Heart – Page 2 – Middle Age Fanclub

Pacemaker Diary: First week back at work? Completed it, mate…

A couple of weeks ago, when I started back at work again it had been 108 days since I’d had a full day at work. On Monday 7th November, 2022 I’d become unwell in my classroom, suffering with heart palpitations and ending up in the Accident and Emergency department of the Leeds General Infirmary. Later that night, I was admitted to a ward. And so it began…

At that point, I thought I’d have to have a few days off work. That wasn’t to be. Even when I received the news that I would be having a pacemaker fitted though, I reckoned I’d be back in my classroom within a week or so. So, the 108 days ‘rest’ has been a tough one to swallow. It’s kind of exposed my lack of medical knowledge too!

My employer has been amazing about everything. While I was off I was regularly reassured that I just needed to take whatever amount of time was needed in order to get better and every time I said that I felt guilty for being away from work, I was told to stop it! Each time I submitted a new sick note they reassured me that it was no problem at all.

Then, when it came to the time to think about starting back, they put a plan for a phased return in place. It’s a flexible plan that just depends on how I’m feeling and it has eased me back in incredibly gently. This in turn makes me feel very guilty all over again, but I guess that’s just something I need to get over!

My first two days were treated as KIT (Keep In Touch) days, designed for me to just get used to being back in the building, really. So there was no teaching. In fact there wasn’t much at all. But, as I quickly found out, I needed to just get used to being around the place and the people.

On my first Monday, I was beyond nervous as I drove in. My hands were shaking and I felt physically sick, even though I’m always very comfortable at work. However, as I attended our morning briefing it was genuinely lovely to see so many friendly faces and speak to people who were pleased to see me back at work. Literally nobody knew I was ill at the time and so I think it had come as a bit of a shock to more people than I would ever have imagined. There were handshakes and pats on the back aplenty and it really helped to settle the nerves a bit. So thanks, if you were one of those people.

Those first two days were largely spent sat at a desk in our English office, clearing emails and reading through lessons, just to get back up to speed a bit. I tried to stay in there as much as I could get away with as I was finding being around larger groups of people a bit overwhelming. Having spent nearly 4 months being on my own a lot of the time, 900 kids and over 100 staff was a bit of a culture shock. A far cry from shuffling around the local park and muttering to myself about dog walkers!

On Wednesday I taught my first lesson. It was only Year 7 and only an hour, but it felt amazing. I surprised myself with how easily I slipped back into teacher mode and I thoroughly enjoyed myself, despite the presence of an Ofsted inspector in the room next door! I was assured that they wouldn’t be allowed to come into my lesson, but I still feared that they might just go rogue!

By the end of the hour I was exhausted. My mind was racing, but thankfully my heart wasn’t. My legs were like jelly and I felt like I’d done some kind of comprehensive workout. I’d taught a lesson which felt fantastic, but more importantly, I’d taught it in the room where I’d become ill on the day when I ended up in hospital. I was very concerned about being back in there, but it was OK. So far, a couple of weeks on, there have been no flashbacks either. It’s not that I thought there would be, but these kind of things happen all of the time on the telly, so you never know! Maybe I’ll add the flashbacks in when the inevitable call comes in to make the film of my dramatic pacemaker journey!

I was supposed to teach another Year 7 lesson immediately after the first one, but I knew part way through the first that I wouldn’t be able to do it. Luckily there was already a cover teacher in place; another example of how work are looking after me.

I left work every day that week at around 11.30am to go home. I can’t thank them enough for that. I genuinely feel that I want to be looked after. But I also feel conflicted by this. I know that the phased return plan is for the best, but it’s still frustrating in a lot of ways. However, as I’ve been told time and time again, I have to listen to my body and at the moment it’s telling me that while I’m well enough to be back in work, progress is going to have to be made with baby steps. So as frustrated and guilty as I might feel, I’m going to have to swallow my pride and be a big boy about it all if I’m going to get myself back to normal.

I’m happy to report that I had a lovely first week back at work. The fact that Ofsted turned up to inspect the school just as I was coming back is very much typical of my luck, but even that didn’t spoil the experience at all. My colleagues made sure that I was shielded from all of the stress and from my point of view, it was nice to be able to act as the voice of experience and pass on some words of advice at stressful times over the two day visit. It made me feel ever so slightly important again; something I haven’t felt in a while.

It was great to be back and feeling like I had a purpose. Better still to know that my body is just about standing up to the strain, even if I did leave yawning every day! I even snuck in an after work run on the Thursday because there was no one at home to tell me not to and it was a lovely sunny day. It felt great, even if when combined with a morning at work, it wiped out my afternoon. It reassured me though, that hopefully, I’m going to be alright. I just have to take things one day at a time. and stumbling step by stumbling step until I get to the top of this particular mountain.

Thanks to everyone who’s helped me through these last few months. Some of you will know who you are, while others won’t realise just how much they’ve helped. Thank you from the very bottom of my overly scarred, but machine controlled heart. And sorry again for what I’ve put you through.

Defining Recovery: It’s not as simple as just resting up.

The idea for this blog came from a tweet that I liked a few weeks ago. It popped up on my timeline just because someone I follow had liked it and I usually scroll straight past most of these ones. However, there was a picture of a man wrapped up, wearing a hat, out in the woods by the looks of things and it made me think of myself doing similar, day after day for these last few months.

The tweet read, ‘Healing is not as simple as ‘rest’. It’s exercising, rehab, falling down, fearing and going deep into the pain and fighting your way back.’

