For those of you who think that walking is dull, boring, or easily replaced by the car, I ask you to imagine not being able to do it. Picture yourself physically unable to walk, and unsure if you’ll ever be able to again.
That’s where I was two years ago. Catastrophic illness led to a long hospital stay, the loss of 60-70 per cent of my musculature and the necessity to relearn everything from breathing to walking.
I felt as if I was made of custard. And custard isn’t known for its walking ability.
So, I was grittily determined to be able to walk again, and to breathe while doing it, and, just for good measure, enjoy the scenery. That’s how this all started.
Two years on, I’m making good progress, though my fitness could be better, and of course, the condition will always be with me.
But the change of perspective that I’ve had about walking has been a total turnaround.
Before, walking was a means of getting from A to B. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, and I was generally thinking about a long list of things whilst doing it. I wasn’t present.
Now, unless I’m having an internal rant about Donald Trump or HMRC, I am emotionally, physically and mentally present. I get real pleasure from the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, being able to see the beauty of the village, and hear the birds singing.
Once out of intensive care and onto the ward, there was a wonderful programme for former-ICU patients, which saw physios come in twice daily to get you up and going. I thought they were quite mad when they told me that I’d be home within a fortnight, able to get out of bed, dress, wash and walk across the room. I even had to climb stairs, which was very PhD.
They were right of course. I was home. The physio’s mantra at my custard-like attempts was, ‘You’re smashing it, Hazel’.
I think of her as I walk round the village, the custard replaced by something approximating muscles.
After my most recent infusion, I decided to take a few days off for Easter, and walked for an hour five days in a row. Now, I appreciate that many of you will have walked for many hours, stopped off for pub lunches and racked up tens of thousands of steps on your Fitbits. Good for you. But, to me, this was an achievement, progress.
Someone said to me last week that I was lucky to be walking in this lovely countryside, that the experience might not be quite so perspective-changing if I lived in a London suburb. That may be true, though I could certainly pick up a pint of milk without getting in the car.
But they were right in that the condensed version of spring that we now have is in full swing with bluebells, wood anemones, cherry blossom, blackthorn, crab apple and, somewhat alarmingly early, the buds of wisteria. There’s no doubt that simply being able to see all this makes me feel glad, and I know that the hard yards of the last two years were worth it.
I bumped into some friends walking their dog this morning. ‘Look,’ said one, ‘a swallow.’ And indeed there, up high, was a swallow, coming back to the UK on the warm southerly winds.
There’s an awful lot wrong at the moment. Fear lurks. But I will continue to put one foot in front of the other, and now, be grateful for the fact that I can.