Heart Warrior: May the odds be ever in your favour.

My name is Paul, and I am a Heart Warrior. 

Decisions.

I really struggle with decision making, well maybe struggle isn’t the word. Maybe I am indecisive? If I’m in my car, in a car park with say a dozen or so spaces. I ain’t going to be parking that car anytime soon. Deciding what to wear? Oh lordy that takes time. So much to consider. Are my scars visible through my top? 

There are however things I am certain of. If someone offers me cake, I rarely say no. If there is an option to have ice in my drink, it doesn't matter if its minus temperatures and WINTER IS COMING, I'll always have ice in my drink. Dinner? I’ve already eaten. But I could have dinner again. 

My son Teddy doesn’t seem to have an issue with decision making. Whether that be asking for a drink, having a sip, and then proceeding to pour the entire drink over his bottom half, he will make the decision. If he has a choice of toys to play with, he will always select a ball. Often shouting ‘Oh look, its a ball!’. He will then throw it approximately 2-3 metres away from him, run up to it and then play out the entire sequence again. I've watched him do this for 25 minutes once. 

The biggest decision I have had to make was 6 years ago. My heart had deteriorated. I was living in my Mum's living room because I couldn't climb the stairs. I had a wheelchair to help me get about. And pretty much anything, including talking, would tire me out. After months of scans and assessments, my Cardiologist came up with an option. 

Another open heart surgery. 

The odds. 1 in 10 chance of dying on the table, and a 50/50 chance of it improving my ‘quality of life’. I was not viable for a transplant, so this was really my last stand. 

I’d like to think I weighed up my options carefully, pros and cons. Thought about the future and how it would effect my family and friends if I died on the operating table, or if I slowly wilted away in my Mum's living room. One evening, I’m quite sure it was a Friday.... Good things happen to me on Fridays, (Story for another time), my Mum and brother had gone up to bed. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of rum. Straight. My Mum is West Indian so we often have rum in the house for medicinal purposes, obviously. I sat on the end of the bed, glass of rum in my right hand, and in my left hand an old pound coin my Grandad and Nanny had given me as a keepsake. It was in a tiny plastic envelope with a label, my name handwritten on it. I think it's the only object I have left from them. I took the coin out of the envelope, clasped it and decided tails would be yes, and heads would be no. I said something prophetic under my breath, downed the rum and threw the coin in the air. 

Now I don’t want to upset anyone, but I’m just being honest. This is what a chronic illness can do to a person. I was low, and although I didn't show it. I would have welcomed death. In my mind it was a win/win situation. The operation worked, and I could have a new life. The operation failed, and I could be with my Grandparents. 

I climbed onto the floor to check my fate. I had already decided I was going to have the operation before I even checked the coin. 

It had landed on heads, make what you will of that. 

Until next time…