In a strange way, the tweet made my day. Since having my pacemaker fitted and spending months off work, I’ve gone through all manner of stuff, but have lost count of how many times I’ve felt the need to brush it off and tell anyone who’s asked that I’m ‘slowly getting there’.

Over 3 months on from my operation and I thought I’d try to explain my own personal experience of recovery. I haven’t fully recovered and I think feeling that way is actually a long way off, but I think I’ve managed to get myself into a position where I feel a great deal stronger, fitter and more confident about my heart. So, before I start to forget the things I’ve been through, I thought I’d get some of it down.

I didn’t think I’d done a lot of resting, until my family told me otherwise. I was talking about the fact that I thought I hadn’t really got many naps in during my time at home and it brought about a few smiles from those around me. Apparently, the truth is more that I was napping pretty much every day for the first three weeks of being out of hospital. And while in hospital I just felt like I lurched from nap to nap, even pretending to be asleep on a regular basis so that the bloke opposite wouldn’t talk to me!

So in fact, I’ve been so exhausted during my recovery that I can’t even remember how it’s been a lot of the time. The first few weeks are a blur. I know that they featured a lot of pyjama action, a lot of irritability on my part and, so I’m told, a lot of napping. I’m told that there were times where I’d just fall asleep mid conversation, which sounds a lot of fun. I also remember feeling very frightened by it all, worried that one wrong move would pull the pacemaker wires out of place meaning that I’d have to go back into hospital.

When my first sick note ran out – after a week – I had a telephone appointment with my doctor. This made me realise how poorly I was. We spoke for a good while and I felt like I was having to fend him off at times, as he alluded to me going back to hospital. Then, when he settled for just issuing another sick note, he instantly doubled the time that I’d asked for. This was good, in that it settled me down a bit while also making me think that I could find lots of things to do with all of that time. It became bad pretty quickly when I realised that I wasn’t strong enough to even sit and read for over long, before I was nodding off! It quickly felt like it would be a very long month.

There have been quite a few unusual times since then. While recovering, I seemed to develop a bit of a stutter and at times simply couldn’t get the words out. Furthermore, I’d find myself talking about something one minute, then unable to remember a word or where the conversation was going next. And people would tell me about things I’d said and done, but I literally couldn’t remember a single bit of it. And – as per the quote that inspired this – there’s also been a bit of falling down. It’s amazing how many times I’ve taken a tumble when just trying to tie my laces, but that left hand side of mine just wouldn’t work for a good few weeks!

The healing or recovery process has been one of the most frustrating times of my life. I joke about tying my laces, but there were plenty of times in the first couple of weeks where someone had to tie them for me. My wife had to help me get dressed, as well as undressed, including doing things like zipping up my coat and putting a hat on my head if we went for a walk! I hated it, but it’s definitely the kind of thing that keeps you grounded, in terms of how you think your recovery’s going! I found that lack of independence incredibly frustrating and it was something that I struggled to deal with as normally, if something needs done, I just do it myself. Then suddenly you’re in a place where you’re not allowed to even get a glass of water and someone’s started doing your jobs around the house. Awful!

A combination of beta blockers and lack of sleep (I think brought on by taking beta blockers) made me feel like I wasn’t recovering at all. Every day, I’d just feel like I’d taken another hit and was back to square one, which was kind of demoralising. I’d be out on a walk, feeling like I was definitely getting stronger, watching my heart beat not quite hit what it had the day before at the top of a hill and being able to walk just a little bit further and yet I still couldn’t sleep, still couldn’t remember things, still couldn’t hold a conversation without telling someone to forget it because I couldn’t remember what I was going to say!

I struggled to sleep for well over a month. It’s still hit and miss now, but when it was night after night after night, it felt like it might never go back to normal and that being awake until 3am might well be how it was now. As well as leaving me exhausted, it also had me worried that I wouldn’t be able to hold down a job. Because of this, for a good while it felt like my life was about to encounter an even bigger change and it was a fear that didn’t sit well at all with me.

By far the most difficult part of the whole healing process has been the mental side of things. I’ve always felt that I was mentally very strong, but for the last few months I’ve been filled with a kind of fear and doubt that I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. I suppose it’s kind of a given that I feared I might die, particularly in the early stages when I didn’t fully understand what was going on and then again when I stopped taking beta blockers. I felt that they were absolutely crucial to keeping me safe and so although I was pleased to come off them, as I was assured that they were adding a lot to my fatigue, I was nervous about what could happen when they were taken away.

It’s been difficult adjusting mentally to not being at work. Alongside that though, has been a bit of fear about going back there too. My final episode with palpitations and extreme dizziness happened in my classroom and I’ve not set foot in there since. The prospect of doing so again fills me with trepidation, even though thinking logically, I know it’s not the classroom’s fault. Nor is it work’s fault. But both things terrify me. I went back for an attendance meeting recently and to discuss my phased return to work and despite having worked there for 8 years I was physically shaking when I entered the building. It took me more than an hour to feel anywhere near right again and it was only when I ventured down to my old department that I settled more.

I’ve suffered with guilt the whole way through my recovery. Having covered up what was wrong for over 6 months, I feel awful about what I put my family through. My wife and kids watched me pass out in the airport before we went on holiday, as the palpitations hit and that makes me feel horrible about myself. My daughter has watched me like a hawk ever since and it’s been a balancing act dealing with the guilt as well as stopping myself becoming irritable as she’s asked again and again if I’m alright.

