We all know what a heart attack is in theory.
Key Points A friend's mild heart attack was caught in time after immediate hospital intervention, highlighting the importance of acting without delay.
"It's just chest pain, it's not a heart attack," Bond said, annoyed that I was making him get dressed.
Heart Attack SurvivalA week after Manish died, I had to drop my mother at the railway station.
I jumped out and, channeling my inner Mumbai self, yelled: "Heart attack!"
This is the great tragic flaw in how we handle medical emergencies.
The golden hour is wasted.
People get a chest pain and they call their family doctor.
Or they drag the patient to a small local clinic that doesn't have the equipment.
What people don't realise is that in an emergency, you don't need advice.
You need a large hospital.
Kindly note that this illustration was generated using ChatGPT and is intended solely for representational purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
We track our heartbeats on smartwatches today, but years ago, our primary medical strategy for a cardiac event was a half-bottle of brandy and denial.
We all know what a heart attack is in theory.
But when one actually shows up in your living room, the theory goes out the window.
We like to think we are prepared. We are not.
I have seen this play out three times, and looking back, the sheer absurdity of our survival instincts is something of a medical marvel.
Key Points A friend's mild heart attack was caught in time after immediate hospital intervention, highlighting the importance of acting without delay.
A neighbour mistook chest tightness for gas and lost valuable time, ultimately dying before reaching a fully equipped hospital.
Doctors stress that suspected cardiac emergencies require immediate treatment at a major hospital rather than waiting for medical advice.
Chest Pain Warning Signs
The first time was in Mumbai, back in 2008.
A friend of ours -- let's call him James Bond for the sake of anonymity -- had scored a company flat in Worli, right opposite the Siddhivinayak temple.
It was cheaper than bleeding money on hotel rooms, plus it came with the holy grail of Mumbai real estate: A dedicated parking spot.
He even had a car and a driver, whom we'll appropriately christen Mark Higgins.
One afternoon, when I was trying for a nap in this flat, Bond complained of a scratchy throat.
He figured it was the start of a cold.
He was thirsty, but water wasn't cutting it.
Naturally, we decided to pick up the universal, time-tested Indian remedy for a sore throat.
We pulled the car over at the local pharmacy.
And by pharmacy, I mean the liquor store.
We bought a half-bottle of brandy.
Bond mixed a little in the car, drank it down, and by the time we reached the flat, he felt ready to sleep it off.
He told Mark to go home for the day.
Mark, as usual, began his hour-long ritual of cleaning and parking the car -- a task that requires the precision of a diamond cutter in Mumbai.
Around 4 pm, Bond woke up.
The throat pain had quietly migrated to his chest.
His brilliant medical intervention?
Another dose of the brandy.
Something felt off.
I didn't argue with him.
I just quietly called Mark, who was waiting at the bus stand, and told him to get the car back to the gate immediately.
"It's just chest pain, it's not a heart attack," Bond said, annoyed that I was making him get dressed.
"That's fine," I told him.
"We'll just go see the chest doctor."
We lived on the 17th floor.
By the time we got down, Mark was ready.
We asked him where to go, and he suggested Hinduja Hospital.
We drove like absolute maniacs, cutting off traffic, ignoring angry stares, and finally screeching into the emergency bay.
I jumped out of the car and yelled the magic words: "Heart attack! Help!"
A ward boy rushed out with a stretcher.
He looked frantically into the back seat, then at front seats.
"Where is the patient?" he asked.
I pointed to Bond, who was standing right beside me, looking perfectly normal.
"Right here," I said.
"We'll just walk in."
The ward boy looked at us with deep disappointment and wheeled his empty stretcher away.
It turned out Bond had a mild attack with three blocks.
Because we got there in time, it didn't become a massive one.
Hinduja didn't have a bed, so they put us in an ambulance with a doctor and a nurse and sent us to Asian Heart Institute.
That was the first time I ever saw Mumbai traffic paving way for me.
Bond survived.
