Just lately I have been discussing what the notion of progress means with my fellow runners. We are coaching a cohort of beginner runners from couch to 5k, and beginner runners tend to focus on either speed or distance as a primary measures of ability. We explain that there are many ways to measure progress, and that outright speed or distance are the last things on our priority list. Measures such as improved breathing, less walking, faster recovery, even running 10 meters further than last time. The basket of measures is almost limitless. Yet in many aspects of life, as with running, we tend to resort to one or two crude but tangible yardsticks to measure progress towards our specific goals.
During my first year living with a kidney transplant, my rate of progress from hospital bed to running in local races felt nothing short of incredible. I was feeling better than I had done in decades, and with every coming week, I felt a little better still. The kidney was the gift that kept on giving. I was able to sit back and ride a wave of good health which felt almost effortless and I couldn’t get enough of it. I quickly became accustomed to the rapid rate of improvement, but as that magical period of recovery plateaued, I found myself essentially hanging around, waiting for something to happen. I understand now why the first year of recovery is considered so special.
It very soon occurred to me that onward progress (whatever that now meant) was now down to me, and me alone. However, as I put my hastily cobbled-together plan into action, I arrived at a point where another step in the the wrong direction had the potential to take me over an unseen a cliff edge. I was ploughing on regardless and, as I discussed in my last post, I was forced to reign myself in. That is just what I have done, and to be honest, I have enjoyed the hiatus. I have gathered my thoughts, done a little less running and listened to a lot more music. I have also realised that there are many more ways to measure my own progress, other than kidney function and the number of miles covered on foot.
During the last month month Kerryann and I celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary. Our wedding anniversary is always a special occasion, but for me, these dates now hold an extra significance. Not least because at one point I genuinely feared that I might not see another, but chiefly because Kerryann is the one person who has been the constant in my life. While I was falling apart at the seams, and the world was going to hell in a hand basket, she remained strong and resolute. At least from my perspective she did. Kerryann is the unsung hero of my recovery and the most important person in my life. I am enormously proud of her and owe her a debt of gratitude that I am not sure can ever be repaid.
Little is spoken about the impact of disease and long-term illness on the families of patients. Most analysis focuses on the patient, and it is generally accepted that the quality of life of patients is closely related to the quality of life of those around them. However the impact of disease on the lives of families of patients is largely ignored. What is known about this impact is mostly disease specific and it is unclear whether it is applicable to other areas, such as organ failure and transplant. When I was ill I worried about this a lot, and the few studies I could find listed the effects as the impact on psychological and emotional health, the lack of leisure time, and the strain placed on interpersonal relationships. These impacts are largely unrecognised and almost certainly underestimated.
Kerryann was my primary carer for years, but family who are not direct carers, such as children, are almost always impacted too. Yet, despite the burden my illness placed on Kerryann and junior, they appear to have emerged from this turbulent time relatively unscathed. Most notably, in the past month Junior has started college. I am enormously proud of him too, not least because for the past few years he has been living with a broken Dad, but because he essentially home-schooled himself throughout his GCSE years. He has also found himself a part-time job and whilst driving him to work the other day, I suddenly felt very old, but not because I was having difficulty climbing the stairs! We feel like we are moving on as a family, and this I am counting as significant progress.
So I’ll leave it here. Progress is not linear, nor is it inevitable or consistent. It was unrealistic of me to expect it to carry on indefinitely and as spectacularly as I had experienced in my first year of living with a transplant. I just kind of got used to it. Progress also requires investment and doesn’t occur out of luck or by accident. It can be subtle and its steps can be small, but small progress is still progress. We have to be prepared to re-define what progress means to us, as sometimes it isn’t so obvious, and it is often less about achieving goals and more a question of direction. I’m sure we are on the right path nonetheless, and isn’t life a work in progress after all?
Laters…
#R24TRC 