The Strong One

Morning friend.

I’m on my way into work, it’s 06:00.

I’m recording a voice note about this on my phone so I don’t lose this thought before the day begins.

It’s going to be a long one. Fourteen hours, more than 130 students, all of my energy.

My grandad would have understood.

He was a miner before he ran his own market stall. He’d stand there for twelve hours a day, four days a week, come rain or shine.  He’d never sit, even to eat the sandwiches my Nan had lovingly made to keep him going.

When I was young, I’d sit in the front room with him and my Nan, cutting patterns from material so they could sew cushions to sell for a few pounds each. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was watching two people build a life together from only their own hard work.

At the end of a day on the stall, he’d carry two enormous bags of fruit and veg home.

He had a rule: once he picked them up, he wouldn’t put them down until he reached the house.

No gym memberships or Jiu Jitsu.  Carrying dinner home to last himself and my Nan the week was his fitness.  

Is there a more worthwhile load to carry than that?

He was six foot two, with hands like shovels. To me, as a young boy and even when I had grown up and returned home from operating on the front line with men who I trusted with my life, he still looked like the strong one who could carry anything.

Then, at my youngest son’s first birthday, we were walking up a small hill in our local park to the picnic we had laid out in a bandstand near the lake when he stopped to catch his breath.

I can still see his face.

He tried to hide how frustrated he was. I think there was some embarrassment in it too.

I’d never seen him struggle like that.

He was my hero.

He died about a year later.

Before he became really poorly, he told me to get a full health check before I turned fifty. 

“Find out what’s going on inside your body”, he said.

A month ago, at forty-six, fifteen years after that lesson, I finally listened.

I went for a scan at Neko. They took more than two thousand images of my skin, checked my blood pressure and heart, took blood, and a GP talked me through the results on a large interactive screen. 

I was in and out in less than an hour.

It felt like walking into the future.

I came away thinking not only about my health but also about the technology, the Neko staff and the way they’d made the whole experience work seamlessly. 

I run a service business which naturally has its challenges, so I couldn’t help wondering what we could learn from them.

My results were good.  I’ve booked my second scan for the same time next year.

There was one reading from my heart they wanted to understand better, though. On Thursday this week I went back for another ECG and an echocardiogram.

Later that afternoon, after meetings in Manchester, I was driving home from the station when my phone rang.

Unknown number.  I usually ignore those.

Something told me I should answer. A doctor introduced himself and said he needed to speak to me about my results.

I pulled over as my heart sank an inch lower into my chest.

He asked if there was any history of heart problems in my immediate family. In particular, anyone who had become ill or had a heart attack before the age of fifty.

I thought of my grandad.

I told him no.

Then he asked whether I’d done a lot of hard exercise over a long period of time.

I told him about the Royal Marines. About rowing alone across oceans. About Jiu Jitsu and all the training in between.

His voice relaxed a little. He said he’d hoped that was what I was going to tell him.

The scan showed that my heart had been remodeled.  

Both left and right ventricles were dilated, likely as a result of the constant high demand and increased blood flow. From what he explained, years of consistent, tough training helped make sense of what he could see.

I suddenly felt a strange sense of relief.

I’ve spent much of my life asking my body to do difficult things. It had never occurred to me that my heart might carry a visible record of those challenges.

For a few seconds on the side of the road, before I knew what the doctor was going to say, I wasn’t thinking about what my body could do.

I was thinking about who I wanted to get home to.

My grandad taught me the value of hard work. He showed me how to run a business and how to look after the people you love. He even taught me how to carry the shopping without putting it down.

But there was one more lesson he wanted me to learn.

Being strong doesn’t tell you everything that’s happening inside.

He was the man everyone turned to for the answer.

The strong one who stood by his principles and values and who was unwavering in his self-belief.

I think back to early 2012, holding my grandad in my arms as he took his last breath in the hospital where I was born.

I stroked his hair and whispered that he didn’t need to be afraid.

That I was there when he needed me most.

Strong for him.

For the first, and last time.

Before we go any further, let’s take a moment to debrief together.

Is there something about your health you’ve been meaning to ask about, check, or follow up?

What keeps pushing it to another week?

Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):

Make the appointment. Or make the call that starts the conversation.

I can’t tell my grandad that I finally took his advice.

I can pass it on, though.

That’s enough for now. More next Sunday.

Mike

Hold the Line · Do the Hard Things.