Heavenly Beverley : Are You Too Fat...Too Fat...Too Fat?

Today, I will attempt to have a serious discussion about a serious issue...

"Are you too fat, too fat, too fat?"

Who remembers the days of Ford Pills. Trumpeted across the telly with this hypnotic catch cry, these medicinal miracles promised that husbands would surely eye off their wives, rather than the nymphettes on the street. Just as long as there was a loo close by.

Ford Pills were purely and simply, a laxative. They were stunningly successful during the 1960s and 1970s, and were swallowed like lollies, often with spectacularly awful results. The marketing was genius; how to lose weight in a hurry. And hurry was the operative word.

Anyway, I thought of Ford Pills on Thursday evening as I was attending an appointment with cardiologist Doctor Arun Abraham. Referred to him by our excellent Northam GP, I spent the afternoon being measured, recorded courtesy of an ECG, poked with a cannula, injected with a beta-blocker, having the equivalent of "Start Ya Bastard" placed under my tongue and entering the weird world of a CT scanner. All this to explore the inner workings of my heart, which I strongly suspected was malingering.

Their care was outstanding and the equipment very impressive. The blood pressure cuff was soft and pliable, the ECG discs did not leave sticky crop circles all over my boobs and torso and Steph, my attendant was soothing and thorough.

Then I returned to reception to wait my turn. Doctor Abraham turned out to be a most intriguing and interesting chap. Yes, we had to wait, but when you enter his office, I could understand the reason. At least three screens were all in use, plus a dictaphone. He spends his day dashing between numerous locations, including attending to his patients in hospital. He had observed my scan, started making notes and was dictating my report whilst I was with him.

Unlike some idiot pollies, he is taking Covid 19 very seriously indeed. The rationale behind his restrictions is pretty easy to understand. Coronavirus is not desirable in any of his professional settings.

Only the patient is allowed into the consulting room. I was ushered in by reception and directed to my chair. I was separated from him and his desk by a very pronounced Hi-Vis line on the floor. I was not to touch the door. He did not examine me but relied on the information that had been presented to him via all the tests.

In spite of all this distance, he did have a reasonable bedside manner. He smiled as he asked questions. He took interest in the pressures of my life. He enquired about family history. I was, slightly reluctantly initially, impressed with his professionalism.

Then the crunch. I was overweight (actually obese, which I think is an ugly word). I needed to lose weight, so he suggested the method of all my meals into an eight-hour window and perhaps consider two a day instead of three. Surprisingly, this was not insurmountable. I had practised the two meal a day strategy for years during the sustained marathon of Alex's therapy. My ears pricked up at being offered a reasonable mechanism. Avoid carbs and sugars of course. Exercise without injury.

But my coronary artery health was excellent. Apparently, my risk of heart attack was low and my blood vessels in great shape. I waited for the indictment that I was a hypochondriac.

Then, I nearly fell off my chair. He suspected that I may have a small Atrial Septal Defect. From birth. A hole/communication between the top two chambers of my heart. Which was often known to cause no symptoms until later in life. My breathlessness, fatigue and skipping heartbeats all were explained by this outcome. I slowly digested this information. Perhaps I wasn't imagining all this after all.

He was quite matter-of-fact about referring me for an echocardiogram and follow up appointment with him early in May. I was reassured and almost overwhelmed by his attention.

My echo is on Tuesday. Michael will be allowed in with me so he can relay what is going on. I have more than a passing interest in this test. Perhaps my sons' heart defects may have had a genetic factor if I am shown to also have congenital heart disease.

Well, cut me off at the knees and call me Shorty.

Stay tuned.