When blood vessels go wrong, why are we better at treating the heart than the head?

The strange discrepancies between how we treat strokes and heart attacks.

When I started practice in the early 1990s, medical attitudes to strokes and heart attacks couldn’t have contrasted more starkly.

Heart attacks were often dramatic and challenging; there were plenty of treatments to deploy, and much high-tech gadgetry to play with. Good outcomes were immensely satisfying, a confirmation that medicine made a difference. A stroke, on the other hand, felt like a depressing fait accompli. There was little to be done by way of treatment, survival was a matter of chance, and many patients were left with profound disabilities from which any recovery was painstaking and marginal.

The pathology underlying the two conditions is broadly similar. Every organ relies on uninterrupted perfusion of blood for its oxygen and nutrition. Clearly blood has to be liquid in order to circulate, yet it is also chock-full of tiny platelet cells, and a soluble chemical, fibrinogen, that will solidify into a clot at a moment’s notice. Blood vessels are lined with the biological equivalent of Teflon – the vascular endothelium – which ensures this clotting potential is held in check. Any breach in this endothelium activates the platelets, causing them to clump together in great numbers and to convert fibrinogen into its insoluble cousin, fibrin, which coagulates into a matted web.

This clotting cascade is vital in trauma, sealing damaged vessels and limiting blood loss; but when it is triggered in other circumstances, it can have catastrophic effects.

Cholesterol-rich plaques in arterial walls – the “furring up” of popular discourse – can swell and rupture the vascular endothelium. The ensuing clot may block the vessel entirely, causing death to the tissues downstream. If this occurs in a coronary artery, heart muscle dies – a myocardial infarction (MI), or heart attack. In the brain, the result is a stroke.

In the UK, deaths due to MI halved between 2002 and 2010. Some of this dramatic drop is because heart disease is becoming less common, thanks to the decline in smoking, and improvements in diet and exercise. The NHS has also become better at identifying and offering preventative medication to those at high risk. But around 50 per cent of the astounding increase in survival comes down to the transformation in treatment of those who have the misfortune to suffer a heart attack.

The management of MI has been revolutionised by techniques to unblock occluded coronary vessels, thereby salvaging as much of the blood-starved heart muscle as possible. The earliest attempts used “clot-buster” drugs known as thrombolytics, which cause the fibrin in the offending clot to dissolve. Thrombolytics still have an important place, but surgical approaches are ever more commonplace.

Angioplasty, where a wire is threaded up to the coronary vessels from an artery in the groin, has become the first-line emergency treatment for the most serious types of MI. A balloon at the end of the wire, or an implantable wire cage called a stent, can be deployed to reopen the blocked vessel.

Time is of the essence: the earlier that perfusion can be restored, the less heart muscle will die, and the better the outcome (in some cases, MI can actually be aborted). Ambulance services, and A&E and cardiology departments, have refined protocols for fast-tracking suspected MI sufferers, and “door-to-needle” or “door-to-balloon” times have been reduced substantially.

Stroke medicine has also undergone a revolution in recent years. Thanks to a sustained research effort led by the Stroke Association, much more is understood about maximising recovery following stroke, and most sufferers will now be treated in a dedicated stroke unit, which significantly improves outcomes.

The holy grail, though, would be comparable success in re-perfusing blood-starved tissue after stroke to what cardiologists are achieving in MI.

Stroke is different in a number of ways. Angioplasty is not useful in the majority due to the small size of the vessels within the brain. Thrombolysis should, in theory, be successful – but whereas re-perfusion can salvage heart muscle up to 12 hours after the onset of symptoms, brain tissue has a much narrower window of opportunity, probably around three to four hours.

And not all strokes are caused by clot. Around one in ten occur when a blood vessel ruptures and bleeds into the surrounding brain; you most certainly don’t want to give clot-busting drugs in those cases. They can be identified on a scan, but more challenging to predict are those patients suffering a clot-induced stroke who go on to bleed into the damaged neural tissue, something thrombolytics also make catastrophically worse.

The balance between benefit and harm is a fine one, and some experts have recently called for thrombolysis in stroke to be confined to clinical trials until the evidence to justify its use is clarified.

For now, at least, we continue to rescue the heart more successfully than the head.

Phil Whitaker is an award-winning novelist and a working doctor

Doctors treat a heart attack patient in Berlin, Germany. Image: Getty

This article first appeared in the 30 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Should you bother to vote?

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In the 1980s, I went to a rally where Labour Party speakers shared the stage with men in balaclavas

The links between the Labour left and Irish republicanism are worth investigating.

