The defences were down in beautiful Bordeaux

Instead of a restful holiday in a Bordeaux farmhouse, writer Charlie Adleysuddenly found himself in a swish French hospital having ECGs, X-rays and stress tests

BELIEVE ME there is no such thing as “just” a panic attack!

Breathe in four . . . out seven . . . in four . . . out seven, now, come on man, I want to see that belly move like a bellows with each breath.

Dammit. It’s not working. I’m still feeling tense, wobbly and shaky as I pace up and down my French hospital room.

Any minute now somebody’s going to come and take me off for a stress test on an exercise bike, and I’m nervous.

The day before the doctor warned me.

“C’est assez dur, ce teste!’’

Hard? Thanks for letting me know.

I don’t feel up to it. Maybe I should cancel it. What’s the French for “cancel”? Maybe they won’t come. Maybe it won’t happen.

There’s a knock on the door. Tall dark handsome young man in a white coat.

“Monsieur Adley?”

“Oui, c’est moi.”

Great holiday this is turning out to be.

Before leaving Ireland I'd been working six days a week, 14 hours a day, trying to rush out a "Best Bits" book of my "Double Vision" columns from the Connacht Tribunein time for the Christmas market.

I was in bits, but was sure that a week of rustic solitude at a farmhouse near Bordeaux was going to be the best medicine.

We flew from Shannon to Carcassonne and drove deep into the stunning countryside, spending a night with a dear old friend, drinking and eating far too much and sleeping way too little.

The next morning, we were completely exhausted. After only 10 minutes on the motorway I pulled over, feeling dizzy and short of breath. After walking up and down for a few minutes, I climbed back into the rental car and drove on, until 20 minutes later I felt terrible again.

And so went the day: Rest Area by Rest Area, we made precarious progress, stretching a four-hour drive into a seven-hour marathon.

The moment we arrived at the farmhouse the hellish journey felt worthwhile. Bliss. Miles from anywhere. Let the relaxation begin.

After breakfast the next morning I went outside to breathe the cool clean air, but immediately headed back inside, feeling decidedly dodgy. My heartbeat leapt into palpitations, and climbing the spiral wooden staircase proved difficult, my legs suddenly wobbling and weak.

Feeling nauseous and giddy, I tried 7-11 breathing for a while, and although the palpitations faded, I felt dreadful. Believing I was having a heart attack, armed only with an Englishman’s understatement, I wobbled off to tell Sandra: “I’m having a bit of a funny turn, love.”

Sandra came to lie beside me. Two feet above our heads huge raindrops started to pummel the big skylight window. Thunder now boomed constantly in what seemed like one unending threatening grumble.

How on earth was I going to get from this isolated spot to a hospital?

We called Guy the caretaker, who in turn called the doctor. He arrived a few hours later, took my blood pressure, gave me a TNT pill to put under my tongue (which made me feel like an 80 year old, 30 years prematurely), and informed me that I must immediately go to hospital.

Guy drove us to the ultramodern hospital in Saintes, where I stumbled out of the car towards the emergency room.

A nurse saw me, came over and taking my finger gently in his hand, led me straight through the waiting room into the treatment area.

I was feeling so terrible I didn’t even say goodbye to Sandra, who was left to fill out forms on my behalf.

After ECGs, chest X-rays and a plethora of questions asked by caring professionals, I was told that I hadn’t had a heart attack, and that my lungs were clear.

However, my blood pressure was dangerously high, and because of my shortness of breath and the pain in my chest, they were going to admit me to the cardiac unit for observation.

A few short hours after my arrival at the hospital I was installed in a room of my own, for which I was truly grateful. I’m a light sleeper, so my blood pressure would never fall if I had to share a ward with scores of wheezy heart patients.

And so I lay there, for two nights and three days, feeling truly awful, wondering whether I had angina. Was this the start of old age already? Not ready yet, thanks.

How would I ever get home? Galway felt a million miles away. The thought of the stress of a Ryanair flight sent me under the bedcovers.

All the nurses, orderlies, doctors and specialists were kind, efficient and surprised to find an Englishman who spoke some French.

I was “The English Patient”, lucky to fall off my feet into French medical care, which proved as excellent as advertised.

What chance of lunch in an Irish hospital offering “Tajine boeuf citron, confit, olives?”

A good friend of Sandra’s talked to the nurses, and confirmed my worst fears: “angine de poitrine”. Angina.

Bugger. That meant an angiogram, possibly surgery, and and. . . breathe . . . breathe . . .

The cardiologist is already in the stress-testing room, and as the nurse wires me up, she explains that every two minutes they’ll make it harder to pedal, but whatever happens I must not stop.

“Okay!” I say, “let it roll!”

Taking Sandra’s advice (“Imagine you’re cycling to Bearna!”) I peddle on for miles, until sweat pours off me. The cardiologist has seen enough.

“You can go home now!” she says abruptly. “There is nothing wrong with your heart. For someone of your age, weight and height, you have just achieved 91 per cent of a potential maximum. Take these pills for blood pressure and stop smoking and drinking so much.”

In an instant all my fears are dispatched to hell.

I feel great. My heart is fine!

Back home, my doctor explained about panic attacks: “They make you feel like you’re dying, but are really the physical manifestation of stress and exhaustion. You’d been juggling too many things and working too hard.”

No more juggling. Just watch me drop those mental balls. The compilation book can wait a wee while. I’ll find another column in another paper soon enough. Two days ago I really did cycle to Bearna.

But hear me now: don’t ever say “Just a panic attack!”.

There is no “just” about it!

• If you have a health experience – good or bad – that you would like to share, contact healthsupplement@irishtimes.com