I want to run

When I was a teenager, I think I hated the idea of running. There was just always something cooler about riding a bike, or playing sport. Or actually playing something like playing tennis or badminton, a game. The thought of doing running leisurely felt weird to me. Anybody can run at any moment they want. Wouldn’t you rather have fun instead?

Ages ago I saw on the internet(tm), somewhere depraved like Twitter, that a large percentage of adults over the age of 30ish would never run max speed again in their lives. “That can’t be true”, I thought.

16th of March 2020 was, and will be, the last time in my life I ran as fast I could.

Fresh into my first week working from home, I was jovially cooking some Tesco vegan spicy sausages for lunch. My partner and I had been nursing “a bad cough” for the past couple weeks, which in retrospect probably was covid, so we started our lockdown early. And the prospect of spending a few weeks working from home actually sounded great.

Midway through the sausages fake skin melting in the pan, my partner and I noticed the dog had disappeared out the back gate. No time to put shoes on, we ran out to the front of the house, spotting her making her way down the hill. I sprinted directly at her, coughing up a lung as I barrelled my way down towards this 9kg, 1 foot tall creature. Following a bit of Scooby doo antics, we scooped her up and got her back home. It definitely made my cough worse.

The cross country run was a yearly occurrence at school. As an 11 year old I loved doing it. My body was small and light, so running for a long time felt like nothing. In year 6 I was entered into some local schools cross country running thing, where I finished in the top 5 of the pre-teen age group (“top 5” because saying 5th doesn’t have quite the same ring to it).

By year 8, I was coming last in the individual school cross country. I think I simply no longer cared about running. It wasn’t fun. In the context of school, the other track and field events like long jump or high jump were more appealing. Who cares if you could run across some local fields for an hour, let’s go pick up a football.

Other games were a lot more fun. I played tennis for a long time. I like to imagine I’m not quite as middle class as the people who play squash or rugby (UK people know the type of rugby I mean), but I did play on a grass court every now and then.

Tennis rocks for many reasons (let’s talk about Challengers). It’s approachable, calming to both watch and play, and you get to hit a ball while running around in wee shorts. Again as a kid, I got put forward to a competition with some others from across the county. It was my first proper sporting competition outside of school. In my first match, I handily beat this kid from Ipswich. He cried. I didn’t enter another tennis tournament again.

The Olympics has recently been and went. Like billions of other people on the planet, I love tuning in. I like the drama of the competition, the pageantry of this weird global sporting event, logging in to view memes of the Turkish pistol shooters. Watching things like this, I realise that I just hate competing for myself.

I mentioned it before (you have to be your own biggest fan), but I am great at a lot of things. And you are too. For me, it feels unnecessary for someone else to have to lose in order to be great at the things I want to be great at. I blame my upbringing, but I want to appease as many people as possible in anything I do. That often feels at odds in the micro scale of day to day competition. There have been times in a competitive situation where I have been fine with losing, no longer wanting to continue the fight because it doesn't fulfil me to win. I know that sometimes, it means more for the other person to win, where I don’t think winning brings me satisfaction. I quite like being, or being perceived as, average. I don’t know if that’s right.

Recently I tried jogging. Very, very light jogging. Walking with style as I believe the kids say (they don’t oh my god I need to shut up). I didn’t have fun doing it. But I want to try jogging.

As part of my physical rehab, I was given a heart rate that I should keep under while exercising. This is 155 bpm. They worry that at higher blood pressures, my aorta will tear again and this time I will be on the wrong side of 50%. I don’t know about you, but my heart rate has always been on the high side during exercise. With some very light jogging I can easily hit 170 at the moment. My jog is highlighted by me stopping and starting every couple of minutes, bringing it back down to 140, starting again up to 165. Repeat. Suddenly I have a competition against my heart. I went to the doctors to ask if this was okay. They said I shouldn't go jogging. It is frustrating. I hate my heart.

When I was 15, I ran across a field after school. My knee popped. I limped my way to my Dads car. We went to the 24 hour doctors. He told us something in my knee got dislodged. It would take a bit of time to get back to normal. It did. I wish I could do that again.

The alien within

On August 30th, it will been one year since I had heart surgery to repair an aortic dissection on my ascending aorta. If I was to try and sum up the year, it would be “lonely and frustrating”.

I have realised that most of the friends I have are too far away to actually be a part of my life when I got sick, and haven’t made the effort when I was getting better. Other than my wife, I have nobody to actually share this with. The aortic dissection charities put me in touch with people 20 years older than me. From someone aged 30, thats an inconceivable amount of time. The physical rehab groups are full of people over double my age. I read stories of cancer survivors, because it’s the closest I get to actually being able to share what I’m feeling with someone.

I am changed, physically and mentally, by this corruption artificially attached to my heart. I know that every breath I take, every drop of blood, passes through it. I can hear the blood gushing through it, like water squeezed through a hosepipe. I have scars on my body as a visual reminder when I look in the mirror. A new feeling or pain causes me to imagine how I’m going to die that day. It’s a relentless fucking experience.