If he had stayed in bed and taken that second dose of brandy, he wouldn't have woken up for sure.
Golden Hour Matters
My second experience was not as lucky.
And just so we're clear, I am using real names from here on.
It was five years later.
My neighbour, Manish, was staying alone while his wife was back home in Kerala.
One evening, after dinner, my other neighbor, Ajith, called me in a panic from Manish's flat.
I ran over.
Manish was on the floor, clutching his chest.
I knew instantly what it was.
We called the 108 ambulance, but they were taking too long.
We called a doctor who lived in the same building, but he was delayed too.
We decided to take him in Ajith's car.
Manish lived on the first floor, but he was a heavy guy.
Trying to lift a completely dead weight down a flight of stairs is not something you are prepared for.
We finally dragged him to the lift, got him to the ground floor, and by then, the building doctor arrived.
He took one look, checked Manish, and gave us a grim look.
The body was already cold.
We still put him in the car and drove to Sterling Hospital, but he was gone.
Manish never saw it coming.
Earlier that day, he had told his wife his chest felt tight.
But Manish loved food, so he assumed it was just gas from a heavy lunch.
By the time the pain hit him so hard that he dropped his phone under the sofa after calling Ajith, it was too late.
This is the great tragic flaw in how we handle medical emergencies.
The golden hour is wasted.
People get a chest pain and they call their family doctor.
The family doctor doesn't pick up at night.
Or they drag the patient to a small local clinic that doesn't have the equipment.
What people don't realise is that in an emergency, you don't need advice.
You need a large hospital.
You can figure out the rest later.
Nobody teaches us this.
We learn it the hard way because, frankly, life is cheap here.
We ignore the signs until it's too late.
Heart Attack Survival
A week after Manish died, I had to drop my mother at the railway station.
It was 3 am.
On the drive back, I felt a slight pain in my chest.
Normally, I would have blamed the dinner.
But I had just helped carry a dead man.
I panicked.
Halfway home, I turned the car around and drove straight to the emergency gate at Sterling Hospital.
I parked right in the ambulance bay.
I jumped out and, channeling my inner Mumbai self, yelled: "Heart attack!"
Two attendants ran out with a stretcher.
They peered into the empty back seat of my car.
"Where is the patient?"
"Right here," I said, pointing to my chest.
They gave me the exact same annoyed look the guys at Hinduja did.
They took me inside, put me on a bed, ran an ECG, and checked my blood pressure.
Everything was perfectly normal.
The doctor looked at me, sighed, and said, "Sir, please go park your car in the visitor lot and come back."
The whole ordeal cost me 200 rupees.
A surprisingly small fee for a certified piece of paper confirming my own existence.
Trauma After Loss
A few days later, I went to see Dr Dipesh Shah, my family doctor.
He looked at my perfectly normal ECG and asked, "You helped carry Manish's body, right?"
I was stunned.
"How did you know?"
"Because your neighbour Ajith came in yesterday with the exact same chest pain," he said.
"You both have trauma.
"It's a mix of shock, the heavy lifting, and the guilt that you couldn't save him.
"There is no medicine for this.
"You just need to distract your mind."
It felt like a massive weight was lifted.
Peace Of Mind
But just to be entirely sure, a few weeks later, I booked myself for a CT Angio at Zydus Hospital.
I walked into the scanning centre alone.
The staff at the desk looked at me like I had broken a fundamental law of physics.
"Where is your relative?" they asked.
"Someone needs to sign the consent form."
"I came alone," I said.
"I am consenting for myself."
"That is not possible.
"You cannot have a heart scan without a relative."
I had to call my wife to come all the way down just to sign a piece of paper so they could pump warm blue dye into my veins.
The scan came back totally clear.
Not a single block.
It cost me a bit of money, but it bought me peace of mind.
Today, we face much bigger health scares, and these old, chaotic panics feel almost quaint.
But the lesson never really changes.
We are still just guessing in the dark, hoping we walk into the right hospital at the right time, and hoping we don't annoy the ward boys too much when we get there.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff
