The first day of the Spring Carnival, but I don’t feel the usual sense of anticipation and excitement. The buzz of years gone by seems to be missing. The fillies are out but don’t seem arouse me. Maybe my life force has diminished? Maybe the crowd is down? Maybe it’s the club’s fault. They have replaced the outside betting ring with an owners and trainers bar, complete with fake green grass! What are they thinking? Don’t they want people to bet? And the tote. They used to have caravans with people and machines. Now they have portable totes just with machines. The humans have been given the flick. It’s just like the pokies, but in fresh air!

I’m trying to build up my photo collection of gear combinations and scored a good one with Lone Rock. Cross over noseband and nasal strip! Glass Harmonium took my eye and looked spiffy in his black ear muffs. I wonder if he picked them up at the S&M counter in an adult shop?  Gai was doing her best to enthuse the punters about Pierro, but I thought he just looked like a horse. I had Epaulette on top, but didn’t bet. Only two bets for the day. I showed admirable restraint until the seventh when I backed Exceptionally, who managed to weave through traffic for third at $2.60. But then I did a backflip and reverse somersault and gave some back on Aerobatics in the last.

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Too cold and wet.

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There is one Saturday in September when I miss the races and head off to the footy. Grand Final day. The Swans versus the Hawks. The battle of the birds. And they even had another bird, a wedge-tailed eagle, perched on top of the southern stand to scare off the other birds, the wretched seagulls! I have seen some memorable grand finals. In 1962 as a little tacker I watched the Bombers from the old Grey Smith stand on a members’ ladies ticket. We used to bang on the timber floor with our feet after each goal and create a tremendous racket. In 1965, the year John Somerville was laid out by Duncan Wright, I was in the outer in standing room perched on four empty beer cans. In the 80s, the back-to-back years, I was still a restricted member and watched it on TV, but managed to see the prelims live. 1990 was probably the worst year when Terry Daniher ran the length of the ground and laid out a Collingwood player. Fights broke out in the members around me! Essendon lost the fights in the members, on the ground, and lost the grand final. 1993, the year of the Baby Bombers, was probably the most memorable, when Dean Wallis laid out Mil Hanna right in front of us, and Michael Long danced around the middle of the ground. 2000 was also good, James Hird showed his silky skills, and Dean Wallis probably won it for them again. The lowlight was the one that got away, the prelim in 1999, when Carlton did us by a point. Today my brother and I missed out in the ballot for tickets but managed to find a good standing room spot. I wasn’t sure that I could stand up for five hours, until I realised that I spend all Saturday afternoon walking or standing anyway! It was an exciting game and I’m glad Essendon wasn’t involved as I don’t think my heart could stand it. A point the difference in time on!

My mate, Stephen Alomes, the footy professor, has written a terrific book about the game and where it is headed. It even has a terrific endorsement by Sheeds: “If you love Australian football, its past, its present and its future, then you have to read this book.” If like me,  you like the footy, grab yourself a copy from Walla Walla Press.

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A beautiful day, fine, mild and sunny. So good that I said goodbye to winter, discarded the long johns, and dusted off the straw hat. And The Missus has been busy fashioning a hoof pad for my poor, sore heel. Spring is in the air. You can tell because the entrance is guarded by two fat ladies and there are scads of people here. Maybe the races should be free every week?

A quiet day out the back, although there must have been 200 people lining the parade ring for the Underwood. Shenzhou Steeds took my eye in the Naturalism with his sucky blanket. Do you remember Linus in Peanuts? The horse just ran out of puff in the finish for fourth. I ended up with a couple of nice collects on Veewap and Molto Bene and a hopeless loser, who shall remain unnamed. But good to be positive. Third up, I think my eye is now officially in. But the body is still a bit battered and I pulled up a bit sore. Might have to try a concussion plate.

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In the first race my attention is immediately drawn to Forget who is sporting the astounding combination of winkers and nose roll. This obviously calls for an early deployment of the camera. You would have to say that this horse’s vision is quite restricted. The horse proceeds to the barrier resisting the jockey. Quite clearly, a horse to forget. And what’s more, it is the favourite, at $2.10 the win and $1.10 the place? You would have to be joking! I would have, should have laid it, but I didn’t. Brain snap. I forgot Forget and became distracted and preoccupied with the terrific appearance of About Square and decided to back it instead. About Square finished a dismal last and Forget just managed third place. You would have to say, a very poor start.

A recovery of sorts with Platelet in the fifth, beautifully relaxed, and a standout at $3.00 the place. Snitzem had the flowerpot in the stall which fills me with dread. That good horse, Weekend Hussler, used to have a flowerpot. I simply don’t trust horses that bite! I think Margaret McDonald still has scars from the Hussler. And then the race I was saving myself for, the mares, but I undid my good work and gave back all my winnings on Booklet, who finished a miserable and pathetic tenth.

