An Empty House is Never Burgled.

The old saying, absence makes the heart grow fonder, seems to be more realistic than I have always thought. So as I felt as I lay on a bed inside a hospital ward just two nights before this blog is written. But how did I end up there in the first place?

It is all to do with my aortic valve replacement operation just over four years previously, as a treatment for a regurgitating aortic valve I had, so I was told, since I was young, perhaps even from birth. Although the procedure was a complete success in itself, life-long repercussions remain. This includes taking anticoagulants, in my case Warfarin, for life, along with beta-blockers and diuretics. However, it was a decision taken by one Cardiologist at Heatherwood Hospital in Ascot, that I can come off the diuretics. I thought a first that was wonderful. Then the problems began. I began to get short of breath every time I exerted myself from a state of rest to exercise. And that could be as simple as climbing a flight of steps.

It was when I came to the stage of even finding walking difficult without gasping for breath when Alex my wife begged me to see a GP. Yes, begged. The same as five years previously when I kept on waking up in the small hours of the morning wheezing and having a sensation of drowning, as liquid rattled in my chest at every breath taken. Back then, as this time around, I paid a visit to my GP after much persuasion - er - nagging - by my wife. Yes, I am aware. We as men have a sense of embarrassment about seeing the Doctor. Being male myself, I tend to believe in this universal sense of awkwardness, which I think arises from the belief that our symptoms are not serious enough to waste the Doctor's time and be fobbed off -  "On yer bike, pal".

But an out-of-hours Doctor I did see, and this female, who looks to be fresh out of college, saw straightaway, that I was panting and looking unwell. And that was just after walking a few metres after sitting for half-an-hour at the waiting room. After a talk which consisted mainly of answering a pile of questions, she made a successful diagnosis of my condition and was able to see that I was suffering from water retention, which was responsible for the shortness of breath. At that, she decided for me to visit Royal Berks A&E in Reading, and to arrange for an ambulance to take me straight there. I protested, asking her to put me back on diuretics and continue as before. Instead, she insisted on a visit to a Consultant as a more appropriate need. 

I phoned my wife, who immediately summoned a taxi. She waiting for my arrival at A&E for quite a while before I finally arrived. She was my comfort while reclining on the gurney, watching nurses and doctors walk past in both directions, along with patients being wheeled away by a porter, the never-ending hustle-and-bustle of a typical A&E department. It was several hours later when one of the doctors entered my cubicle to announce that I will be kept in overnight. My wife panicked. 

This is because whenever she feels distressed or experience a rise of negative emotion, various things happen. One is a severe backache caused by the tightening of her muscles, immobilising her. Normally, I can quickly get her out of her condition, having learnt from experience, along with an administration of a strong painkiller such as Co-Codamol or Oramorph. Another state her emotions can lead her to is a seizure, remaining conscious but a tightening of her throat or neck muscles threatening asphyxiation. I have learned to get her out of that condition too, by applying CPR which I had previously learned as a poolside lifeguard back in 1972/3. On another occasion, she can get into a kind of body lock, when although still remaining conscious, she goes into a deep unwakeable sleep-like state which takes a while for her to recover. Such is her threefold neurotic disorder arisen from a series of long-past psychosomatic circumstances.

In a state of sudden panic, she tried to phone through to a couple who have been friends for a long time, and who also took her in while I was recovering from my heart op at Harefield Hospital in Uxbridge. But the ringing went unanswered. Then realising that this was a week when schools were shut for half-term and many were away on holiday, we knew then we were on our own. 

And so she booked a taxi for home while I was wheeled to one of the wards. It was a while later when I knew that by then she should have settled in, was when a nurse lent me a hospital mobile phone and tried to contact her several times and the phone remained unanswered, that a deep feeling of helplessness and hopelessness filled my soul. All night through.

Being in a hospital ward, there were constant interruptions as nurses walk in to take blood pressure measurements, including from me. The welcoming darkness dispelled every time a patient turn on his bedside light or the much-needed silence disturbed by conversation, whether between patients or to staff, the situation was never ideal for a good night's sleep.

And visions from an overactive imagination.

My imagination was indeed running wild. I kept seeing visions of my beloved lying on the floor, paralysed. Unable to move, her throat muscles tightening as if strangled by an unseen force. With nobody to help her, she finally gives up the ghost by asphyxiation. Or lying on the floor with her back muscles curved in tightness while suffering from extreme pain. And with both front and back doors locked, no one can enter the house to assist her. Furthermore, she has my house keys. That means even if I were to leave the hospital ward to get home quickly, she could be lying unconscious and there is nothing I can do short of a literal break in.