But the guilt hasn’t stopped with my immediate family. I know that my mam and dad have worried too, as well as my sister. Come to think of it, I’ve probably had my most in depth conversations ever with my dad across the time of my recovery as he’s opened up a bit and made it clear that he was worried about me. Believe me, us northern men aren’t always so forthcoming when it comes to our feelings, particularly when we’re of my dad’s vintage!

I’ve struggled with similar feelings where friends are concerned. Nobody knew a thing and I’m not sure what people must think of me for not at least confiding in one of them! Friends from work have had to cover my classes, set my work and even learn to adjust to life without the kind of ridiculously inane emails that I send on a daily basis. I really can’t thank them enough. Knowing that my other kids – my classes – are in their safe hands has eased that particular side of my guilt, but it’s felt like a real struggle. I know people would tell me to not feel guilty, but it’s been hard to avoid.

In all, like the tweet said, recovering has not been as simple as just resting. In truth, it’s been the most difficult time of my life and I’ve had to adjust from being someone who genuinely felt a bit invincible to being someone who has had to face up to just how vulnerable he actually is. It’s not a process I’ve liked and not one I really want to accept, which means that while I head back to work very soon, I’ll have to continue to work hard at my fitness and any mental blocks that might just be lingering.

For now though, returning to work will bring a sense of normality, but definitely not an end to my recovery or any sense of being healed. If you see me at work and ask how I am, I’ll more than likely say ‘good’ or ‘better’. What I mean to say but can’t, is that I feel sh*t scared, utterly terrified, panic stricken at the thought of doing any of this again, as well as riddled with guilt because of what I feel like I’ve put family and friends through. But, to paraphrase the tweet that inspired this, I’ll continue exercising, falling down, fearing, going deep into pain and fighting my way back.

Poetry Blog: Getting There

This is a poem I wrote about the early stages of my recovery from having pacemaker fitted. It happened in November – as you might know, if you read regularly – and especially in that first month or so, it was pretty much all I thought about. Still, three months on, it dominates my days.

It’s a simple enough poem, about the kinds of things I would find myself doing in those early days. Things like avoiding using my left hand side or getting used to the sight of another scar on my chest and just staring at it for long periods of time.

I didn’t see many people during that time; the fatigue and the pain and discomfort just made me want to hide away, but I did get a lot of messages from concerned friends. And when they’d ask me how I was I’d just tell them I was ‘getting there’ because I didn’t know what else to say and didn’t think they’d really want chapter and verse about how I really felt. It was also the kind of thing I told myself when I was feeling low or poorly – I must be getting there. Hence, the poem, written during any one of a huge number of sleepless nights, downstairs while every else in the house slept soundly above.

Getting There

Check your watch, swiping left three times,
lie awake, listening as your heart pounds,
strong but more vulnerable than ever now, you feel.
Trace the lumps in your scar all along its length, 
then follow the shape of a matchbox jutting out under your skin
and stare endlessly at these ugly changes in the bathroom mirror,
making sure that when you reach for something
it's on your right, never left.
This is the routine now.
Follow it like a child learning dance steps until it becomes second nature,
losing yourself for God knows how long
in a train of thought that feels like it might never switch off
and then remind yourself of them 
and however bad you feel, tell anyone who asks
that you're getting there.

So, since it all happened I’ve never been more aware of my heartbeat. At least nowadays it feels regular, unlike before. And then there’s the scar; a new one to go next to the one I’ve had for over 40 years now from open heart surgery. This new one is only about 3 inches long and at times looks fairly neat and tidy. However, sometimes it turns purple and has lumps in it due to the wires that come out of my pacemaker. Attractive, no?

On top of that there’s the actual pacemaker, which juts out of my chest – not literally – and is fairly visible under the skin. A friend recently explained that his grandad had one – which made me feel great, as you might imagine – and that it looked like someone had put a matchbox under his skin. So, that’s where that line came from.

The last part of the poem and the ‘them’ refers to my family. They’ve had to nurse me through this time, my wife and daughter especially. They were there when I passed out the first time as a result of palpitations and then it was my wife who took me to Accident and Emergency on the afternoon that I was admitted to hospital and her and my daughter who visited during the week I spent on the ward. It was especially difficult to watch how worried my daughter was; too young for all of this. So, when I would feel down about my health I always knew that I couldn’t let them see it and I had to just find a little bit more strength in order to get through the day.

As always, I hope you enjoyed reading the poem. Feel free to let me know what you thought in the comments.

It’s my birthday. But really, it’s just a Tuesday.

Yesterday was my 51st birthday. I would have postponed it if I could. Or maybe just ignored it entirely. But then family and friends won’t let me do stuff like that, however ordinary I might feel.

Having got myself – with the help of family and friends – through a very difficult last few months, I found that I wasn’t at all bothered by the approach of my birthday. But as it got closer and I became even more disinterested, others became more interested. My wife and children were particularly concerned with what I wanted and what I wanted to do. I tried to steer them away from it, but they wouldn’t change course.

The reality is I’m tired. Exhausted even. Having had my pacemaker fitted in early November, after struggling with my health for a good 6 months, while attempting to hide it from everyone around me, I needed to just stop. However, normal life carries on, even when possibly the most normal thing – work – has been taken away and you’re not there due to your health. A birthday just felt like one fuss too many, after the last few months.

So yesterday morning I woke up with very few plans. My wife seemed surprised that I was getting out of bed as early as usual, but I just wanted to get on with things. Even if all that added up to was to do the midweek shopping, a load of washing, some dishes and maybe some writing. I also wanted to go for my walk, which has been an almost daily occurrence since a few days after getting out of hospital and always gives me a bit of breathing space and time to think and maybe even assess how well I’m doing.

