Surviving heart failure: The lessons I didn’t expect to learn – Glenn Dwight

Glenn Dwight spent time in hospital after heart failure. Photo / Glenn Dwight

When you’re lying in a hospital bed with wires sticking out of you like malfunctioning Christmas tree lights, you do get time to think.

In my case, it was about how my heart had just decided to pack it in.

Proper heart failure.

Not a “bit of indigestion” or a “take two Panadol and you’ll be right” situation.

Actual, real-life, heart-isn’t-doing-its-job-anymore failure.

Now, there are some things they don’t tell you about heart failure.

For one, the word “failure” is very confronting.

It makes it sound like I should be sent back to the manufacturer for a refund.

Maybe I could get store credit and pick up a second-hand kidney instead.

And let’s be honest, we live in a time where everyone gets a medal just for turning up. Nobody expects failure anymore.

So, when your heart fails, it feels like it’s broken the unspoken rules of modern life.

But mostly, what I learned is that you get an entirely new perspective on life.

Not in a deep, Instagram-inspirational-quote way. More in a “wow, hospital food actually isn’t that bad … after all, you are alive to eat it” kind of way.

So, as an All Blacks coach would say, “the learnings”.

First up: you cannot bluff your way through a failing heart.

This is not like a flat tyre where you just put on the space saver and move on.

And I’d love to say I heroically recognised the signs, calmly dialled 111, and accepted my fate with stoic dignity.

The truth is, I left things until they got really bad, making me a “bloody idiot”.

I also learnt that Doctor Google is right up there with Dr Nick from The Simpsons.

Speaking of doctors and nurses … this is where the comedy stops for a second, because these people are extraordinary.

They don’t just fix you. They manage to stay calm while you’re convinced your last words will be “how could the All Blacks let in 36 unanswered points?”

They have the patience to explain medical jargon while you’re wheezing like a broken accordion.

And somehow, they do it all without making you feel like an idiot, even when you very clearly are one, and all while looking after another 10 patients.

I learned that nurses are the true superheroes. Forget capes.

They can get a blood pressure cuff on you faster than you can yell, “Come on, ref, that was clearly a knock-on!”

They are also world-class in the art of pretending not to be horrified by your hospital gown accidentally falling open.

And doctors, well, they have the magical ability to look at a screen full of squiggly lines and know exactly what is happening in your chest.

I look at the same lines and think, “Huh, looks like a mountain range”.

Another lesson: hospitals are humbling places.

When you’re hooked up to machines, shuffling down a corridor to the shower that dates back to the 70s, you start thinking maybe that promised government investment in hospitals could be fast-tracked a bit.

You suddenly don’t care about whether you’ve got 142 unread emails at work, or if your neighbour’s hedge is plotting to take over your driveway, or whether you should buy that jug because the 70% off sale ends this weekend.

You care about two things. Breathing in. Breathing out.

And if you can manage those, then the cup of weak tea afterwards tastes like champagne.

For reference, if you are in Christchurch Hospital, you get a cup of tea at 7am, 10.30am and 3pm – these become your new ritual.

I also discovered how much Kiwis cope with humour.

Friends didn’t send me flowers. They sent me messages asking if I’d secretly skipped the country for a hair plug operation in Thailand.

And honestly, that’s what you need sometimes – a simple laugh or a silly message that pulls you out of your own head.

It’s the same medicine you need outside hospital walls too … just something to make you smile.

When co-workers send you a gift box with chocolates, this can be traded for essentials.

The biggest lesson, though, was gratitude.

Not the vague kind where you promise to live life to the fullest and go skydiving. Real gratitude.

The kind where you thank the nurse who checks your vitals at 3am.

The kind where you look at your wife sitting beside you with bad instant coffee and realise how much you love them.

The kind where you think, “Wow, I am a lucky man”.

So while my heart may have failed me, people didn’t.

Doctors, nurses, friends, family. They carried me through it with skill, humour and compassion.

And yes, I also learned that maybe I should eat fewer pies, drink fewer energy drinks, and actually listen to my body.

This is exactly what stubborn males are terrible at.

We’ll happily ignore chest pains, but we’ll never ignore a knock-on from the opposition halfback.

Not our smartest trait.

I also know that my hospital gown technique needs serious work, too.

But mostly, I learned that life is fragile and worth every single beat you get.

So, make the most of those beats. If you’re told to get a check-up, go.

If you feel unwell, don’t be a hero, be a patient.

Better to lose an afternoon in a waiting room than to risk losing all your afternoons.