Main Entrance Royal Berks Hospital, Reading.

It was as if I was teased, a target for fun-poking, ridicule. I tried to imagine what would a life of widowhood be like. Worldwide travel again? A return to being single? None of these brought any comfort, but rather a source of torment. I could circumnavigate the globe many times over. But none of that would make up for the love and affection we have always exchanged. The only person in the world who sincerely thinks I'm good-looking, gorgeous, a rock of security, someone who she adores, a representation of Jesus Christ. If she goes, then the empty void left behind will be impossible to fill -  the wretched feeling of loneliness would be too much to bear - unless I experience a miracle.

Perhaps we are both in need of one. If only Jesus Christ materialise in front of us and promises he would grant three of anything we ask for. Immediately, without hesitation, we would ask for a restoration of health, assurance of salvation for us and our three daughters and perhaps financial security as a top up, but not on the expense of trusting in him for our daily needs.

Around breakfast time, I again tried to contact my wife over the phone. And yet again no answer. I kept trying, but this carried on as if stubbornly refusing to acknowledge my call. Eventually, in sheer desperation, I cried to God to bring her back to the hospital ward. I kept on repeating my prayers, regardless of whether they were heard by others in the ward or not. My heart was pleading, pleading...

As we parted during the previous evening, she promised that she would be by my side before nine in the morning. But it was already 10.30 and I was still alone. I tried to shut out any thoughts that she could be unconscious, or even dead, back at home and carried on pleading with the Lord to bring her over safely.

At 10.45 my wife suddenly appeared as she was wheeled in by a porter. The sudden sense of relief as we hugged was almost unimaginable. It was then when I piled thanks upon thanks to God for his goodness. About an hour later the Consultant came in to visit to put me on a permanent prescription of Bumetanide, a diuretic medicine I was taking before it was discontinued. He then said that we were free to go home after the medicine arrives from the hospital pharmacist. Indeed, I was thinking, if that young GP was on the same track of thought as I was on the previous day, we would have been spared of all this, as well as the cost to the NHS. I can only assume that as an apparent junior, she did not carry the authority to put the diuretic back on prescription without a more senior consultation.

It seems that as a married couple, we have a lion's share of tribulation, and that aimed specifically at our health. My wife's neurotic disorder brings just as much anxiety to me as well as my heart condition brings to her. We both worry for each other constantly, life on a knife-edge, a constant emotional turmoil. The most frequent-asked question is, Are you okay? I could ask that several times within a couple of hours.

It wasn't long since I came across a poster on Facebook. It read An Empty House is Never Burgled. This reminds me of a thief, a robber or burglar. Who are thieves and robbers? Apparently, it's the Adversary, according to Jesus' own words recorded in John 10:10. A thief only steals if the intended victim has something worthy to be taken. An empty, unoccupied house is of no interest to the burglar! Apparently, Satan must be constantly hungry, for he seems to go after the fruit, that is, the fruit of the Holy Spirit. As the apostle writes in 2 Timothy 3:12, anyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted, or simply will have trouble.  

We tend to think that persecution only means being hated by unbelievers - to be chased, thrown into prison, forced to deny the faith, tortured, killed. Hmm! I cannot see any of that aimed at any of our churches here! Maybe Paul the Apostle had got it wrong, or times have changed since his day. Or maybe the word applies to a far more universal term of suffering - to have trouble, to suffer some kind of tribulation.

This makes far more sense. By means of the Holy Spirit living within us, we produce good fruit: Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, Self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). Indeed, Satan is constantly hungry and he will steal. Especially the fruits of love, joy and peace, but he'll go after others, particularly patience when driving in traffic or stuck in a superstore checkout queue. Often God does not stop the spiritual crime, although he allows it to go only so far.

Our love will be forever...

I look at our own marriage relationship. I'm happy to say that it 's strong, stable, robust. And believe it or not, I think that the tribulations aimed at our health and wellbeing have played a role. And I think absence makes the heart grow fonder. During that night at the hospital ward, all I was concerned was that she was okay on her own at home. Not that I never go out on my own, of course, I do, just about every day I'm out on my own, whether it'll be for a few minutes or for several hours, or even for much of the day. But there is a world of a difference, for example, between a gym and sauna session and being confined at a hospital ward bed.