I was out on my walk by just after 9am, having got out of bed at 7.15, showered, dressed, had breakfast and cleaned my teeth. As it was my birthday, I walked up to the park, where I’ve spent quite a while already during my recovery. It’s just a lovely place to be and I had it almost to myself yesterday. But instead of doing a full circuit round the park, I detoured a little bit and headed out of the top entrance and right to the top of the hill that our town sits on, crossing the motorway via the bridge and hopping over the stile that leads through the fields of a local farm and gives a great view down onto another local town – Batley, as well as over the neighbouring hills towards Huddersfield. The sun was out, so I stood taking in the views for a while before taking some photos and heading back off towards home, where a shopping list, a load of washing and some birthday dishes awaited!

That pretty much became my day. My birthday. My parents rang and my sister texted, but despite wishing me a happy birthday, I could sense that their focus was more about my recovery and how I was feeling. And that was fine. This birthday was very much just another day. A Tuesday, like all of the other ones I’ve had for the last few months. There were wonderful presents and cards from my wife and kids, contact from friends and there will be dinner out with my wife today and tea out with the family at the weekend, but I still don’t feel like celebrating this particular landmark.

While last year’s 50 didn’t really bother me at all, 51 feels old all of a sudden. I know that’s mainly because of my health, but it’s all left me feeling so frustrated and in a way, angry. Not at all like celebrating a birthday.

What I would have liked to do on my birthday was go for a run in the sunshine, the stillness and the chill of the morning. Instead, I settled for a walk where I checked my heart rate at the top of every hill and felt nothing short of depressingly tired as I got into the last 15 minutes towards home. Worst of all was seeing a few runners and just feeling immensely jealous. I’d really hoped that by this point I’d have been running, even if it was slow paced and over shorter distances. Birthday, schmirthday! It feels like a terrible cliche, but given what I’ve been through, I’m genuinely just glad to still be here, whatever my age might be. Landmarks don’t feel like they matter, at the minute.

Anyway, only 364 more days and I can try again. Hopefully, by the time the next one comes around I’ll be a lot more healthy and a lot more happy and I promise that I’ll throw myself into that one!

Top 5 Benefits of having a pacemaker.

(I’ve added a couple of bonus positives to my Top 5 too. I always manage to think of more than I need!).

Since having my pacemaker fitted in early November, there have been quite a lot of dark times. Some if them have lasted for days, others hours and lots of them mere minutes when I’ve felt really sorry for myself before snapping out of the fog of it all. Ultimately, I can always fall back on the fact that I feel quite lucky to still be here, however dramatic that might sound.

Today though, I’ve decided that this pacemaker lark can’t all be doom and gloom. Obviously there’s a good side – it’s making my heart work properly – but there must be a lighter side too; a side that makes me laugh a bit. Because the lighter side of life is the one I’ve always liked to be on.

So, I sat down and gave some thought to what might be the positives of the fact that I’ve had a little machine surgically embedded into my chest! Because everything has to have a positive, otherwise what’s the point of bothering, right?

So, as a result of having my pacemaker…

I can now tell people I’m part robot. That way, I sound cool, futuristic and I am easily the closest thing I know to Steve Majors, the $6m Dollar Man. When I get back to work I can tell amazing stories about what I’m/it’s capable of. I can make up ridiculous tales to tell classes because experience tells me that they’ll believe practically anything you tell them as long as you can keep a straight face. Come to think of it, I can easily get away with this type of thing with some of my younger colleagues too, as they tend to be quite gullible. I don’t mean that as an insult, they just are and I know this because of the sheer amount of bullshit I’ve told them over the years!

2. I got to grow a beard. I’d never had any interest in growing one before, but during my hospital stay, I couldn’t really shave on account of being attached to a heart monitor. I could have taken it off, but then I ran the risk of having nurses knocking on the bathroom door. I found this out to my horror one time when they were frantically hammering on the door because my alarm was going off and the panic was so evident that even I thought I might be dying, even though I was stood on the other side of the door just having a wash! So, I didn’t bother shaving. Then, once my pacemaker was fitted my left hand side was rendered useless, again ruling shaving out. Before I knew it, I had a beard and to my surprise I really liked it. Thanks, pacemaker!

3. I may be able to get work as Santa later on this year. My cool beard is a great deal more white than I’d like. But, if I can work on my “Ho, ho hos” and other such stereotypically Santaesque dialogue, I might have a rather rewarding sideline come December.

4. I’ve watched a lot of daytime TV, especially in the first four weeks or so of my recovery when my days consisted of getting tired out by washing and eating breakfast and napping. I mean, there had to be something in between. And so, I’ve become a connoisseur of shows on Discovery and Sky History, as well as every show that revolves around buying a house somewhere sunnier than England. I still can’t bring myself to watch ‘Come Dine with Me’ though.

5. I can move to the wilderness with my new found skills. For the first few weeks of my recovery I made a regular 10am appointment with the Raney family and their show, ‘Alaska Homestead Rescue’. From doing so, I’ve realised that all you need to survive in the wilderness appears to be a good roof, a gun to shoot bears with, a greenhouse (who knew?) and probably some sturdy fencing. With a good 7 years on my pacemaker battery, I’m toying with the idea of buying some land in Alaska and moving off grid!

6. I’ve discovered a love of pyjamas. For years, I had refused to wear them. But, having lived almost exclusively in them for weeks, I can tell you those PJs can be a hard habit to break. Even when proper clothes became an option again, I’d regularly head upstairs in the middle of the afternoon to pop my pyjamas on again. And while I feel like, months later, I’ve broken my addiction, I’m still strangely fond of wearing those comfy beauties!

