Recently I’ve been suffering from some shortness of breath; fortunately this does not afflict me when I am talking, but only when I’m working or walking, especially uphill. Thus I am still able to communicate – at length – either face to face with folk or on the ‘phone; and to me there is very much a plus side, as I am able to do little work – not something which causes me an immense amount of grief.

Because of this malady, I’ve had more tests recently than are processed by DVLA at Swansea, many involving what appeared to be electrodes being glued to one’s chest; what passed through these attachments I know not, but it could not have been raw electricity as I remained unscathed – indeed, the entire exercise was totally painless, relaxing even.

Following the most recent of these, my GP has sent me a copy of the specialist’s report on what they found. To a layman such as myself it was as if written in a foreign tongue; to be honest, good and competent man though he is – and assuredly helpful and courteous – I am not at all sure that he knew precisely what every term and diagnosis meant, although it has to be said he largely gave the impression that he was ‘au fait’ with every word and medical opinion given, so many written in, probably, Latin. Although I took this subject briefly at school the fact that I got just 5% in my last exams exemplifies my ignorance of this dead, but still important language.

Thus the consultant’s assessment of my health, and that which afflicts it, still is something of a mystery to myself; having read the letter I know not whether I remain in a tolerable condition or should try to strive a fair deal with the undertakers here and now; perhaps there might be a special offer – or a discount – if their services are needed sooner rather than later.

In the communication, the first medical term stated contained no fewer than 25 letters; I took some comfort, however, as the first trio spelled ‘non’ – thus, whatever this dire condition is I assume I am not suffering from it! The missive proceeded to state more of that which did not trouble me, but was somewhat short on clues as to what did, or, indeed, does. It spoke of systolic functions and ejection fractions, and informed (or warned) there was elevated right sided pressure. It was reassuring to know that my ‘U and E’s’, whatever they are, were to be monitored under the rather alarming term, ‘heart failure therapy’.

Our already groaning drug and medicine cupboard will have to be extended as a fresh range of pills and jollops have just been delivered from our helpful local pharmacy; these tablets and elixirs were to be taken daily, ‘up-titrated’ to the ‘maximum tolerating dose’, meaning apparently (and I had to look this up in the Dictionary as the word ‘titrate’ is a new one on me) that the medication going down my throat needs to be of the highest possible level to do me good, but clearly must fall short of where it will do harm. It’s a pity it is not scotch whisky that is prescribed and available through the NHS; I could certainly handle that being up-titrated to the maximum tolerating dose.

The reality is that there were tablets – all to be taken daily – which would, in turn, monitor kidney failure, breathing and blood pressure, protect the heart and, finally, slow down the heart rate (not stop it, I hope). I was warned of side-effects; one was that the relieving of my bladder, assuredly not infrequent in recent years, would require even more action than at present whilst it was probable constipation would not be a problem in the future. Another which caught my eye and concentrated my mind was the warning that one prescribed drug could, in men, enlarge their breasts and change their voice pitch.

In this direction I do not see myself as turning into a woman, but if I ever did I would not wear a dress – if I were to do so there would be panic in the streets when folk saw the state of my spindly legs.

This was quite a long letter to read and, as I understood so little of it, increasingly it bored; it had, though, a scorpion like sting in the tail. For there it was in black and white – that I be referred to the ‘community heart failure nurses’.

Realist that I am it seems to me that there would be little this admirable group could do if this vital organ ceased pumping blood around my body.