I thought in general, I would have more time. More time to be “normal”. I didn’t appreciate the life I had when I had it. Not even in the fun “I got fucked up” way I mentioned in a previous post (I should definitely have been smoking). I just didn’t maximise potential, live my life, do the best I could. I was lazy, didn’t improve the world or the lives of those around me. Would anyone have noted my impact on the world if I did die? [1]

Now I’m trying to have some sort of impact. Doing small things in communities, being positive in the everyday. Hopefully elevating those around me. It feels a bit late, but hopefully it at least improves something for somebody. It feels a bit like finding out heaven was real, and then deciding to be a good person.

I can’t sit here and write that it is all negative. I am alive, physically doing as well as anyone can hope for (To celebrate the small wins, the last 3 weeks are the first weeks I haven’t been actively bleeding from my chest since August 30th last year. Progress). I have been more social this last 9 months than probably University. My wife and our family have been incredibly supportive. I've learnt to love walking, my main form of exercise despite how much I would love to be able to jog. I've enjoyed photography, writing and odd bits of painting again. I have found new friends. I have also (unfortunately) been really motivated with programming in and out of work. I am probably able to do my job the best I have ever been able to. I think that sucks. Working harder while unwell is not praxis.

But I need greater direction. A guiding star to work towards, before I die a statistically early death. I don’t believe in a higher being, but if I’m going be surviving I should at least be doing good for something or someone, to respect those who saved me. Months ago, I wrote about there not being a revelation. That still hasn’t happened. I am a naive motherfucker who is still waiting. Maybe I should become a monk. I don’t think that would pay for a new iPhone.

Life is earmarked with uncertainty, and in a way, it’s a little freeing to get my big uncertainty out the way early. At 29, I came so unbelievably close to dying. And probably found out how I will die (or at least, complications from). A year on from that, I need to find a way to make the most of the superpowers that gives me. How can I work within the limitations that life has decided for me. I think year two will be a lot more positive. Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.

Year 2 will hopefully have a lot less hospital food. Except the angel delight. That can stay.

[1] A quick note I’m adding a few days after writing this. I almost added a Hamilton quote here. You’re welcome.

Thanks

I just want to write down thanks for some of the people who have been part of the last year. I write these posts for myself, both as a bit of therapy and a way of remembering my thoughts as I go through it. I forget so much at the moment. Knowing it goes out onto the open web to hopefully be archived forever is reassuring (I checked, it's on Wayback). I've stocked up my hosting credits as well to keep it up for years, just in case.

I’ll start with Dr Barmby. After I kept going to the GP asking for something to happen because I knew something was wrong, you listened to me enough to get a CT scan booked. I described our appointment afterward to a colleague as having my body inspected by Columbo. It was an hour of questions and prodding which saved my life.

To the person who got me setup for my initial CT scan, thank you for just being a lovely person. We joked about wives (the old ball and chain, am I right fellas!) in a nice way, and you made me feel comfortable. I saw you again 4 days after my surgery, whilst slightly delirious from infection, needing another CT scan to see the damage. I remembered you. You smiled whilst I cried.

An obvious thank you to the Cardiothoracic surgery team at the Northern General in Sheffield. Ms Greco who led the surgery, and has dealt with a dozen appointments with issues since. Massimo who helped when I had my infection/effusion. And everyone else who saved my life. I appreciate that I don’t know any of your names because a lot of you just want to get in there, save lives, and get out.

All the doctors, nurses and ward workers on CICU, PCU and general. There will be many I won’t remember. But this is a list compiled from my surgery in June as I walked the wards and recognised faces. But as a non-exhaustive list: Becky, Emma, Sammy, Kayla, Sharon, Sue, Molly (Sorry I tried to speak French when I woke up), Becky, Bradley, Shereen (Your teas are great), Sue, Sayid, Louise, Aaron (The only clear pharmacist on the planet), Azra, Saranya, Elaine, Annalysa, Vivindar, Jan (sorry for complaining so much), Thomas, Alice (You removed my tubes, and then dealt with vegan food complaints), Annika, Sally, Stephie, Richard.

In the capitalist hellscape we live in, a thanks to my workplace and colleagues, who have been great through this whole process. An even greater thanks to a colleague who looked after my dog whilst I was in hospital. In the 4-5 hours I had between finding out I was having surgery, and actually having it, you took on looking after our dog, and ended up with her for a month.

Thank you to the people who are part of the gaming communities I’m in. It was nice to get home and be able to play games with people again. And friends who sent messages or came and saw me, it has been lovely having some normality.

Unending gratitude to my wife and her family who have been vital. My brother and sister who supported my wife while I was in hospital, and provided me with comfort knowing she was supported.

Thank you to me. We are surviving.