7. I’ve been given a bit of time to re-evaluate – work, fitness, lifestyle, food and drink. Serious stuff now. Although there’s no damage to my heart and I’ve been told that there isn’t a risk of heart attack, I’ve decided to change a few things. Although I wasn’t a big drinker, I’m cutting right back. I’ve been forced to anyway, so I may as well just carry on. I’m trying valiantly to watch what I eat as well and last week I created a new milestone in my life when I cooked a stir fry (the first I’ve ever cooked) that had three (count ’em) different types of vegetable in it. Three! I felt like a proper adult as well! Also, with my fitness now completely gone, I get to stage some kind of Rocky style comeback. I won’t be punching anyone, but I will faced with some kind of training regime, which I actually like. If I can just get over my fear of going running again… Having time off work has also enabled me to sample retirement. And it’s fantastic, if you take away the pain, anxiety, nausea, confusion and exhaustion! But, I’m hoping that actual retirement won’t feature any of this! So now, I have an age in my head that I’d like to semi-retire by and for the first time in many years I’ve done some research into my pension. I love my job, but it clearly hasn’t helped my health, so there has to be some kind of plan, however tentative. It’s no good vowing to change and then doing all of the same things all over again, however much you loved them.

So there we have it. Apologies for ending such a silly, lighthearted piece with such a serious few sentences, but it’s all true. And even the serious stuff has come about because of my pacemaker, so it had to be mentioned as a benefit, however unfunny it was!

I hope you enjoyed reading.

Poetry Blog: ‘Every day, a walk’

I wrote this poem because I’ve become a little bit obsessed with walking. If you don’t know, I had a pacemaker fitted in November and as a result, I’m trying to work my way back to fitness and some kind of normality.

At the time of writing the poem, I was walking every day, like the title suggests. I couldn’t run, because the pacemaker was too uncomfortable and I just wasn’t well enough, so I settled for walking. However, Christmas got in the way of that, so now that my recovery is quieter again and my kids have gone back to school, I walk…every day. I’m building up to running again.

I got so obsessed with walking in the lead up to Christmas that I would get quite grumpy – or more accurately, more grumpy than usual – if I wasn’t able to get out. And I would be out whatever the weather too, because I came to depend on the routine of it all and it was proving a more than adequate substitute for long runs. Furthermore, it gave me time to think about what was going on in my life.

Anyway, it was only a matter of time until I wrote a poem about it. When something takes up such a big space in my life, I tend to write about it. As you’ll see with my next poem, ‘Taking Out The Bins’. Just kidding…

Every day, a walk.

Every day, a walk.
Some days you feel like you're fighting back,
others, like death warmed up.
Almost all, you're glad to be alive.
Whether breathless
or jelly legged,
alone with your thoughts
or in company and chattering away
about anything and everything,
swaddled like a newborn against the biting cold
in your big coat
that she zips up for you, because you cannot,
dazed by the noise or the light,
or the breeze,
bruised but not battered,
tweaked but not torn,
smiling, but not quite as happy as you'd like to be
and always, always tired.
Every day, a walk.

My first walk after surgery came two days after getting home from hospital. Down one street and back up another. I was utterly shattered when I got home.

At that time, I couldn’t dress myself properly, such was the restriction on my movement from the scarring and bruising around the site of my pacemaker. So not only did my wife have to zip up my coat, she had to put my hat on and do my laces too! Then she reversed the process when we got back home. Her reward was to watch me fall asleep on the settee!

I’ve gradually got stronger since then. Some walks feel great, while others are an absolute grind! Today’s, for instance, felt horrendous and I was out of breath and staggering a little having not gone far at all. There are good days and bad days though and hopefully tomorrow’s a bit better!

The final thing on this particular poem is just to mention that it came out of thinking the title out loud. I said it as I walked through the door from a walk one morning and liked it, so I quickly scribbled some ideas down and out of that came a poem! Funny, how inspiration can strike!

As ever, I hope you enjoyed the poem and always appreciate any comments, so feel free to leave one.

Fighting fit: The mind boggles!

As I write, it’s been 62 days since having my pacemaker fitted. A rough estimate puts that at 1492 hours or 89,543 minutes. That’s a lot of time to think. A lot of time to worry, to feel low or even just to find yourself giving up. However, there have been positives in that time too and I hope that from today, I’m going to start feeling the positives outweigh the negatives.

My last ‘fighting fit’ update was a few weeks ago. In the time since then there have been good and bad days. Christmas and New Year came and went and if anything, they slowed my progress down. Not only was my diet a bit worse, but the festivities take up so much of our time that I didn’t manage to fit in anywhere near enough exercise. Turns out no one wants to wander slowly around the streets keeping an eye on a wobbly, wheezing middle aged man dressed in a long coat and a bobble hat when there’s Christmas films to be watched or left over turkey knocking around.

However, I enjoyed both Christmas and New Year. We managed to see some family and despite the fact that my kids are a bit older now – 13 and 16 – it was still nice to see them open their presents. And I always enjoy seeing what my wife makes of the gifts that I’ve bought her. It’s nice to give gifts and it was nice this year that I bought my wife something she really wouldn’t have expected, but really liked. It was a print based around The Fairytale of New York, her favourite Christmas song. If you’re a music fan and enjoy artwork you might want to check out where it’s from – www.stuffbymark.co.uk – his art really is ace!

