Testing times.

At the start of October, I turned fifty-five years old, and the realisation hit me that my dad was a decade older than I am now when he died.

I began to brood on my impending mortality and started a mental countdown from ten.

Logic and reason said this was a ludicrous overreaction but when you are lying awake at stupid O’ clock in the morning, listening to the wind and rain, logic and reason have a hard time beating the forces of panic and dumbness. 

To make matters worse, I had long-standing, appointments with two consultants approaching. These were to analyse the various tests that been ordered to determine the after-effects of covid and the pulmonary embolism that had me hospitalised for a while last year. 

The clots on my lung were the first time I felt like my body was under an attack that I didn’t have the tools to resist.

In a fairly high impact life, which has resulted in multiple fractures, tears, strains and poorly chosen conflicts this was the first time that it felt like my body was actually working against me.

As the dates neared though, none of the requested tests had been carried out or even booked yet.

A call from the haematologist’s office ended with someone going off to kick some butt and see if they could speed things up, and, as if by magic that same week I got an ‘urgent’ respiratory function test. 

A few days later, other ‘urgent’ appointments for blood testing, a cardiogram and a CT scan hit my inbox. I have been waiting a year for some of these follow up tests but now it was suddenly urgent. I’ll never understand this system. Rushing to get my work in at the last second was my standard MO as a feckless, reckless and, often, legless student. It barely worked then and I can’t see it being a solid basis for any healthcare system worth its salt.

However. . .

The tests were carried out. Results were forwarded to the relevant doctors, and it turns out that I am not dead yet.

Lung scarring seems less than before, the heart is fine, and I have no blood-borne reasons to be fearful. The final appointment, this time with the respiratory specialist is later this month and she probably won’t be writing me off yet either as my results seem to be a bit mediocre but hardly terminal.

For the last few weeks, I have been sitting here staring blankly through my laptop screen. Starting articles and deleting articles. Ideas came, seemed solid, then drifted away on the breeze. Focus was as difficult to catch as a flying, baby unicorn.

Now, lighter and more positive than I have been for ages, I feel like I can return to doing some exercise. Return to writing and, most importantly, return to viewing life as an adventure rather than a spectator sport.

I should probably feel a bit silly about all my worrying but really, I just feel relief. 

It’s good to be back.