Grit: Learning to Walk Again

The first of my lessons from my time in the hospital and in early recovery.

I will add a piece later about what happened in the hospital after getting the all clear, but the truth is, as a story, there isn’t a whole lot to tell.

There was a lot of lying around, waiting for poor food to arrive, and dealing with different things, of course, but as a chronological tale, it is not the most exciting.

What I do think will be useful are the individual events and learnings, which I can extrapolate into, hopefully, helpful anecdotes for you.

Walking Tall

The blood that had ended up in my CSF should never have been there.

The space surrounding your brain and the spinal fluid that inhabits it are meant to be sacrosanct. The fluid acts as a barrier and cushion to protect the brain and spine, to help clear waste, and essentially keep everything nicely lubed up. Medics feel free to pull that face you’re doing right now.

It was described to me that the blood that was in there is like acid on the nerve endings around the brain and spine. They are never meant to come into contact with blood; it is an alien liquid and needs to be cleaned up, but gravity plays its part.

The blood will disperse eventually, but not until it has travelled through the body, down the spinal column, literally from top to bottom.

The pain as the blood passed down my spine was excruciating. It took around 5-7 days to get to the stage where I could use my legs at all.

I had been going from the bed to a wheelchair, using a cardboard vessel to urinate in and trying to do the other without success: codiene and everything else to blame there.

At some point, I had to try to walk.

Baby steps

My first effort was to wheel myself to the corridor when things were a bit quiet, and I had the energy to give it a go. I remember how painful the first effort was.

I sat in the chair and grabbed hold of the guide rail that runs around the ward corridor. I think I stood up for maybe 3-4 seconds at best before the pain got the better of me.

I didn’t cry, but honestly, I could have. It felt like it would be weeks and weeks before I could even take a step.

But I came back the next day.

This isn’t meant to be about not giving up. This is the obvious thing to say. If you give up, you can’t do anything, so giving up is not an option, ever.

It is about reframing what could have been a mentally crushing situation.

I had been in pain like I couldn’t describe, not sleeping, eating crap food, missing my kids and my wife and on top of nearly dying, I now couldn’t walk.

The first effort could have wiped me out in terms of my mental state. But after a week or so lying down, knowing I was going to be ok, it was absolutely essential that I focused on walking again.

Without my legs, I can’t move. Without my legs, I’m trapped in bed and stuck. Stuck in a potential depression vessel.

After a couple of days, the pain around my lower spine and back had improved. I was still on all the pain meds, but I felt like it was improving, and moving my feet or toes was not the ordeal it was before. So I figured I had to set myself a target.

I wheeled myself around the corner to a long corridor, which was largely empty most of the time, as were the rooms that came off of it.

The corridor looked so long. Walking that far when I couldn’t even walk 10 steps to the toilet was a big ask, but it was the ask—no other way.

I set myself the goal of going from one red thing on the wall to another, one at a time, holding on to the guardrail to do it. Just one per day.

I refused to have a nurse accompany me, so I sneaked out to do it on my own. This was dumb, but I needed to do it in my own time, when I was ready. I didn’t want to wait around.

A couple of times, I was encouraged by some of the ward team; they were all so patient.

One red thing at a time.

Over the days, I dragged myself along the guard rail, battling dizziness, nausea and the pain in my spine and legs. There were some hairy moments, and one time I almost went over but held on to the rail for dear life. It was a bit like walking on the deck of a boat. The room would move in different directions, as well as having this burning pain go through my groin and hips every time I lifted my leg.

It was also unbelievably tiring. I would sleep for at least 1-2 hours after each session.

But I did it. Over 8 days, I taught myself how to walk again. Despite every fibre of my physical being trying to stop me.

Grit Vs Determination

“In psychology, grit is a positive, non-cognitive trait based on a person's perseverance of effort combined with their passion for a particular long-term goal or end state”

My passion for walking was through the fucking roof.

Not in life in general, but in that hospital, walking was an end goal that had me more motivated than anything else. You might say I was determined to make it happen, but in order to get through the physical obstacles in front of me, i.e. the pain, the room jumping all over the place, the fatigue and all of that, I needed more than determination.

I believe this is grit.

It’s about understanding that there is going to be a deeply unpleasant trade-off. I was going to have to barter with myself in order to get to the ‘end state’.

My mind was going to try everything possible to trick me, and my body was going to put up barriers it thought would deter me.

Of course, I was determined to walk again, but at what price?

I would have to pay a heavy, heavy toll to get there, not just in the physical sense but in my mind.

Setbacks can be crushing. They can make you change path, believe things that aren’t true, or even con you into thinking that it might not be worth it.

I am no Kevin Sinfield. I couldn’t run 2 miles, let alone 7 marathons back to back, but this isn’t about pushing your body to the limits.

It’s about being prepared to cross a threshold, on which the other side is a place unknown.

It might make you or it might break you.

The stakes are high.

In this bubble of a place, in which joy is in very short supply, a negative experience could feel much more than just a setback.

This sounds dramatic, but the smart money would be to wait it out. “I’m determined to walk again, but let’s see how things are in 10 days, and I’ll speak to the physio”

Fuck that. I’m prepared to pay the toll. Let me see what’s on the other side. This is grit.

What I’ve learned about grit.

The lessons in the corridor were hard. They were painful, they were uncomfortable, but they were also the most rewarding lessons I have had in my life.

For digestion, and to make this easier for you.

Adaptation to stress requires grit.

• My mind and body are occasionally at odds, but more often than not, they work in tandem to avoid stress. This can come at the cost of happiness. It would be easier to lie there, recover slowly, and conserve energy than drag myself along a corridor. My end-goal, however, was KEY to happiness, or at least a window into what might be possible.

If I pay the toll, I get something in return

• The price to pay can be high. Can you deal with it? Yes. Because when you pay, you get something in return. If you aren’t prepared to pay, you get nothing.

There is more in the tank than I realised

• You are capable; you just need to test yourself. Your limitations really are set by your mind and body, but don’t let them be the arbiter of those limits. Test yourself and see. Please.

Never say die.

Oli