Once all of the celebrations were out of the way and the kids were back at school, there was a lot to think about. Given the return of a quiet house, the bonus of having the ability to think returned too! My main conclusion has been that I need to do more exercise and to do it regularly if I’m going to get my normal life back.

So, that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve had a few more visits to my favourite park and gone back to look at the two animal sculptures. This time I made sure to read the inscriptions and one of them gave me a lovely glowing feeling. It was on the Harry the Hare sculpture and it was about the fact that a local business had commissioned it. One line in particular got me. It just read, “For the people of Morley.” What a great gift! I hope others appreciate it and take time out to go and have a look. It’s literally a work of art! Whether it’ll succumb to vandalism, who knows? But I sincerely hope not. Anyway, here he is below.

And here’s the owl that I visited again the next time I was in the park.

The mental side of my recovery is something I’ve found really tough going. I’m not used to being poorly and not used to being unable to do the things I want to, physically. I’ve found it all very frustrating. I enjoy my work, but haven’t been in since all of this started. Furthermore, I’m faced with another month off sick now too. It’s led me to see pretty low days and I joined an online support group to see if it would help me.

Talking about my problems isn’t really me, but I’ve managed to ask a few questions and listen to what other people have been through and it’s really helped. Apart from anything else, it’s comforting to know that there are lots of people going through the same as me and lots of them who know a lot more than me and are happy to pass on advice.

The support group has also encouraged me to read a bit about pacemakers and what’s happened to me and that’s been a real positive. It was explained in hospital and on the visit to the cardiologist, but I suppose understandably, I didn’t really take it all in. Anyway, reading about my pacemaker and its genius has really made my mind boggle. It’s about the size of a matchbox but it has the technology to store a ton of data about what’s going on in there, while also pretty much making my heart work properly. I guess we shouldn’t be that surprised by the capability of modern medical technology…but I still am.

Another form of support came as a Christmas gift. My daughter bought me the book below – with her own money for the first time ever – and told me it was so that I could read it and not feel like I was going through it alone. Even typing that feels emotional, so you can imagine how I felt on Christmas day!

It’s quite a remarkable book by a poet called David Toms, who was born with a rare heart condition and faced up to his problems in many ways. In the book he talks a lot about the power of walking and, as this is something I do a lot, I could really relate to his story. He also eventually had to get a pacemaker, so what he had to say about that felt really useful too. Reading the book also helped me to see that I could get through what’s going on with me. David Toms has faced up to a great deal more than I have and despite whatever setbacks or challenges, he’s found the strength to just keep going. So, keep going is exactly what I’ll do.

I’m beginning to realise how long it’s going to take me to feel better both physically and mentally. Two months on and I’m still tired out very easily, especially compared to the way I was before and the level of fitness I had. The area around my pacemaker and my scar is still sore and my movement still restricted and I’m left breathless much more often than I’d like. And mentally, testing myself out terrifies me, but I’m just so incredibly frustrated by how weak I feel. Even when I get back to the normality of work, I know that I’ll still be nowhere near fitness and nowhere near feeling confident. It seems it’s going to be a long road.

And with that, I promise to update you whenever something interesting happens. Fingers crossed that it’s not any kind of setback though!

Fighting fit; an occasional diary.

Last time I wrote one of these diary entry style posts I was getting fitter and stronger as I was able to get out walking every day. Not far, but enough to keep myself ticking over and gaining in fitness. I’d also grown a beard, simply because my circumstances meant that I couldn’t shave and finally, I was having trouble sleeping. So, in short, I was writing a diary entry about how mind-numbingly boring life was in recovering from an operation!

Well, I’m not sure it’s got anymore exciting.

A couple of weeks ago I had a little bit of a set back, albeit in terms of the rough plan I had in my head. With only a week to go of my sick note from work I rang them and tentatively agreed that I’d be back teaching at the start of January. It was more my call than theirs, to be fair. Sadly though, only a few days later, having spoken to my doctor, I was forced to call them back and let them know that I’d had to arrange another month long sick note. I had a really rough weekend, feeling tired all of the time, sick and still in quite a bit of pain from my scarring. It simply dawned on me that I was rushing things far too much. I spoke to some friends, family and people who’d had similar procedures and they reminded me of just how much I’d been through and that it wasn’t just a case of getting fit enough to go out for a walk that would get me back to normal life. My doctor agreed and was more than happy to renew my sick note and so, I bowed to the greater knowledge before me and made probably the best decision I’d made in years. I’m not very good at just resting, but I’ve realised that I need to stop rushing things too. I’m discovering that patience is key in this recovery business!

Since then, there’s been a real disruption to my safe little routine by way of Christmas and all that comes with preparing for big day. I’ve not been able to do a great deal in terms of decorating the house or going out on shopping trips to get what Santa’s elves can’t make, but I’ve been able to join in with some of the wrapping, despite my very limited wrapping skills. Truth is, I wrap presents like a moody child in a hurry to do anything but wrap presents, but needs must I suppose.

I also managed to fit in two hospital visits, both of which threw my routine out , but more of that later.

All of this has meant that my daily walks have stopped. In fact, before today, my last walk was on 15th December, meaning that some of the fitness that I’d built up has probably been lost.

However, before that I’d been managing to get out for a walk every day and for the last week of doing so we’d had some lovely weather too. For a couple of those days I ventured up to one of our local parks simply because it would mean walking a little bit further than I’d been managing and also as I knew it would look lovely in the sun, as you can see below. Being in the park felt lovely though; a great deal better than just sticking to the streets close to where I live. So, even though I was really tired out just getting there, it was well worth it…even if when I walked there for the second day in succession my legs felt like jelly and I had to have a sit down on a park bench for a short while just to make sure that I’d get home in one piece!

