Another half-hour passed. Fiona knew that a lot could be done with heart disease. She was a little overweight but nothing excessive. They might put her on statins to lower her cholesterol, or do a bypass. A nurse brought Fiona a form and asked her to take it to Cardiology. The hospital was a maze: annexes and prefabs had been bolted on to the old Victorian buildings, sprawling in all directions and now connected up to a spanking new extension. Complicated colour-coded signs were there for navigation.
She handed the form in to the receptionist at Cardiology and took a seat. There was a water cooler there and she was thankful to drink a cup, to clear the stale taste from her mouth.
The ECG took ten minutes. The cardio guy attached the stickers to her arms, legs and chest, and she lay down on the curtained bed while the machine took its measurements.
There was nothing wrong, no arrhythmia or palpitations, no indication of any heart trauma. No echo of myocardial infarction. The cardiologist, giving her the results, asked her to describe again the symptoms she’d had. As she did, she felt her mouth get dry and her pulse speed up, a sense of dread creeping up her spine.
‘The tingling,’ he asked, ‘where was that?’
‘My feet and my hands.’
‘Any cramping in the arms?’
‘No.’
He nodded, pleased with her answers. ‘I think the good news is that there’s no sign of a heart attack. But there is an explanation that accounts for all the symptoms you describe, and that’s a panic attack.’
Fiona stared at him.
‘Have you been under any particular stress recently?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. Felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
Another nod. ‘Your GP will be able to help,’ he carried on, ‘discuss the treatment, ways of managing it. It may be a one-off. Some people have an attack once and that’s it.’
But the rest? She was appalled. It could happen again.
She went to the walk-in clinic at her GP’s practice the following morning. Dr Melling wasn’t her regular doctor but she couldn’t wait for an appointment, she had to see someone straight away. When Fiona tried to explain what had happened, starting with Sunday, the words clotted in her mouth and she was alarmed by tears in her eyes.
‘Take your time,’ the GP said.
‘The boy that was shot on Sunday,’ Fiona said.
Sympathy rippled across the doctor’s face. It made Fiona feel worse. She gave the gist of the story. ‘Then when I went back I had this, erm, this panic attack.’ She felt small and frail as she spoke. ‘The doctor at the hospital said sometimes it just happens once. But it was so awful…’