Well, that'll teach to make assumptions about what's going on inside my body. At the weekend I was pretty positive that my only trouble was a nasty bout of acute bronchitis, but as Sunday progressed I grew more and more concerned about the fact that I was having trouble breathing. Coughing up potentially sentient masses of goo is one thing, but when you become aware that your lung capacity has dropped something chronic and that's why you can't speak, well, it's a bit more worrying. Something had to be done - and though I didn't know it at the time, the result of not doing anything would've been pretty bally bad.
I decided to go to the doctors on Monday - if I hadn't, the missus-to-be would've probably had me restrained and taken by force, and with good reason - though was somewhat scuppered by the fact it was a public holiday. Whoops. Thankfully, I'd regained enough of my voice back after the weekend to be able to call NHS24 (for yon people south of the border, that's the Scottish equivalent of NHS Direct). Despite understandably being extra busy with people calling them in place of going to the doc's on a bank holiday, my call was still answered promptly and I was passed on to a nurse with the briefest of holds. The service, if that's the right word, was excellent - they were very helpful, and reassuringly patient during the times when I lost my breath and needed to start a sentence again. Having gone through all my symptoms the nurse figured it was worth me being checked out as soon as possible, preferably in the next few hours. Just like that, she gets an appointment set up at Western General just two hours later, time enough for me to comfortably get a bus over there without rushing (not something you want to be doing with lacklustre lungs) - what a system!
So, two hours later, there I am. I'd never been to the Western General before, off to the north-west of Edinburgh. There's all sorts of things going on there - the bus went past the Molecular Medicine Centre and another for Human Genetics, while there was signpost for the Linear Accelerator (Cyclotron) which sounds more like something from CERN. Going by the website there's some lovely old buildings there with a history behind them, but the Minor Injuries Unit was in a typically huge bland building that could've been any hospital in the land. I'd arrived about 15 mins early but figured I'd report to reception anyway and then curl up on a chair and get through a good wodge of Lanark before I got seen to. Nope! I'd barely sat down in the waiting area before I was led to an examination room by Dr. Sexy (well, she was rather, and that damn song played in a loop in my head all through the consultation, thanks a bunch Joe). After the expected stethoscoping and back tapping, I was told that while there had been a chest infection, the real problem was asthma.
Now - back in the halcyon days of 2001, during one of my many failed attempts to get fit, I'd grown concerned that I was getting out of breath notably quickly when going out for runs, and while I'd previously put this down to being a fat bastard I eventually toddled over to the doctors to check. As a result I was diagnosed with a not very serious form of exercise-induced asthma. It'd never reached anything remotely like an attack stage, just a bit of post-jogging wheeziness, but just to be sure I was given a preventative inhaler for use just before a good bout of exercise. I've used it ever since pre-gym/jog/pool and there's not been the slightest problem.
Fast-forward to 2008, and I'm told that what was happening over the weekend was basically the build-up to a serious asthma attack. I was asked if I'd used the inhaler at all, but I'd honestly not considered that once as I'd never thought asthma could be the culprit. Duh. As it was, if I hadn't had the consultation on Monday and the treatment that followed, I'd probably have had a full-blown attack either Monday evening or today. My speechlessness over the weekend was a symptom of severe asthma, and it turns out such things can be life-threatening left untreated, which rather startled me. Up until then, asthma was just an annoying thing that might affect my breathing if I went for a run without using the inhaler beforehand, but it was never a big deal and after that initial diagnosis in 2001 I've barely given it a thought. So what the hell?