The plan now that Christmas is out of the way though, is to start getting back out there and making the most of the fresh air. I found some new sculptures of animals (pictured below) on one of my park visits and am assured that there are more, so I’m definitely going to head up and explore again, all in the name of fitness!

The final major thing that’s happened over the last few weeks is the hospital visits. My first was a pacemaker clinic just over a week before Christmas. It only took around 30 minutes, but in that time the specialist was able to let me know that there had been no drama since I’d left hospital. She adjusted my pacemaker a little bit in order to help with my breathlessness and told me a little bit about its battery life and function and I left feeling pretty good about it all. It’s fascinating stuff when you see that they just drape a wand-like piece of machinery over your shoulder which then reads the data off your pacemaker. The kind of technology that makes me feel even older!

Then, almost a week later and a few days before Christmas, I went in for an appointment with a cardiologist. It turned out that this was actually to do with a previous problem, but when he saw my notes and learned of my procedure, he was able to talk me through quite a bit about what was going on, which was great.

It was quite the good news day. Firstly, he told me that there was no damage to my heart. Apparently my problem is merely ‘electrical’ in that my pacemaker cells haven’t been controlling the rhythm of my heart very well at all. Hence, the need for my pacemaker. Although I’d been told this in hospital it was still comforting to know as I’d had some of the symptoms of a heart attack on more than one occasion leading up to my time in hospital. But, it seems I’m made of stronger stuff than I’d thought!

The other bit of good news was that I was told to work my way off my beta blockers, which have been fairly responsible for me feeling so rough and tired all of the time. So for now, I have a half a tablet per day, but soon I’ll leave them behind altogether. In turn, this means that I’ll be able to go out running fairly soon, although I’m happy to force myself to wait until I feel as right as possible until I actually do it. If I’ve learnt one thing in all of this it’s that I need to start listening to my body more and to stop being so eager to be on the move all of the time. That said though, I cannot wait to get out and run again. My last run was on October 14th. After that, everything started to go downhill and within a month I was in hospital.

It’s been 50 days since I was admitted to hospital. I went in thinking I’d be back to full fitness within a few days, only to be brought crashing down to Earth by the news of a pacemaker. Fingers crossed that I’m closing in on getting back to normal.

Ward Wisdom – Stuff I learnt in hospital

As anyone who reads my particular brand of nonsense will know, I’ve spent a little bit of time in hospital recently. And it was quite a serious situation. However, if you’ve ever spent any time on a hospital ward you’ll possibly agree with me when I say that there’s often lots to smile about.

While I was in hospital I got my wife to bring a notebook in, as you never know when inspiration might strike and I spend enough time scrawling things down on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper. I thought it best to have somewhere where things would get written and not lost.

As well as notes on more serious articles and bits of poetry, I was able to write down the stuff that I learnt and that made me smile, knowing that as long as I could find it again there’d be something I could do with it. So, here you go; some ward wisdom for you!

The worst pain is found via the canula. After a number of heart operations, I know what it’s like to be opened up and it’s uncomfortable to say the least. It hurts while the scars and bruising are healing too. However, without doubt the worst bit accompanies the canula. This time, my canula was placed in the top of my right hand early on Monday afternoon. I thought it would be out on Monday night after they’d discharged me with some tablets. They finally took it out on Thursday afternoon about an hour before I went home! By that point my hand was bruised and every movement that my hand made caused me pain. The worst of it was when they pumped antibiotics through the canula. The nurse told me that it wouldn’t be bad. However, just before my operation and I had to really clench my teeth to try and disguise the horrible pain as the fluid went in. I’ve never faked a smile like it!

You never know what to expect on a ward at night. My first night was alright really. Quiet, apart from the bloke in the next bed who snored and talked in his sleep. Hearing him groan the words “Come on, I won’t take long” will perhaps haunt me forever and I truly hope he wasn’t having the dream that it could sound like if you use even the tiniest bit of imagination. Mid-way through the second day of my stay I remember thinking that things would be alright. My ward mates were all quiet and that would mean I could read, write or just relax without interruption. And then the bloke opposite was sent home… Cue a certain level of mayhem. I was awoken not long after midnight that night by a man with a foreign accent shouting, laughing and crying in equal measure. He was from various Eastern European countries until he finally decided that he was actually from Slovakia. And even then, he was claiming to be Romanian a couple of days later! He was unhinged for the rest of my stay on the ward, sometimes nice, friendly and polite, other times ranting and raving and even deciding to put his shoes on with his hospital issue pyjamas on a few occasions to leave the place entirely! He even befriended me a little bit and at one point claimed that the other two men on the ward got preferential treatment because they were both ‘the big boss’, while intimating that me and him were just common or garden scumbags! We’ll hear more from him later.

Medical science is incredible. My pace maker is about two inches long, stores data about my heart and while I was on the ward managed to solve my heart palpitations wirelessly! When my post op heartbeat was over 200bpm a technician appeared and told me he was just going to have a chat to my pacemaker. He did it via a laptop that looked a bit like a child’s toy. Within minutes my heart was beating normally and I was having a well deserved nap. If that doesn’t make you smile, then nothing will.