I was feeling a bit that way too. I didn’t even make it out to the stalls or the parade ring for the last and collapsed onto the leather lounge in the Octagonal Bar. Second up from a spell. A bit flat. I think I’m still physically and mentally adjusting to life as a horse watcher. And I’ve got a blooming heel spur which is giving me hell and restricting my walking ability. So I went home early and missed the last. It must be the first time in umpteen years that I have left a racetrack when there is a race yet to be run! Things can only improve, third up.

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It’s good to be back, a bit rusty, and in need of some physical and mental training. And a few weeks early. Often I don’t make it back till the Guineas

The weather is miserable with a piercing wind and strafing showers interrupted by occasional bursts of sunshine. A typical Melbourne spring. I’m not planning much betting action as it always takes a couple of weeks to get my eye in. But I’m interested to lay Mosheen who has been spruiked in the press, but is just back from a throat operation and is wearing the glue on shoes. If it’s less than $2.00 the place I’m going to lay it all day. And Racenet have sent me a horse alert about I’m Jake, who I’ve noted is a possible stringhalt horse.

Mosheen

Mosheen appeared with the glue ons. Some of the newer versions are impossible to detect because they don’t have the tabs on the side of the hoof, but Mosheen’s were quite obvious. A quick check on Betfair showed $2.96 for the lay which was quite a shock when I was expecting the horse to be favourite at $1.50 the place. Clearly, nobody likes the glue ons! The horse finished thirteenth.

And I’m Jake finally arrived but every time he walked past me he picked up his gait. I managed a small video. Stringhalt is a most unusual exaggerated flexion of a hind leg, probably made famous by the Godolphin horse Pugin in the Cup some years back. I’m Jake’s seems to be intermittent and not as pronounced.

I ended up looking at six races and having two bets. Hi Belle and Smokin’ Joey, both old favourites, and both with lovely calm temperaments to cope with the unsettling wind. Hi Belle came steaming home for second at $2.50, but Joey got lost at the back and then blocked for a run, but still came home well. So slightly up for the day. I was a bit tired by the end and my beautifully warm body from Queensland had been chilled to the bone. But as everyone keeps reminding me, it’s better than being in the bin.

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Some people think the Gold Coast is a bit tacky, but it suits me just fine. Air temperature 23 degrees. Water temperature 20 degrees. No mermaids, but enough bikini clad beauties to give my heart rate a serious work out.

My bones are warming up. I’m walking more each day. Nearly better.

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Just like the Christchurch earthquake – a small aftershock. I caught a chest infection at Germ Central and spent the whole night coughing my lungs out. I got up at 5 am with a wobbly rhythm. The Missus sussed me out at 6 am and rang the hospital to say she was bringing me in. They advised an ambulance. By the time the ambos arrived I had settled back into a normal sinus rhythm, but still a bit fast at 135. I was boasting to the ambos how cool I am now about cannulations and what good veins I’ve got. I must have mozzed them – two failures. Epworth Emergency got me first time. A clear X-ray and good bloods and I was back home in four hours.

Aftershock

As I said, a small aftershock. But I need a break. Heading north for a proper spell.

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A warning. This post could be quite long as I am very pleased to find that I am alive, that I still have a brain and that I am able to think and write about my recent adventures.

The groin. Now I always thought that it was only footballers who had a groin, as in “did me groin”. A euphemism for being kicked in the testicles. But it seems I was wrong. Ordinary humans have them too. But I can report that the groin is actually an area adjacent to the testicular region, a bit more north, and a bit to the side. I know this now because Fay shaved it for me in preparation for my procedure. She did both sides – a kind of Brazilian for men. And it was quite heart warming when I was studying the hairs on the floor that they seemed to be long and dark, no short and curly ones, and no grey ones! And did you know that the groin is the pathway to the heart? As lads we had an intuitive understanding that this was the case, but had heaps of trouble convincing the girls of its veracity.

I’m up for an EP study and an RF ablation procedure. The main risk of course is a stroke, so I’ve been on Warfarin, the rat poison, for the last three weeks, with a blood test every other day to check the levels. An EP study is an electrophysiological study of the cause of my arrhythmia, which has now been diagnosed as atrial flutter. Sparksy is going to bung a catheter up my femoral vein and stimulate the heart to reproduce the problem. Then he will ablate the rogue areas of tissue with radio frequency. Normally it is just a local anaesthetic but I’m going to get a full general. At least it’s the vein and not the artery that they use for angiograms, so hopefully, my chances of a stroke are reduced.

I’m wheeled into the cath lab at 2 pm. There must be 8 to 10 people here, all scrubbed up to look after me. Brett the anaesthetist says I will wake up with a sore throat and maybe a bit of bruising on my wrist. I ask him to look after my brain. He cannulates me in the middle of my left bicep and says he’s going to give me a sedative. It will feel just like a glass of wine. The last thing I remember is asking him: “Is it a good red?”