Well, my sniffles last week and those thick green gobs at the weekend certainly were indicators of a chest infection, and as these adult-onset triggers suggest, it was this infection that most likely brought the asthma on. It's also possible that a certain amount of work-based stress might have had a hand in this as well, which is something I'll need to think about and discuss with my team leader's over the next fortnight. I've been running myself pretty ragged lately and been loathe to show any sign of not being able to cope with workload or particular responsibilities - when you're on temporary promotion, you don't want to display any weakness that could damage that ever becoming permanent, y'know? - but looking back I can see a couple of points where I got too flustered and it manifested itself physically as well as mentally. That's not good, and it seems likeliest that while the infection or stress on their own wouldn't have had this effect, the two together were enough to clobber my immune system, fuck about with my lungs and trigger the onset of severe asthma, described by Dr.Sexy as bronchial spasm. Nasty.
The solution? Two different prescriptions to get things walloped this week; firstly, these cheery little red fellows to the right. Each one is 5mg of Prednisolone, a steroid that essentially does the same job as that taken in by inhaler, but in pill form it's a more direct approach. The prescription is a hefty one - 40mg daily for five days - described as a 'steroid burst' which is to bring the asthma under control and relax those tightened lungs. Secondly, 500mg of Amoxicillin every 8 hours, an antibiotic (if you couldn't already tell by the name) to give that bastard bacterial infection that brought all this on a jolly good seeing to. I've been on both since yesterday afternoon and already sensed some unsettling mood swings as I'd been warned might happen - this morning I felt an incredible sense of unfocused frustration and annoyance, which isn't like me at all (goodness knows there's enough things out there to make one annoyed, but it wasn't that this time).
I suspect a certain amount of that comes from being a bit shaken by it all. Chest infections are one thing, but having severe asthma symptoms come out of nowhere and what it could have led to really has given me the willies. On one hand I feel foolish for doing so - as today's World Asthma Day (huh, that was well timed!) points out, there's 5.2 million people in the UK with asthma and maybe I'm just getting all flustered over something that's not a big deal. But on the other, surely it is a big deal, to be left speechless and breathless without knowing exactly why, and then finding out what could have happened if treatment hadn't been taken? And, hell, if it wasn't a big deal, I wouldn't have all these cheerfully coloured pills going down my gullet all week and making me moody (well, moodier). I guess I'm writing this bit more for my benefit, to reassure myself that I'm not getting all overblown and manfluey about a spot of breathlessness.
I've not been at work yet this week; while my lungs are like this I need as much good air as possible, rather than the stale dust-laden air that hangs around the office, far from any windows, and the steroids apparently lower your defences to any new germs so I'm not working anywhere near anyone with a cough unless there's any oxygen suits handy. On the orders of Dr. Sexy I'm to go to my local GP tomorrow, though getting an appointment there is reminiscent of phoning up for super-rare gig tickets, phoning up at 8am and hoping I get through before all the day's slots are gone. From that it should hopefully become clear if the medication is working - for the lungs at least, I'd say they are getting better, capacity is slowly but surely improving - and what this means for the future. Do I need regular medication from hereon? What do I need to watch out for? At this point, I haven't got a clue, but then I'd foolishly assumed was something you picked up as a child (I remember a few people at school with inhalers) and wasn't likely to suddenly appear in your thirties. Things you learn...
Anyway, on a happy note, I'm immensely indebted to the Lass who's looked after me and gave me the encouragement to get things checked out on Monday, and for putting up with my moody surliness this morning. Also, I was genuinely impressed by how the mighty NHS performed, the kind of thing that makes you thank the stars you're living in Britain, or any other country with nationalised health care (America, join us!). From the NHS24 phonecall to the consultation at Western General, I barely had to wait a minute and was always treated with care, attention and respect - a private hospital couldn't have been any better. You only seem to hear negative stories about the NHS from the media, so much so that it's almost a surprise to actually call on the NHS and find out that - shock! - it's not all MRSA, day-long waiting times, filth-strewn wards and sullen, exhausted staff. Sometimes it all works perfectly. Now to make my lungs do the same.
You could pay a fortune for gym membership, or you could trudge down to your local swimming pool and spend the rest of the day smelling faintly of chlorine.
In further news, London has clearly gone off its tits and elected the 
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