infection could be serious." The next test was an Ultrasound scan, the common procedure for pregnant mums. I watched the screen in fascination.
This was now a year on from my first tentative appointment. In parallel I needed investigations about my blood proteins: another story. I'd had more medical consultations than in the entire previous decade. Finally, Dr O'Toole - reassuringly thorough - pronounced that all seemed stable. He referred me back to my GP for 12 months. He sent off a further letter that reads like a page from a cardio encyclopedia. Shortly this document will make its way to DVLA's medical team, and - in measure - govern my foreseeable existence. Meanwhile, I bought an electric tooth brush.
Mercifully, I got a full check-out, including stool samples and blood tests at Hallamshire Hospital. Within a week I was back for results. "No infection that we could find. You probably killed it. But has anybody mentioned your irregular pulse?" "Er, no." "It's very pronounced. Feel this..." The GP gestures to a medical student sitting in on the appointment. "Mmm..." "Has anybody mentioned your low blood pressure? You've had two readings in a row." "Er, no." "Do you feel faint when you stand up after sitting down for a while?" I blushed. At weekly Choir practice I always dread the: "Come on, on you feet, let's sing it right through..." At this point I would clutch for the chair in front of me. I admitted so. "Do you keep up your fluids?" More blushes. "I'm really bad at having enough to drink from after lunch onwards." "You should do something about that. And I'm worried about your blood proteins: a bit high. Better have some more tests, and an ECG."
This was now a year on from my first tentative appointment. In parallel I needed investigations about my blood proteins: another story. I'd had more medical consultations than in the entire previous decade. Finally, Dr O'Toole - reassuringly thorough - pronounced that all seemed stable. He referred me back to my GP for 12 months. He sent off a further letter that reads like a page from a cardio encyclopedia. Shortly this document will make its way to DVLA's medical team, and - in measure - govern my foreseeable existence. Meanwhile, I bought an electric tooth brush.
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