I wake up being wheeled up to the cardiac ward. 4.30 pm. Two and a half hours. The Missus is pleased it’s all over. My throat is sore and my voice very scratchy from the endo-tracheal tube. And I’ve probably had a transoesophageal echo probe poked down as well. Look that up on Wikipedia! I’m only allowed ice, but it’s a blessed relief. No moving for four hours, gradually perking up. The Missus keeps watching my heart rate monitor and gets panicky when it slowly rises from 66 to over 100. She accosts Sparksy coming out of the lift. He says it is not asymptomatic and don’t look at the monitor. She rings my brother and he too says don’t look at the monitor! The monitor is removed. At 10.30 pm The Missus is kicked out of the hospital, protesting. She wanted to stay all night, but they threatened to charge her for a room. But I’ll be fine. I’ve loaded my iPhone with an eclectic mix of Enya, Dire Straits, Pavarotti and Vivaldi. And I’m searching for the magnetic south pole with Douglas Mawson in Peter Fitzsimons mammoth book about the Antarctic ice men. There’s no point trying to sleep, so I amuse myself trying to count all the sites where I’ve been cannulated or jabbed. Bicep, elbows, forearm, hand, wrist, belly, groin. I’ve got tracks like a heroin addict. And I explore my bed to find out why my backside feels so sticky. I’ve been sitting in a pool of half-dried blood, about two feet in diameter, for over 8 hours. They must have lifted me in this sheet from the operating table in the catheter lab onto the bed. Eventually I drift off for half an hour between 2.45 and 3.15 am! I’m still awake so they ECG me at 4 am. I watch the sun slowly rise on a new day. Isn’t that one of life’s pleasures!

Counting cannulas

Sparksy lobs in at 9 o’clock. It was a successful procedure. He found the rogue electrical circuit and ablated it in three places. It was one of the quickest he’s ever done. I’m fixed up!  See him again in 3-4 months.

There are a lot of people I’d like to thank. The ambos, Jade and Andy, for rescuing me. The Epworth Emergency Department staff for saving my life, Dr Paul Sparks and the catheter lab team for fixing me up, all the nurses in the cardiac ward, The Missus for staying by my side, my kids, brothers, friends and neighbours for all their support, the Bristol crew for their concern, and of course, all horse watchers. My Mother had some famous sayings, including: “Not everyone can be a professor, Geoffrey”. I’ve just about come to terms with that. My grandmother had a couple of good ones too, including: “Count your blessings” and “If you’re healthy, you’re wealthy”. Now that one could be good for a chapter title in the next book: The horse watcher rides again!

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I’m kicking back in the cardiac ward at the Epworth Hospital. My body is a pin cushion and all my blood has been sucked out. Don’t they know that I have a well-developed aversion to needles and blood? Where is the respect? My heart rhythm has just returned to normal and I’m being sent home. I told the electrocardiophysiologist, Dr Sparks, that I was listening to Enya on my iPhone when it stopped fibrillating. He remarked that Enya would be enough to send anyone into a coma!

Pin cushion

This is not the way I planned to spend my spell. But it is probably worth recounting my journey here. I woke up the day after my birthday with a pain in my shoulder. This was nothing unusual. Last year I was gorging on anti-inflammatories and having physiotherapy on my rotator cuff. And every year in winter my shoulder blade gives me grief from a fracture 40 years ago playing rugby football. After a few moans The Missus dispenses some Panadol. I descend to the bunker to play with my horse racing database. It seems very noisy down here. In fact I can’t hear my tinnitus because my heart is beating so loudly in my head. Cripes! I look at my watch for 10 seconds and count – 21. That makes 126 in a minute. Cripes! I stand up. A bit wobbly. I ascend the stairs, slowly. I report to The Missus that although I am at home my heart is off and racing. She pauses for one millisecond and dials 000.

I walk to the ambulance, foolishly perhaps. My heart rate hits 240. Then settles to 120. To the Epworth, the heart hospital, please driver. The ambos are great. Love horses. Emergency is full and we wait some 20 minutes for a spare cubicle. There is great mirth at the removal of my long johns. I’m hooked up to the 12 lead ECG. Suddenly, there is consternation. Alarms and bells start ringing. Someone says “Oh, shit. What is he doing!” People come from everywhere. I’m rushed to Resuscitation 2. The Missus is taken aside to the family room and told that a doctor will be with her shortly. She knows what that means. My heart rate goes over 300. That’s not a heart rate, that’s fibrillation. “We’re going to put you to sleep.” They’re going to paddle me! My eyes feel wet, but I am not weeping. Oxygen is meant to be a colourless, odourless gas, but to me it smells of panic. All I can say is “Get my wife. Get my wife”. My body is twitching, shivering. I’m cold. Very cold. I stay conscious and just as they are about to anaesthetise me my heart rate reverts. Someone covers me with a blanket that has been heated up in an oven. Warmth! Oh, the sweetness of the warmth. I can breathe. I feel no pain. I’m busting for a wee. I’m still here.

Sparksy comes down to Resus 2 and inspects the ECG. I can fix this, he says. That’s what I want to hear.

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