Former Advertiser political journalist Rex Jory writes about his heart attack Rex Jory is urging anyone who suspects a heart attack to immediately telephone 000. On Monday I had a heart attack. It's a darned nuisance, really. People like me don't have heart attacks. We are ageless, indestructible and invincible - like old teak. But it's Thursday now and I'm sitting in a hospital bed, tethered by a spaghetti of coloured cords to a computer which, rather reassuringly, squirts a repetitious squiggly line across the screen which represents my heart rhythm. The sort of thing you see in old medical television dramas. It's a delight to watch it. Without calm heads and skilled hands there may have been no pattern. Just a flat green line. It's a bit of a shock when your chest is clamped with gripping pain which drips down into your upper arms. That was at 8.35am on Monday and I was at the gym. I (stupidly) ignored the discomfort for a few minutes. I eventually cut the workout short and walked the 750m home, arriving about 9.15am. I said to Liz: "I'm feeling dreadful. You might have to take me to hospital. Rex Jory back at home with wife Liz McGrice after suffering a heart attack. Liz wanted to drive me straight to Wakefield emergency. I wanted to wait and see if I improved. Blokes do things like that. But we had a clear-thinking house guest who chipped in: "This is rubbish. I'm ringing 000. That decisive action probably saved me from permanent heart damage and possibly death. Within six minutes of making the call I had four paramedics around my bed. I'm not kidding. Six minutes. They hooked me up to a portable computer, jabbed needles in my arm and sprayed magic fizz under my tongue. It was during this procedure I had the heart attack. I heard the paramedics - always calm and reassuring - talking among themselves. They confirmed it with Liz as I was stretchered into the ambulance. At 9.58am we arrived at the Wakefield Hospital emergency department to be met by a retrieval team already alerted. Stretcher to hospital bed and we swung through the doors of an operating theatre at 10.02am. I was met by a cardiac surgeon, as calm as a cat in the sun. He explained that I had a blocked artery, which he wanted to clear by inserting a tiny wire mesh stent. I happily gave him permission to get on with it. I was conscious throughout the procedure and there was even a bit of light-hearted banter about the number of overseas accents among the four-member theatre team. By 10.49am - 134 minutes from the time I noticed the first chest tightness - I was tucked up in bed in the cardiac unit feeling better than I had for weeks. Here, of course, is the crux of the tale. If you or someone around you is possibly having a heart attack, don't waste a minute. Ring 000. The faster the patient receives treatment, the greater the likelihood of minimal heart damage. By the time you read this, I should be at home, undergoing rehabilitation. I will never forget that strangling pain in my chest. Nor will I forget the reassuring professionalism of the paramedics, the calm authority of the cardiac surgeon and his team and ultimately the cardiac ward staff as they raced against time.