Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  After I suffered that first coronary Homer was shaken by his misdiagnosis. Apparently he experienced bouts of depression in the weeks following. But I wasn’t exactly on a high either. Our eldest boy, Luke, observed the man leaving the house, following his call. The good doctor was entirely dejected, understanding the implications of his blunder. His personal apology to me wasn’t exactly cheerful, but in our house at least his demeanour remained professional.

  “What can I say to you, Noah? There’s nothing I can say or do that will make amends,” he admitted. He’d grown dark patches under his eyes. But he still didn’t look as dreadful as me, it has to be emphasised again.

  This happened after I was flown back from Crete; with the sunny hills and orange groves of my life in ruins. Homer explained his mistake by referring to my previous spanking health. I’d been playing my regular game of squash, he reminded me; just the previous month winning another veteran championship at the club. I seemed active and I didn’t overindulge the highly social vices; as far as he was aware. There was some truth in this, but did Timpson imagine that patients tell their doctor everything about their lives?

  The initial symptoms of coronary disease don’t hire a publicist. I was still bowling around the squash court, whacking that hard little ball as cunningly as ever. How could he know that I was potentially killing myself? Homer Timpson didn’t want to restrict my normal social life or to frighten me with an alarmist diagnosis. He was aware that my marriage had broken up; that I was finally divorced the previous year; and that I am concerned about my business. Homer prescribed me a bottle of indigestion tablets, powerful ones, and gave me a brief lecture in chewing my food properly and the benefits of a good rest.

  When I followed his advice the cradle of western civilisation as near as much became my grave. Corrina and I had only touched down on Cretan soil for an hour or two, before I began to feel a strange tingling at the top of my arms. This sensation couldn’t be explained away as erotic excitement. I barely had energy to walk down to the sea that evening, never mind to smash my way through the warm waves as intended. I had trouble getting to sleep at night, despite gulping down fistfuls of Timpson’s magic digestion pills. Certainly they should be named after him.

  It was like physically disintegrating, getting out of breath, and with my vision blurred. The unaccustomed heat was the only alibi I could reach for. But only the Mojave Desert is as hot as that. Corrina began to think that I was really much older than she thought. To begin with she thought I was suffering a bit of male flu abroad. If only.

  “It’s obviously catching up with you, Noah,” she remarked. “This is really a drag.”

  “Sorry, Corrie, I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all,” I assured her.

  “Did you come all this way to have a good sleep?” she retorted.

  “This is weird because I feel totally exhausted,” I admitted.

  “Well, Noah, you look it!”

  Her speculation about this malady was no more exact than my GP’s. I understood that something serious was going on, not connected with my eating regime or a male menopause, for that matter; the male menopause being a total myth anyway. I remained awake during the night, staring up at the ceiling, under my volcano. I dissolved in the heat of the day like an ice sculpture; neither the heat nor my illness giving any respect to a (relatively) trim and toned physique. I spread there wondering if I was the victim of a general nervous exhaustion, or was finally having a breakdown. Why should I suffer a breakdown while I was taking a great holiday with the beautiful girl of my dreams? This made no sense whatsoever.

  “Why don’t you pull yourself together?” Corrina rebuked me.

  I was asking myself identical searching questions, but answers were harder to express.

  I only truly grasped the problem when my heart kicked me, like a pack mule burnt by a stray cigarette butt. But I’d been no shrewder at interpreting the Oracle than Homer; even as I stared out from our villa into the dark cave of eternity. I wilfully ignored all the warning signs, because I didn’t appreciate them. This despite a family history of heart disease. But I’m getting well ahead of myself here.

  Not even the lovely vision of Corrina’s bottom, flexing softly ahead of me, was any distraction from these symptoms. Simply to walk down that sweet little beach path to the shore below had become an ordeal, dreaded in anticipation. Not to mention that Corrina was eager to play beach tennis, to aquaplane following a light lunch. Why not, as we had itemised these activities beforehand?

  “Come on, Noah! Stop dawdling. What’s holding you up?” she would call back, as she got steadily further ahead of me: as her beautiful figure dissolved in a sheet of stinging perspiration.

  “Give me strength!” I chastised myself.

  We had planned an energetic sporting vacation. Until that moment I’d been a vigorous guy impatient with inactivity. This sudden leaden lethargy, as if I was carrying a mountain on my shoulders, was baffling and whimsical to her. She’d left on a jet plane with her dashingly mature lover only to land up with Grandfather Time.

  In between times, we spread our bodies on the excruciatingly burning grit, in a semblance of sunbathing. I resembled a dehydrated jellyfish that had long lost its sting. I’d bury my head in the towel as I felt the sun cutting a groove across my neck, wondering if I’d ever see my children and my home again. There was an old guy who strolled along the grit every hour, his legs getting bandier, his moustache droopier, howling at us as he tried to flog local savouries. I allowed myself one glass of chilled beer daily, on the patio after dinner, thinking the refreshing alcohol would do me some good. But I felt like the Consul in Malcolm Lowry’s novel, at the end of my last shot of mescaline, vaguely understanding my inevitable doom.

