I’d like to tell you about my medical adventure on Wednesday, December 10, 2025.
First things first: I’m fine again!
On Tuesday evening, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed that I was experiencing pain in my lungs when breathing in. The fuller the lungs, the more painful; no pain when the lungs were empty. That same morning, upon waking, my right shoulder had been unusually sore. I almost always sleep on my left side, so that my wife, who lies to my right, is less disturbed by my snoring. I found it strange that sleeping on my left side would cause pain in my right shoulder. Over the course of the day, though, I forgot about it — until, as I said, that evening when the lung pain on breathing in suddenly appeared. I told my wife about it and asked her for a back massage with particular focus on my right shoulder. She duly gave me a vigorous Thai massage. That was pleasant enough in itself, but brought no relief from the pain when inhaling.
After a while in bed, unable to find any rest and tossing and turning repeatedly, I decided to retreat to the sofa, so that at least my wife could get some sleep. I myself barely slept that night. And when the breathing pain was still there in the morning — if anything stronger than the evening before — I decided to have the matter looked at by a doctor.
I got an appointment with my GP at 1:30 p.m. and arrived punctually by bus. He listened to my situation, ran a blood test and an ECG, and told me that pneumonia could already be ruled out based on the blood results. A heart attack seemed unlikely based on the ECG either. Further diagnostics would be necessary, such as a CT scan, for which his practice was not equipped. For that, I should go to the nearest hospital. He wanted to make a quick phone call to discuss the matter and would then let me know exactly where to go. I should wait outside. Ten minutes later he called me back in and told me he had arranged with the Triemli — a large city hospital in the west of Zurich — that I should present myself at the emergency department as soon as possible, to have the CT scan done there, along with any further tests that might be needed. We then discussed exactly how I would get there.
Unfortunately, when the medical assistant had taken the ECG and I’d had to remove my shoes — because she also needed to attach electrodes to my legs — one of my shoes had broken, and I had planned to stop at a cobbler on the way home to have it repaired. I therefore told the doctor that I had imagined taking the direct bus, a journey of about 25 minutes, and stopping along the way at the cobbler’s, which was right on the route, to get my shoe fixed. The doctor became almost agitated and said no, he didn’t think that was a good idea at all — I should go straight to the emergency department without any detours. He could call an ambulance for me, but that would be very expensive. He recommended that I spend the money on a taxi instead.
That was when I realised he was taking this seriously and clearly felt it brooked no delay. I myself didn’t feel the situation was quite so dramatic — I could breathe perfectly well, and if I only breathed shallowly it was almost pain-free; it was only breathing deeply that hurt. So I promised him I would take a taxi and left the practice.
Out on the street, I first tried to book a ride with Bolt, a ride-hailing service similar to Uber. Several drivers in the app declined the fare, however. I had installed a Zurich taxi app some time ago but had never used it, and the app wanted to register me through a lengthy process before it would process a ride request. Just then I spotted a taxi directly opposite, outside Altstetten station. I walked over, knocked on the window, and asked the driver if he could take me to the Triemli. He said yes, and I got in. The journey took about 15 minutes and cost Fr. 30.–, and he dropped me right at the entrance to the emergency department.
There I had to wait five minutes before anyone had time to attend to me. After I had described my case, I was placed in a wheelchair and taken through to the treatment area at the back — although in my humble opinion I could perfectly well have walked there myself, I was not permitted to do so. There I had to remove my upper clothing, put on a hospital gown, had blood taken again and another ECG recorded. After a doctor — a resident — had questioned me thoroughly about my symptoms, and after a wait until the CT scanner was free, I was sent in and slid back and forth through the tube several times. Then back to the treatment area.
I was then given the diagnosis: various things had been investigated. Heart attack: no. Aortic ectasia (abnormal widening of the main artery) unremarkable. No inflammation. Airways clear. No pleural effusion (abnormal fluid accumulation between the lung and chest wall lining). No pericardial effusion (fluid accumulation around the heart). No pulmonary embolism (blockage of a lung vessel by a blood clot). In short: everything possible had been examined, and all “dangerous” causes had been ruled out. There was therefore no immediate need for major treatment. The recommendation was simply to treat the symptoms for now with painkillers — specifically, paracetamol.
I received an intravenously administered dose of paracetamol, along with a prescription for the same medication, redeemable at a pharmacy of my choice. The test results would also be forwarded to my GP, who would arrange a follow-up appointment with me.
With that, I was allowed to leave the emergency department and took the bus home. Before leaving, I managed to beg a length of medical tape from one of the nurses, which I wrapped around my broken shoe so that I wouldn’t shuffle too badly with every step. That was at around 8:30 p.m. By 9 p.m. I was home. I had thus spent the entire afternoon since 1 p.m. attending to my health. I took my broken shoes to the cobbler near me the following day; he repaired them in two hours for Fr. 25.–.
I can say this: when a 63-year-old man visits his doctor complaining of chest pain that occurs when breathing, it is taken very seriously — both by the GP and by the doctors in the emergency department. Everything is set in motion, the great diagnostic machinery cranked up, to find out what might be going on, even if it turns out in the end that there is nothing requiring immediate treatment. Perhaps it is psychosomatic after all, brought on by the months of unemployment I have been going through — but that is a story for another time.
At the follow-up appointment, my GP said everything looked good. He would like to refer me for an ultrasound of the aorta, since a slightly enlarged aorta had been detected. This would not need immediate treatment, but if it were to change, it might. The idea was therefore to take a baseline measurement now and a follow-up measurement in a year’s time. If there was no significant change by then, the matter could be set aside.
No sooner said than done. A week later I had my aorta measured by ultrasound. In a year’s time, we’ll see.
For now, I’m relieved that nothing serious is the matter and that I can simply manage it with paracetamol.
