Not going to the Munich beer festival

You know, if you're not going to go you should do it properly. Anyone can just not go. But doing it with style takes skill and preparation.

First: lose your job several months before. A year would be handy (it can be done).

Then go on a break to a country you rate highly. You know, like Finland.

Come back refreshed with ideas, contacts and a stack full of job-related literature; newspapers, corporate brochures etc. Helsinki would be a great place to work, trust me. Returning from a place like Finland in the summer months means you can also be tanned, even sun-burned, and mosquito-bitten at no extra charge.

Then, when you're back home, then is the time.

Collapse.

You may have been having breakfast or lunch, remembering isn't important - or possible - but it is important to finish eating first. It’s bad to collapse on an empty stomach. You don't know when you'll eat again. And in fact you won't remember having the first few meals after this one anyway.

So, collapse. Landing in the recovery position gains extra marks. Especially if it's under a table and chairs.

Then wait. Hallucinate a bit if you wish, even have a few moments of lucidity. That's fine. Bear in mind that it pays to be patient here.

Eventually get found by, say, your landlady. To the question "Have you been taking drugs" answer "No" even if you haven't.

The waiting won't be over yet so patience is still important. Just lie there and wait. An ambulance has to be called. When they arrive they'll have to do all their usual things, whatever they are. You’ll be taken to the local hospital. At some stage your T-shirt will be cut off and discarded and your trousers and underwear will also be removed. They'll dress you in a standard gown and put around your body a large number of electrical pads and an intravenous drip in the back of your hand. Complaining, or even noticing, is rude so don't.

They'll also put on an oxygen mask then ask lots of questions – in that order. When you remove the oxygen mask to answer they'll tell you not to touch it. That's standard. Remember, when you're conscious, to speak with a very heavy slur, very slowly.

One of the question they'll ask is for next of kin. That's the parents. The initial response should be that there's no need to disturb them. When they persist - and they will - give them the number. I know that may be difficult to remember these days with mobile phones and selecting numbers by name. So it may have been years since you actually dialled their number but persevere with recalling it.

After a while you'll get transferred to another hospital. They'll be more equipped to deal with this sort of case - n.b. you won't have realised what's wrong but so what? Just lie there and go along with their plans.

At this new hospital they'll do a couple of noteworthy things. First a lumber puncture.

Now, I don't really know what the fuss is about lumber punctures. Years ago there was a student at University who was permanently in a wheelchair. Funnily enough his surname was "Walker". After University we met at some party. He told me about a contemporary of ours who had to have a lumber puncture. I remember the horror as he told me about this. Although he'd obviously had a lot of medical intervention in his lifetime he was still sickened at the thought of a lumber puncture. "Imagine, having a need stuck into your spine".

Despite your problems with memory, and indeed consciousness, you'll remember these thoughts. You'll find them comforting as you lie there waiting for the puncture. And there will be a lot of time between being told about the puncture and actually having it. Nice one medics.

But when it actually happens you find it no worse then having blood taken from an arm. In fact you could even be disappointed. It's actually better than having blood taken as you can't see what's happening.

The next noteworthy test is the MRI scan. There are stories about this as well. One of my friends is an American for whom XXXL is too tight. He went for a scan in the UK but couldn't fit into the machine. Another friend was given an emergency buzzer in case they panicked and had to get out quick. In this case you'll be simply told not to move. No buzzer and no squeezing in problems. Not moving is normally the wrong thing to be told and would immediately result in itches, sneezes etc. But this time just lie there.

After this, at some time, a phone will be brought to your bedside. Your parents are on the line having a chat with you. Tell them that funnily enough you're in a hospital near them and they'll tell you that actually you're not. You're in the main neurological hospital in London. This will explain why the transfer by ambulance was so quick.

The next day your parents will turn up in intensive care to visit you. And then some consultant doctors will turn up. They'll explain that you've had a stroke. Yes really. A few infarctions in the brain stem They'll also explain that one of the nerves controlling your left eye has been affected. Which is why it has been looking downwards all the time.