The Adversary may attempt to steal as much as he can from us, even our lives, but our love for each other will remain forever.

That One Thing I Take For Granted...

A patient walks into a doctor's surgery:-

Patient: Doctor, I have a pain around my stomach area.

Doctor: Oh for heaven's sake, it's just a bout of indigestion. Go home, man up, and stop wasting my time!

The patient goes home and carries on his business. After such a shocking reply, he decides to "man up" and tells no one else for weeks to come, not even his family members. And as the pain gradually intensifies, he carries on in keeping a stiff upper lip like any good Englishman. That is, until the intensity of the pain spreading towards his tummy and also towards his back compels him to visit his nearest Accident and Emergency department of a local hospital. 

After some time resting fetus-like on the bed with both arms clenched, another doctor, after carrying out some tests as well as observing a level of weight loss, suggests that it's pancreatic cancer. At least this doctor, no doubt an immigrant, since his English, although good, was still somewhat broken as he spoke. He was far more compassionate in his attitude than his local GP he had earlier consulted, who was a British veteran who also served in the military Red Cross. By contrast, this medic working at Accident and Emergency, turned out to be correct in his diagnosis, and the patient was then admitted into the main hospital for further tests and observations so the correct course of treatment may get underway.  

Of course, these days no doctor of any nationality would display such a dismissive attitude to a patient, but being old enough to see such past attitudes in real life has made me rather obstinate, at least according to my wife's opinion, against visiting our local GP whenever I need to. This sense of stubbornness most likely harks back to one morning many years earlier when I attended a primary school. Back then I recall one boy bullying another, and the victim went to a middle-aged male teacher whom he had asked to intercede. Instead, this teacher brushed the youngster off with the rebuke, Don't tell tales! The victim was left to his own devices to deal with the bully. Or later in the 1990's, during my peak of world travel, and what I have read in a hosteling magazine more than twenty years ago. It was an article referring to the original purpose of youth hosteling. This was when such hostels catered for city children to have a taste of country life, long before they were taken over by backpackers. In those days when the compulsory morning duty was carried out by every member, meals were served by the catering staff, and lights out at 10.30 PM.

On one occasion, when a father and his son was staying one night at such a youth hostel, the warden's wife instructed both to "finish their vegetables" before they can leave the table! This is a true story if you find it hard to believe. But this goes back to the late 1950's when every boy was expected to be conscripted for National Service, and the warden and his wife saw this as the reason for such strict, public school discipline within the hostel premises. This was about the same time as the above primary school bullying incident, when just about all adult men had a stint in the military, with many enduring combat, and therefore expected the boys to toughen up and follow suit. However, the father, after such an insulting humiliation as a fully grown adult and parent, had never set foot in a hostel ever again, while the son waited up to nearly forty years before he found the courage to hesitatingly step through the door of a hostel once more. I'm happy to say that with the vast modernisation and improvements, together with sharing the dormitory with adult backpackers instead of children, he was converted to become a devout fan of hosteling.

And there is a well documented case concerning Eton, one of Britain's most famous Public Schools, located across the River Thames from Windsor. Reverend Dr. John Keate took over Eton as headmaster in 1809. Each day, from Monday even to Saturday (but not on Sundays) he would cane up to ten boys. On 30 June 1832, he thrashed over eighty of his pupils with his cane. But instead of showing negative emotions in direct relation to the pain felt, each boy cheerfully thanked him for the punishment.*

It was this what their parents paid for. For their son's level of stoicism to reach such heights so that he can be classified with the privilege of being one of the Breed - the ideal Englishman whose emotions are so controlled that he can suffer pain without even a wince, but instead it's met with a smile. The perfect gentleman who is not only a magnificent boxer, but would also bow in reverence to the Monarch, yet at the same time have a disdain for all foreigners, with a God-given sense of biological, ethical and national superiority to invade other lands and rule over the indigenous as one of the Master Race. Such would make an ideal military officer over a regiment deployed to maintain the Empire. And so such attitude carries over from one generation to the next, with fathers and school teachers whacking the backsides of their offspring until such beatings eventually becomes a sexual stimulant as these boys grow up into adulthood.

