Heartache

Wednesday, August 26, 2009
St Martin de Re

There must be an official word for port-bound, but I don’t know what it is! Since the last blog a lots seems to have happened. We came in to St Martin on Thursday evening. I had forgotten just what it’s like when the harbour gate opens. It was like a stampede on water when around a dozen boats come out of absolutely nowhere and converged on the bottleneck of the harbour mouth. I’d also forgotten that before boats can go in, the outgoing boats have to leave. There was a never ending parade of them, so the waiting boats have to play a ghastly game that is a cross between musical chairs and ‘what’s the time Mister Wolf?’ (Only in this case, the Wolf is played by “La Maline” - the huge white ferry from La Rochelle that comes steaming in, taking no prisoners.) See, the problem is that boats, unlike cars, have no handbrakes, and can’t just sit on the spot.. They have to tie up to something solid, on land or water, or else keep up a flying Dutchman act, in constant motion. It ain’t easy, especially since more boats come in to join the game every few minutes, and these have to be dodged whilst the outgoing boats take up most of the channel. When this is all played out, and red-faced skippers cling damply to wheels and tillers, the real fun begins. Now an unbelievable number of boats start to cram themselves into a u-shaped harbour, and the last bit has to be negotiated backwards… are you sitting comfortably? Well, eventually we found ourselves ensconced in one of the prettiest harbours in France, surrounded by expensive boutique hotels, classy gift shops (nothing louder than pale grey), ice cream parlours, street cafes and an evening market. Oh yes, and a Jazz Festival.

We decided 2 nights here would be fun, and by then there might be some wind in the right direction - or not so much in the wrong one. So we were all ready to leave Friday morning, suitable dosed up on jazz, oysters etc. Only thing was - I had a PAIN. ‘Oh where?’ I hear you ask.
Best way I can describe it is behind my left breast, somewhere in that upper left chest quarter, yes, near the heart, my Hearties. So finally brushing aside all the ‘It’s just my ribs, gasp…’ from me, Al decided we should find the health centre. Although St M is small, it has a healthy (har har) holiday population and so opens a walk in clinic July and August. We found it at 5 minutes past its alleged closing time, despite appalling signage and misdirection, Al striding purposefully out in front and me by now doing hop-along-shuffle whilst apparently holding my left breast in defiance of gravity. Ignoring the closing time business, (actually 65 minutes ago) a nice doctor listened to my symptoms, sympathetically and accurately translated by Al, my French having apparently got bored and gone off for aperitifs. He also listened to my chest with his stethoscope - comfortingly old-fashioned. Well, it could be a neuralgia, but he didn’t really think so. He thought it was an inflammation of the pericardium - the membrane around the heart. ‘What, me!! Heart? No, no, wrong person…’ OK, not the heart, just the bag that it sits in, that’s OK then. La Rochelle? Tonight? Ambulance? No,taxi. OK. It’s OK, everything’s OK.’

So there we are in a taxi going frighteningly fast… emergency room at hospital, no wait, doctor, tests, blood, more stethoscope…. Big smile (doctor, not me) Pericarditis, probably caused by a virus. Ultrasound. No overnight. Lots of QUIET rest, big doses of aspirin. So this is day 5. Pain lessens every day - almost gone now and I am resuming light cooking and short walks, also Internet duties.

Getting back, however, is all a bit touch-and-go. One doctor said rest 10-12 days, the other 12-14. NHS direct says 7 days - well, they would, wouldn’t they. So we’ll see how I feel after a week, also start checking the weather. Ooops - time for another aspirin, maybe a little nap. Yawn.