Reflections from a damaged runner
I have finally found time to bring my Racing the Reaper Man saga up-to-date. You may find this a bit tedious, but for me it excises things from my life. I write. Once written, I can move on…
I’m older now. 67 has not been as intimidating as I thought it may be. You see, life is the only countdown that goes up, so there will never be a ‘zero’. I have been programmed by those 67 years. A big part of any human’s programming is fear. Fear is personal. Our fears are different, but often learned. The fear programmed into my vile religious upbringing (indeed, any religious upbringing) was of retribution from a supernatural overseer directed by those in authority. Because those in assumed authority are in a position not to be questioned, it can stop one from finding and telling the truth. Fear is used by authority to drive the one great controlling mechanism unique to Homo sapiens – hate. Hate is used by the religious, the political and the drivers of selective capitalism. It is only now, as I hurtle up the countdown towards 70, that I’ve become well enough to be free of this fear. I’m no longer scared of retribution. I’m no longer scared to be myself. I now know being nice is the greatest of assets. I now know, absolutely, that belief and faith in the voice of unchallenged authority is a deadly myth.
I’m on a streak – running the minimum of a mile a day, every day. On 22nd September 2023 I ran 2½ miles and completed 1000 days – a feat of which I remain inordinately proud. Running beyond 1000 days has taken me on a 3200 odd mile journey across some of the most diverse and insane moments of my life. And it all began when I was already 64 years old, the 26th December 2020 being my last rest day. My running streak will reach exactly 1100 days by year’s end. This alone has kept me sane and ahead of the Reaper Man. 2022 had been very tough, but 2023 turned out to be even more unkind. Through no fault of my own, my mental health took a much deeper dip and my physical health followed. Added to this, I had a longterm injury which meant I had to reduce my daily runs to the very bare minimum. All this plunged me into a perfect storm of exhausting events which I could never have predicted. Being fragile, and thus vulnerable, was alien to me.
Racing the Reaper Man will be the title of my book on running and exercise into older age, based upon my own experiences. By the end of 2021 I thought I’d gathered enough material to start putting the book together in readable form – boy, had I had a successful year! Then, as mentioned, my health started to suffer and I found a new set of things to endure – how could I leave out the reality of being in one’s sixties? I put the writing on hold so I could see how I got through some of the worse months of my life.
“Whither hast thou been, [brother]?” – literary similes and a synopsis of my journey to Rock Bottom…
The subheading quote is from Macbeth, altered by me, for which I hope the witches are in a forgiving mood.
Where have I been? I’ve been unstuck in time, rather like Billy Pilgrim in Kirk Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. I found myself trapped on a treadmill, reliving past events in a continuous, repetitive loop of disenchantment, betrayal and discombobulation. If this was fiction, no one would believe it was possible. I have barely come to terms with my own recent life, myself. I’ll stick with Mr. Vonnegut’s theme…
Listen: I have been ill. My machine and its control box has been damaged. It was damaged by my retaining integrity and honesty. My control box was stuck on its ‘honesty’ setting, as I had learnt that if it wasn’t, my machine ran badly and could hurt people. Poorly controlled machines are very dangerous, especially when the control boxes are badly programmed. My ‘integrity’ setting is hardwired to override any tampering. So, the ‘honesty’ and ‘integrity’ programmes of my machine have been adjusted by something only older machines have. Wisdom and empathy. To have control of a machine set up this way is very good. There is a flaw. It relies on other machines to have the same two settings to run well. Faulty machines rely on transmitting fear to feel better about their own dishonesty. These machines know the damage they do, but they don’t care as they are barking mad.
Let me explain…
From the autumn of 2021, during the pandemic, work pressure rose at a geometric rate. My profession and position meant that I was at the forefront of creating legally sound pandemic guidance for a very big organisation. 70-hour weeks underpinned great success, but right at the end of that year, the law and my professional standing had been compromised by others and I became collateral damage. To look good, they had to hide their mistakes, thus silence my honesty and integrity settings. I was ‘disappeared’ and left to crumble. I retained my belief in justice and that honesty and truth would protect me. Those broken machines kept my honest protests concealed, by creating a false narrative of imbecilic noise.
Burnt out and swept aside I became very, very poorly. After a long spell of illness, I returned to my work and endured another 14 months of even greater pressure to comply with dishonesty. I refused. My health was fragile and my own standards of professional conduct meant I was now an embarrassment. There are monstrous machines out there. I may have been naïve and too trusting, but I am rather proud that my integrity remains intact and my honesty unassailable and above reproach. In brief, I still suffer from PTSD symptoms, unwanted states of anxiety that strike at the most illogical of times and a deep mental tiredness that has been debilitating. There was a moment when death looked better than life.