  Talk between Corrina and I grew antagonistic, as neither of us understood what was happening. I guess that we should have referred quickly to a local doctor or health clinic, but I was in denial and it was a distracting idea. But that wasn’t clever, as our groovy new love already resembled an archaeological dig. She would stay with me during the morning, after breakfast for a while, until the heat cranked up to laser intensity (as it felt to me) before she wandered away to the beach again, without me. Youth will have its way, I told myself, bitterly. I’d watch her beautiful figure blur into a biting haze.

  On the Tuesday I did somehow drag myself after her. I had to watch her playing beach volleyball with a group of young local men. These glistening lads resembled bronzed spear throwers from the first Athens Olympics. They sounded like a bunch of young satyrs, laughing and exerting with her, but I was too strung out to offer any resistance, or any purposeful envy. However, Corrina attempted to rouse my body and spirits to join her, clinging to the idea of sharing these experiences.

  “Come on, Noah! For goodness sake. Don’t just lie there!”

  I could merely raise a desperate hand, as if waving to her.

  “Do let’s try to have some fun,” she told me.

  “Sure, Corrina... I’ll recover myself. Soon.”

  “You old lazy bones!” she called out, as if trying to shame me in front of the German party. “Can’t you serve?”

  I was busy empathising with those fish, dead and wide eyed, tossed on to the evening’s barbecue. Corrina tucked into them voraciously after the afternoon’s beach games. She suggested that I hold on to a giant kite behind a power boat. But even as a kite enthusiast I was reluctant to participate in this extreme fun; not any longer. Already I felt that I was flying extremely close to the sun.

  The cool of our villa offered a chance for evening reflection. She and I were supposed to be crazy about each other. Before I felt ill she told me I was in great shape for a guy of my age, like a Peter Fonda, a Jeff Bridges, or some other ageing but handsome hero of mine. But I didn’t resemble these alternative Hollywood idols any longer. As with our motorcycle trips back to the villa, my story
line had veered off in a frightening direction. We had to go and buy some more groceries, fruit and vegetables, as we were looking after ourselves in the villa. Corrina wanted to buy some local artefacts as presents, as well as more hapless fish for the grill. On this errand we rode into the nearest village of note and began to stroll around the market there. I rode pillion to Corrina again as she snarled around the winding roads on a hired motorbike. I steeled myself to overcome this passing malady, or whatever it was bothering me, stopping me from enjoying the holiday and having fun with my girlfriend. Sadly I felt drained of energy as I staggered off her chrome horse, as if we’d torn up a thousand miles and burnt up the Easy Rider along the way.

  We wandered around variegated stalls for an hour, for an eternity, in a crushing heat. Already my body language was drawing stares from healthier olive toned faces. We barged around this noisy market, dodging record temperatures, trying to make shrewd or surprising purchases. This was a special kind of torture as I approached meltdown point. I knew that my family and friends were out of reach. You could have offered me a tram ride down the Golden Mile, any day of the week.

  The situation grew out of control suddenly; I couldn’t get the better of this virus, or however I rationalised it. I had talked to her about feeling run down, so along came the ghostly juggernaut. I began to choke like one of the local mad dogs; tasted something oily, bitter, like nothing in this world. The tingles and aches intensified to a ruthless steel grasp. Despite her concern Corrina made involuntary noises of disgust. I was making a Jim Carrey of myself. It was a nightmare and before long I completely zonked out.

  I battled to escape the crowded market, again like a dog that prefers to die alone. Such an aim was impossible as a large curious crowd followed us by this stage, as if I was some type of public entertainer, a juggler or even a medicine man. My legs collapsed under me like punctured water wings, so I didn’t get very far away. I was dropping all the shopping I carried; spilling bags of fruit and vegetables around me, discarding the fish, which stared up at me from the baking dust.

  Corrina managed to keep cool, so as to persuade an eager local guy to go off and find the nearest doctor. Can you imagine this?

  “Excuse me. Do you understand English? Yes, well I suppose you live around here don’t you,” she was saying.

  He widened his credulous eyes and mouth. Why did the lovely girl pick him out and talk to him specially?

  “I wonder if you can help, by informing us if there’s a good doctor in the village?”

  He continued to stare at her in stage-struck amazement. He rattled a kind of hard sceptical ball stuck at the end of his throat. “Village?”

  She was engaged in playing charades with this local guy, and he was mesmerised by her pure blue eyes and animated blonde beauty. She was trying hard to explain the cause and effect of my survival chances; but their minds were not focused on the same outcome. If he could’ve jumped her bones in his hillside goat herder’s shack - or wherever he lived - he would gladly have forgotten all about me. Meanwhile, as they were trying to translate, I was writhing in the dust with the fish, and in retrospect I find this scene incredible.

  The nearest available Cretan General Practitioner was a reasonable if thirsty guy. He had a few more home visits to make before he could get to me. His immediate assessment was that I shouldn’t get back to my feet too quickly. He extended his arms and pumped his palms towards the ground, in a restraining gesture to me, as if to say “stay where you are”. This was another medical genius. My confidence in the profession was sinking to seabed level, but to whom else could I turn? Fortunately the medics arrived to save me, as they had advanced driving skills, and speeds, around the hills. They slid me into the back of an ambulance. They whisked me away to the cooler. Or did I just had a bad experience?