A spat between Jeremy Corbyn’s henchfolk and Conor McGinn, the MP for St Helens North, caught my ear the other evening. McGinn was a guest on BBC Radio 4’s Westminster Hour, and he obligingly revisited the brouhaha for the listeners at home. Apparently, following an interview in May, in which McGinn called for Corbyn to “reach out beyond his comfort zone”, he was first threatened obliquely with the sack, then asked for a retraction (which he refused to give) and finally learned – from someone in the whips’ office – that his party leader was considering phoning up McGinn’s father to whip the errant whipper-in into line. On the programme, McGinn said: “The modus operandi that he [Corbyn] and the people around him were trying to do [sic], involving my family, was to isolate and ostracise me from them and from the community I am very proud to come from – which is an Irish nationalist community in south Armagh.”

Needless to say, the Labour leader’s office has continued to deny any such thing, but while we may nurture some suspicions about his behaviour, McGinn was also indulging in a little airbrushing when he described south Armagh as an “Irish ­nationalist community”. In the most recent elections, Newry and Armagh returned three Sinn Fein members to the Northern Ireland Assembly (as against one Social Democratic and Labour Party member) and one Sinn Fein MP to Westminster. When I last looked, Sinn Fein was still a republican, rather than a nationalist, party – something that McGinn should only be too well aware of, as the paternal hand that was putatively to have been lain on him belongs to Pat McGinn, the former Sinn Fein mayor of Newry and Armagh.

According to the Irish News, a “close friend” of the McGinns poured this cold water on the mini-conflagration: “Anybody who knows the McGinn family knows that Pat is very proud of Conor and that they remain very close.” The friend went on to opine: “He [Pat McGinn] found the whole notion of Corbyn phoning him totally ridiculous – as if Pat is going to criticise his son to save Jeremy Corbyn’s face. They would laugh about it were it not so sinister.”

“Sinister” does seem the mot juste. McGinn, Jr grew up in Bessbrook during the Troubles. I visited the village in the early 1990s on assignment. The skies were full of the chattering of British army Chinooks, and there were fake road signs in the hedgerows bearing pictograms of rifles and captioned: “Sniper at work”. South Armagh had been known for years as “bandit country”. There were army watchtowers standing sentinel in the dinky, green fields and checkpoints everywhere, manned by some of the thousands of the troops who had been deployed to fight what was, in effect, a low-level counter-insurgency war. Nationalist community, my foot.

What lies beneath the Corbyn-McGinn spat is the queered problematics of the ­relationship between the far left wing of the Labour Party and physical-force Irish republicanism. I also recall, during the hunger strikes of the early 1980s, going to a “Smash the H-Blocks” rally in Kilburn, north London, at which Labour Party speakers shared the stage with representatives from Sinn Fein, some of whom wore balaclavas and dark glasses to evade the telephoto lenses of the Met’s anti-terrorist squad.

The shape-shifting relationship between the “political wing” of the IRA and the men with sniper rifles in the south Armagh bocage was always of the essence of the conflict, allowing both sides a convenient fiction around which to posture publicly and privately negotiate. In choosing to appear on platforms with people who might or might not be terrorists, Labour leftists also sprinkled a little of their stardust on themselves: the “stardust” being the implication that they, too, under the right circumstances, might be capable of violence in pursuit of their political ends.

On the far right of British politics, Her Majesty’s Government and its apparatus are referred to derisively as “state”. There were various attempts in the 1970s and 1980s by far-right groupuscules to link up with the Ulster Freedom Fighters and other loyalist paramilitary organisations in their battle against “state”. All foundered on the obvious incompetence of the fascists. The situation on the far left was different. The socialist credentials of Sinn Fein/IRA were too threadbare for genuine expressions of solidarity, but there was a sort of tacit confidence-and-supply arrangement between these factions. The Labour far left provided the republicans with the confidence that, should an appropriately radical government be elected to Westminster, “state” would withdraw from Northern Ireland. What the republicans did for the mainland militants was to cloak them in their penumbra of darkness: without needing to call down on themselves the armed might of “state”, they could imply that they were willing to take it on, should the opportunity arise.

I don’t for a second believe that Corbyn was summoning up these ghosts of the insurrectionary dead when he either did or did not threaten to phone McGinn, Sr. But his supporters need to ask themselves what they’re getting into. Their leader, if he was to have remained true to the positions that he has espoused over many years, should have refused to sit as privy counsellor upon assuming his party office, and refused all the other mummery associated with the monarchical “state”. That he didn’t do so was surely a strategic decision. Such a position would make him utterly unelectable.

The snipers may not be at work in south Armagh just now – but there are rifles out there that could yet be dug up. I wouldn’t be surprised if some in Sinn Fein knew where they are, but one thing’s for certain: Corbyn hasn’t got a clue, bloody or otherwise. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser