This personal story was e-mailed to us by our reader from Sheffield, England

July 1, 2008



By Ian Waterston

Sheffield, England





I was 30 years old, a smoker, working in corporate finance, and I was

spending a snatched weekend climbing with a friend Bob in the English

Lake District. I felt fantastic and had the previous day just been

given a great new work assignment. I was living on adrenalin!

I led the first relatively easy 100 foot climb, but near the top all my



protection (what climbers place in the rock to stop them falling all

the way to the ground if the fall off) fell out! So I was pretty

terrified for a few moves. Still, I got to the top. Phew..

Back at the ground again, smoking yet another ciggy,, my left arm felt



noticeably weird, but I was still able to do another climb. Then Bob

suggested another, famous climb nearby. I felt unexpectedly edgy and

anxious and I still couldn't work out why I had this odd pain in my

left arm, but I agreed so long as he led and I followed. It was a 200

foot classic climb with a great final pitch, 80 feet long and slightly

overhanging with good holds, and I congratulated Bob on leading it

when I joined him at the top.



As we were soaking in the great view in the sunlight and packing away

our climbing gear a hugely painful tightening wrapped itself around my

chests and squeezed. The pain radiated up to my neck and down my arm.

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Incredibly with hindsight, when I pointed this out to Bob I suggested

that what I needed was some lunch and a drink. My mouth was dry and I

though something to drink would fix the problem. I've no idea why I

thought that. No other cause entered my tunnel vision brain! Why

should it? I was young, fit and had never been ill.



So as Bob descended ahead I followed, getting weaker and more

drenched in sweat as I followed carrying my increasingly heavy rucsac.

By the time we

hit the road I could barely walk, and still the pain persisted. And

still I though I just needed a drink.



Bob drove to the pub a few miles away, we ordered duck and chips and a

couple of pints of beer. I drank the beer. No improvement. The food

arrived. I ate some of it, felt nauseous, ate a bit more, then headed

for the toilet, where I sicked up the whole lot. And the pain in my

chest was getting even worse. And then, in a flash of insight, I

remembered that a month before a famous young English comedy actor

called Richard Beckinsdale, my age, had died of a massive heart attack.



And hadn't my own father died of one when he was 47 years old. Maybe,

I thought, that's what I've got. Why I didn't mention this to Bob or

anybody else I still don't know, but I went back to the packed bar,

asked the barmaid where the public phone was, (it was outside in the

car park), went outside to it, picked up the handset, dialled directory

enquiries, asked for the nearest Hospital, memorised the number, put my

money in, dialled and spoke to the nurse who answered. Those were the

days!



I explained what my fears were, what my symptoms were, about

what I'd been doing, mentioned the Richard Beckinsdale memory, and

she

immediately said they'd send an ambulance.



I suggested instead I get Bob to drive me because it would be quicker.

So back to the bar to tell a totally stunned Bob that I thought I was having

a heart attack and could we get going, and walked out to the car.



The drive was a nightmare on steadily intensifying, agonising pain,

with me telling him to drive faster. By now well over an hour had

passed since we were coiling the ropes up at the top of the last climb

and what I remember is the unrelenting chest pain.



Arrive at the local cottage hospital, eventually, walk in and a nurse

and doctor are waiting. Go in, lie down on a bed in my tatty old

climbing gear, they attach ECG wires to my chest whilst I'm getting

really upset about the pain, and I can see pretty soon from their

surprised looks that actually, yes, the paper trace shows