  Corrina didn’t allow my heart attack to wreck her vacation. She continued to stay at the villa, and to join the morning beach games of that gang of bronzed heroes. She’d worked hard all year with her world musicians, the hyperactive percussionists and throat singers. I didn’t question her holiday activities and erratic visiting times then, because I was too glad to escape. I already got the score, that she couldn’t be crazy about me, as I originally believed.

  The Cretan doctor instructed me to contact my own GP, as soon as I landed back in Avon. At least, that’s what I think he was telling me. Homer Timpson. I would have to swallow a few more magic pills, until I could find another practitioner. I was strapped down in the back of the aircraft, like a celebrity whale going to a new water park. Looking back on the trip now, I wasn’t in any immediate danger, but that wasn’t my impression as my ears popped at altitude.

  Chapter 3

  Following my return to a chilly Albion I had an appointment at the hospital in Bristol. I was falling to pieces but they passed me from hand to hand like some chunk of runic stone. At the local hospital I met some young guy called Doctor Hammel.

  “Tell me everything you can about your experiences,” he began.

  Corrina probably had a few photographs to show him. I knew she was constantly taking snaps to illustrate her horror story back home. To Corrina I was no more than a giant octopus spilling ink on the quayside.

  For the remainder of the consultation they put me through enough tests to dazzle a lab rat into submission. The medics explained that these were exploratory to begin with. Apart from confirming that I’d suffered a coronary, they couldn’t tell me the immediate damage or consequences. But it was clear I would never win another veteran squash championship.

  Anyway, after an anxious housebound wait, I received a letter from Hammel. He invited me back to the hospital for a conversation. This was his verdict:

  “I have to level with you Noah, by explaining that your heart has been damaged. About a third of your heart was destroyed. We have also found that two of your arteries are blocked. There is some decay and malfunction to the heart valves,” he told me.

  These were not just a few mellow off-beats in the Jamaican style then. This was thumping to shake the whole house down, like the beats that emerge from my son’s bedroom of an evening, when he’s making a stopover.

  “You will need to undergo surgery, to replace the valves, and to clear your arteries,” Hammel continued. “In London they offer specialist techniques of particular help.”

  The surgeons were going to run a knife up my middle, as long suspected. I was so shaken by his verdict that I didn’t hear everything. There was no choice other than to place my life into their gloved and razored hands. But trust is the word and you must place your trust somewhere, with somebody. Otherwise what are the alternatives? Where do you go?

  Hammel pencilled me in as a priority. I would go into hospital as soon as they had a bed free. At this stage I didn’t understand the significance of waiting for a bed to go free. It sounded as if I’d book myself on to an exclusive cruise. During my wait I felt my condition deteriorate. I was transformed from a fit guy into a creature that wheezed and whooshed in the effort of taking the stairs. I felt like the thousand year old man. I was. Clearly I might have checked out altogether without an intervention. I needed a surgeon to clean out my arteries, in the way Dad used to clean out the barrels of his shotgun. Death was waiting around the corner at all times. He was a simple over-exertion away. And he’s been leering at me ever since.

  Lots of people came by to visit then, including part time employees and obscure business associations. I was moved that so many people made the effort: including a few creditors. They kindly came to express their sympathy, their shock and their heart-felt sorrow. Also most likely to wish me goodbye, in case I never made it back from that high-tech London hospital. It was much cheaper than staying at the Dorchester, I jested with them, but I might never return from the bright lights. Noah Sheer was going into that long night under a general anaesthetic.

  One day I received a letter telling me when
to come to London. A bed was available for me and Elizabeth offered to take me there. Elizabeth is my ex-wife you understand. She came to my rescue at the last moment. To begin with our daughter Angela offered to drive me there.

  “I can take you, Dad. No problem,” she argued.

  Angela had recently passed her driving test. To my relief she withdrew the offer on account of a head cold. She has a kaleidoscope of small yet niggling maladies. She’s doing drugs of some type, she smokes and, to my way of thinking, she has life-style issues. For weeks she was celebrating her success with driving. Man, she throws that little hatchback around like a skateboard. When she first set off down the M4 her instructor thought he was in the cockpit of Bluebird. He was clutching the straps waiting for a back flip. Picture the Marx Brothers running that driving school. How the guy passed her I don’t understand: it was either a matter of survival or he fancied her.

  Then I wasn’t inclined to ask Corrina Farlane to take me to hospital. She’d already driven me to hospital, you might conclude. However, it’s easier to get through to the Bishop’s private office, about some personal problem, than it is to contact Corrina during office hours. That’s been my experience.

  No, it was left to Elizabeth to run me up into the smoke. She wouldn’t let me down in those circumstances. These days she runs an organic bakery and health products business. Arguably that’s like Germaine Greer ditching her academic career to run a mobile burger bar. By profession she’s a social psychologist. She’s usually expensively dressed these days. She has a spanking new Merc coupe to whisk her between those dark satanic flour mills. She’s become the real bread maker in this family. Lately I’ve been struggling to gather up the crumbs into a mouthful.