NHS staff are wonderful. When I was growing up, if anyone asked my mother what she did, she’d tell them bluntly, “I wipe people’s arses.” Why, I’ll never know. She was a dentist, after all. I’m joking. She was an auxiliary nurse and this was indeed part of her job. But it was far from what her job amounted to. Nurses wiping other people’s arses happened regularly on my ward. Not to me, I hasten to add. And it wasn’t being done by my mother either. But nurses cleaned up anything and everything that leaked out of their patients! They also lifted us, helped us walk places, provided endless cups of tea and coffee, plumped up pillows, laughed at our attempts at humour, came running every time a monitor went off (usually every ten minutes or so and usually mine!) and were relentlessly nice and caring, regardless of what they were faced with. If you live in Britain and don’t realise how amazing NHS staff are, why not?

You cannot treat a stomach ulcer with pop. This came courtesy of watching my Slovakian ward mate. When he wasn’t sleeping he was calling out. This usually took the form of moaning and sounding like he was pretending to be in a lot of pain. Then he’d beg the nurses for tablets, often asking for stuff he’d heard other patients talking about taking hours before, which given that we shared our ward with two gentlemen in their 80s, was a wide range of tablets. However, when he didn’t just get given tablets other than those already prescribed he’d throw his shoes on and leave the ward, against the nurse’s advice, returning later with several two litre bottles of bright green limeade and what looked like a bag of oranges. He’d then spend the next part of his day guzzling the limeade while demolishing the oranges. Shortly after this, he’d inevitably lie there clutching his stomach, squirming around on the bed complaining even more loudly about the amount of pain he was in. It turned out that as well as his heart trouble, he also had a stomach ulcer. And guess what? Carbonated drinks and citrus fruit are not an effective way to treat a stomach ulcer. Oh, and it also turned out that he was smuggling in paracetamol to take with all of this too! None of it worked!

Being in hospital wasn’t any fun. It was frightening, it was painful and it was mind-numbingly dull at times too. But, it’s always important to try and find something to smile about! I hope you enjoyed reading.

Fighting Fit: an occasional diary (volume 2)

With time on my hands following heart surgery, last week I started writing an occasional diary. It seemed only right, especially after more than one person (including myself) joked at the time of my latest cardiology drama, that I’d do anything to get something to write a blog out of! Well, the joke’s on them; it’s very much more than one now!

Not a lot has changed in my routine this last week. It can’t really, as I’m just not capable of doing a great deal at the minute! I am now managing to walk every day though, without fail. I don’t go far. I’m not commuting out to beauty spots and hiking for untold miles across rugged terrain. Rather, I’m shambling my way around the streets where I live and making sure, that if I take an occasional selfie if it has a field or a tree in the background, so that my life looks slightly more interesting.

The positive with my walks is that they are edging ever further in distance. Or rather, I’m taking more steps each time. I haven’t yet recorded one on my Strava app as I feel pathetic enough as it its, without recording it on a form of social media that shows a map of my route and the invariably embarrassing statistics that yell, ‘Hey everyone, Graham used to be really fit, but now he can walk just short of a mile in 40 minutes!’

It feels quite lovely to be out though. I’d hesitate to say anything about how it feels to still be alive, but there is a small element of that. While I haven’t found myself standing marvelling at the magnificence of trees, I do feel quite lucky. And actually, last week’s diary did blather on about how dramatic the fog was!

In other news, I’ve grown a beard. This is largely down to circumstance, as I can’t really lift my left arm up for very long without it really hurting because of the scarring from my op. It’s also just an action that I’ve been told to avoid for something like 6 weeks, while my pacemaker settles into my chest, so the action of stretching my skin with my left hand while shaving with my right is a bit of a no-go area. Hence, the beard.

I’ve never had any inclination to grow a beard before. However, despite its whiteness, I’m quite pleased with it and for the near future at least, it’s staying. My wife and children don’t like it so much. It tickles when I’m near them. I’m certain that my parents will hate it too. Others have said it looks good though. I worry I might be turning into Roy Keane, while hoping that I’m actually morphing into George Clooney. Who knows what the truth is? Actually, me and it’s not the Clooney truth! I actually quite like it though and I’m surprised with how much I’ve taken to it.

As time has moved on and I’ve felt less pain, I’m writing more too and as well as some blog posts, I’ve written first drafts of four or five new poems. It’s very tiring though and so there’s only so much that I can do. I suppose I need to find some kind of balance between resting and trying to do more, while also kerbing my urge to just get stuck back in again at full pace. Some days I long to be back at work, but for once I’ve been sensible enough to listen to what the professionals have told me and stick to getting the rest that I need. Hopefully it’ll pay off and everything will get back to normal given time.

I worry that all I seem to write about is being poorly though. I suppose it’s obviously still fresh in my head, but while I had a tentative brush with something serious, I really don’t want to bore people to death about it now! With that in mind I’ve made a list of things I can write about so in the coming days I need to find the energy to research a couple of things and possibly write some Christmas themed posts.

The final thing that has been on my mind this week is my lack of sleep. Since leaving hospital I’ve managed one unbroken night of sleep. And by unbroken, I don’t just mean not waking up. I always wake up on the night. What I mean is not having to get out of bed.

Almost every night for over a month now has been punctuated by an extended amount of time out of bed. The pattern seems to be that I sleep for anything up to an hour before waking up, unable to get back to sleep. This then usually means a couple of hours or so spent downstairs, reading or doing a bit of writing. I even did the dishes at 1.30am the other day! I’m hoping that I can find a way to sort this out!

Overall, this week I feel noticeably better. I still get tired out easier than I’d like, I’m still bored a lot of the time and I still miss seeing people…but I feel more human.

Until next time…