This is the first time you realise you've had a stroke. It's also the first time you realise you have double vision.

Anyway, stay in intensive care for a few days. Whilst there have showers every day. During one shower - not the first - notice the electrical pads still stuck on your body. As soon as you notice rip them off ignoring the pain this causes. The more hairy you are the more effective (that is painful) this will be.

Also, don't worry about personal issues like going to the toilet. Number Ones are easy. There'll be a bottle near you. Use it without regard to whose there around you. Number Twos ... well it's best not to remember anything about them.

Several times a day a nurse will check your memory and reflexes. When they ask you what day it is, look at the date displayed on your recently purchased watch and tell them. (This is why preparation is so important: you need to be wearing the watch when you collapse.) Notice that when they ask you to recall where you are you really don't know which hospital you're in. That's because no-one has actually told you its name yet.

The neurologists will question your lifestyle. By this they'll mean more than the occasional visit to Ikea. Tell them about your diet (healthy), regular exercise (three times a week) and technically moderate consumption of alcohol. They'll work out for themselves your relative youth.

So, you're unlucky as far as the neurologists are concerned. Now, I know some people would argue (because they have) that actually you are lucky. Sure, you could have been confined to a wheelchair for months or even life, lost intellectual and memory powers, or even left hospital in a wooden box. In fact a stroke to the brain stem could have by-passed all this by killing you immediately. But my definition of good luck is different. It involves being offered highly paid jobs, chocolate cake and sexually adventurous blondes.

As well as being unlucky (or as we can see lucky according to some people's view) you'll also find it's a patent foramen ovale. "A what?"

That's a natural hole, more a tunnel really, between the two upper chambers of the heart. It's there before birth so that the pre-born baby's blood circulation can bypass the lungs. It should close and seal in the first year of birth; often within a few days of birth. But not in your case, oh bloody no. Nor, depending on which medical journal you read, in 1/5 to 1/3 of the population. Blimey. Sometimes it can cause heart murmurs or other irregular rhythms. It certainly gives divers even more things to worry about. But often there’s no symptoms.

In your case it probably allowed a clot to transfer from the body to the head and cause the stroke.

Finding this PFO won't be fun. You'll be transported by car and wheelchair to the London heart hospital. It'll look all nice and new and, in fact, like a private hospital. That's because it was a private hospital but went bust and the National Health Service took it over.

There, they'll do a few things. First they'll ask you to wait. Not too long. Then they'll squirt anaesthetic in the back of your mouth. You are reminded of Pernod. They'll allegedly sedate you. Then they'll pass a camera down your throat, down your oesophagus. Whilst using it to photograph your heart you’ll be asked to squeeze a few times as if you are constipated.

In all, you’ll find it the most unpleasant thing since your admission to hospital. You'd much sooner have a lumber puncture. In fact, after this test remember to ask the cardiologist if he'd actually sedated you. He'll assure you that he did.

So for the first time in 37 years you discover you have a PFO. Something you've had all along. And it'll need to be closed. But not yet. This is why patience is so important. Having been made redundant months before you've lost your private healthcare so you have to wait for the NHS wheels to grind. They'll put you on a priority because of your relative youth - still being called young will please you - but that still means a wait of months. Just for an appointment with a cardiologist. The procedure to close the hole will happen much later, if at all.

So meantime the doctors put you on an anti-coagulant. Although they and the literature always refer to the generic name - i.e. an anti-coagulant - you'll find the drug is invariably Warfarin. All your friends know it because their older relatives or parents will be on it. Having the drug used by your friends’ parents doesn't please you.

Another thing. Every doctor involved with this tells you to limit your alcohol consumption whilst you're on anti-coagulant. No more than two units. That's two glasses of wine, one pint or half a litre of beer. "But ...". But "but"doesn't come into it. Really, you may as well open a flower shop. But you don't and you stick with this limit. After a little while, say three months, you find that you get pretty drunk on two glasses of wine anyway. Going to an event where everyone is drinking several litres of very strong beer may not be a good idea after all. You decide not to go to the Munich Bier festival.