Because I continued to work under extreme stress I needed a summer respite. Last August, I took some time out, travelling to Scotland, with my Passepartout, for a break. My injuries had been managed away and I felt it was time to start running further, regain my condition and get fit for another ultramarathon. Running in Scotland was a tonic, culminating in my first ‘longer’ run for months. I puffed and wheezed a 5-miler at 10:08 pace near Findhorn in Morayshire. I loved it! My joy had returned and work was out of my head. I was yet to learn the most important lesson, however. I realised months of intense stress had harmed my mind but had yet to understand completely there comes a point where one’s immune system, one’s physical self, can crack in an instant.
On the penultimate day of our journey home, I received a call telling me one of my sons was in a coma in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of a West Country hospital. The prognosis was grim. The details are unimportant for this narrative, but the affect on me was massive. Something physical seemed to break inside. We completed the journey home from the north the next day and arranged to travel west. Finding hotels in the middle of a summer bank holiday week was not easy. Within 20 hours of the call, I felt very ill. I was in agony trying to pee, the pain being almost unbearable. On departure morning I had sent in a urine sample to my local GP, and drove west to my home county. My GP had wired a prescription to a pharmacy right next to where I was staying. Antibiotics.
Next day I was crawling around our hotel room after a long night of pain. By now I was passing blood, but only in dribbles of fiery agony. All the time my child was hanging on to life and I couldn’t get to see him. After two days the medication worked a little and, with the help of my Passepartout and my other son, got to the ICU. There, connected to a web of wires and tubes was my boy. My heart broke and the stay in that place of clicks, beeps and wonderful carers, was one of imposed reflection and wretched misery. Every second after I just waited for the call to say he had died. Yet, my misery was further compounded by my own condition getting severe again. I couldn’t stray from my room for long, so I didn’t see my son again. Could physical pain get worse? It regularly took more than ten attempts to empty my bladder – ten bouts of extreme pain. I have to confess that, with my Passepartout holding my hand, I managed to preserve my running streak with single, shuffling 22 minute miles. Why? It was the only thing I had left to keep me going. I can say no more, but will agree with anyone who says I’m mad. Yet, at this time, rage was overcoming fear. I had been made ill at a time when I was required to be strong.
On the morning of our departure my GP called – I had been proscribed the wrong antibiotics! The triage nurse hadn’t known I had previously suffered from prostatitis, so I’d need something prostate specific. A new prescription would be waiting at my home pharmacy. Meantime, my GP instructed me to get to A&E if my prostate seized up completely, to be drained. He was even more emphatic with his final warning and instruction…
“Paul, you have to stop work before they kill you. I’m signing you off for two months so you can reflect and set up a strategy for retiring…”
The drive home was beyond description – I had to stop numerous times to ease my bladder – in gateways, behind trees – I no longer cared. I got home and started my new medication. There followed several weeks of misery, but I slowly recovered. Somehow, during this time, against the odds, my son pulled through. Then I got the news that my PSA blood test was very high – possible cancer indicator. Then I got the news that I had blood in my stools – possible cancer indicator. For the first time in my life I was scared. I was so ill that I was convinced there was only one way to go. The Reaper Man was close and my body had followed my mind. Barely on my feet, I managed to get to Somerset again and saw my now disabled son. It was a relief to talk to someone who had been so close to death. Even this was stressful, and my throat became raw within 24 hours. Still on sick leave, my weakened body was now racked with a severe virus – coughing and aching from head to foot. I also developed a blotchy skin condition – fully stress related. I had just turned 67.
I thought I had hit the bottom several times in the last two years, but now I had reached Rock Bottom for the first time in my life. My body had given up. There are moments in a lifetime where a reset is required – those decisions to change things. One can only do that by taking control. So I did.
The bounce – regaining control and finding happy…
Fear is not always a bad thing. It is a driver for change. Rage is not a bad thing. I liken mine to a ‘rage battery’ which is my reserve of energy. It cuts in to save me when fear of authority becomes overwhelming. John Lydon is right – ‘Anger is an Energy’. So, I stepped back and decided to see where I really was in my life.
It took until November to find out my PSA level had dropped to normal – it had been driven up by the prostatitis infection, not any cancer. Then, I got a call to tell me my colonoscopy biopsy result. ‘Your biopsy shows no cancer,’ said the fabulous nurse. Then came the big reset – I decided to start the process of retirement. From that moment onwards a huge weight lifted from my shoulders. The date was set and I could continue my recovery away from work stress. One morning, soon after, I woke up feeling happy for the first time since 2021. My monochrome world had burst into colour.
There are a lot of people in this world. Many of these will have far more things to endure than I will. However, I’ve written this blog to show that unbidden pressure and unexpected impacts can change one’s life very quickly. So, I am now fighting back and aim to keep this narrative going, honestly and openly.
On Tuesday 21st November I ran my first 6 miler for 6 months. As I set out on that grey day, I knew these were the first steps to fighting my way back to full fitness. It was hard, hard work. On Saturday 9th December I managed 6½ miles and felt a little better. The regular, single miles had helped me retain a base fitness.
So, December came and the next piece of finding Happy slipped into place. I bounced off Rock Bottom, pressed the reset and then I married my Passepartout.
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Paul Comerford 