And so by the 1960's and the 70's, it was not uncommon for a suited City businessman, complete with bowler hat, to make a beeline to a prostitute's bedroom after a day's work, and pay her to have his buttocks whacked with a leather strap prior to sexual intercourse. This, off course, with an excuse for his wife that "he must work late at his office" as part of his employment. My point is, had all this discipline and punishment, based on national, ethical and racial superiority, really produced a godly, moral character?

City gent - model of Christian virtue?

Having been born towards the tail end of such a culture, I believe to be one of many Baby-boomers who believe that visiting a GP, unless literally gasping at my last breath, is wasting his time when he could be dealing with a patient carrying a more serious illness. It is a subconscious feeling, often disguised as an excuse for delay or pretended forgetfulness, or even with an explanation that I'm on the recovery, even if not actually true, thus expressing my unwillingness to visit the doctor, in case he tells me to man up and not waste his time. Yet my wife Alex insists that I should go. And she has even arranged an appointment for me.

This is a result of an injury inflicted at the gym, as already expressed in my recent blogs. As the pain refuses to go, leaving me hobbling along instead of walking, Alex bought a pair of crutches online, and I now can move more efficiently by leaning on one of the crutches. But this can be rather humiliating, especially at a superstore, when I watch an elderly female, old enough to be my mother, walking stealthily along like a twenty-year-old athlete whilst I lean heavily on that aluminium tube my wife had bought for me. It is by this experience that I come to realise how much I have taken for granted my health and mobility, probably the most important commodity in any man's life.

At last, late one evening I visit the doctor, a middle-aged female immigrant who is apparently married to a Brit, because she bears an English surname. Far from telling me not to waste her time, she was practically all over me, referring me as "my darling" as she examined my condition. When I told her that I had injured myself at the gym, she explained about the ailment Plantar Fasciitis, but with the pain prolonged to over three weeks and showing no sign of abating, she has suggested that I might have a torn ligament, and then asked me whether I would submit to both an X-Ray and a scan, to verify her suspicion and if proven true, to turn up at Accident and Emergency. Therefore I was not too surprised to be confronted by Alex's annoyance when I mentioned about a potential visit to Accident and Emergency. She knew that I needed attention, and therefore she had a go at me for my stubbornness in not visiting the doctor earlier on.

In reference to Reverend Dr. John Keate, it is his double title which as intrigued me. He was an academic and a church leader, as well as a leader of Eton. Yet as I try to perceive the Church of England through the eyes of a recently-whacked pupil, I wonder how those students perceived God himself. Certainly not as a God of healing, as so many sore buttocks can testify. There seems to be a massive contrast between the likes of Dr. John Keate and that of Jesus himself, who exhorted his followers to "...heal the sick..." - not whack them.

Eton College Public School

But when Jesus healed the sick, there was always one main reason for doing so, and that was for the glory of God. That is, Jesus healed the sick, cast out demons, fed the poor, and ministered to the oppressed - so that people will recognise him as their Messiah, and by believing on his name, they may have eternal life through him (John 20:31). Jesus himself said,
I told you that you will die in your sins; if you do not believe that I am, you will indeed die in your sins - John 8:24.

To believe that Jesus is the Christ is born of God, and everyone who loves the father loves his child as well (1 John 5:1). That was the whole object of Christ's ministry in healing the sick: To bring people to God through faith in Jesus Christ. It does look like that God holds great value to health. It was how God originally created us. And Psalm 139 contains one of the best testimonies on how God has "knitted us together whilst still in the womb." - (Verses 14-16).

God is our Father, especially to the believer, the one who has faith in Jesus. And what I have learnt from not only of my experience, but what my wife is going through as well, is that being healthy is a precious gift from God. The trouble is, I tend to forget this, especially if I'm on a pursuit to attain a goal, whether it's in business or for pleasure, and I merely take my health for granted. By suddenly having to hobble along in pain rather than walk or run can indeed cause me to focus on how precious my health really is, and there is nothing shameful, or embarrassing about paying a visit to a General Practitioner and accepting his course of treatment. Because he will not tell me to man up and to bear my pain with "macho" stoicism. Neither would he tell me off, nor wield a cane for wasting his time, nor would he say that my malady is too minor for his attention. Rather, he - or in my case, she - would give the right advice and set me on the proper course of treatment.

And I think that in itself is a demonstration of God's fatherly love.


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*Jeremy Paxman, The English - A Portrait of a People, page 179, Michael Joseph Publishers.