Earlier this month, Peter Street got in touch with the Pulmonary Fibrosis Trust and shared the story of his diagnosis with us.
Peter has spent much of his life writing — as a published poet, memoirist and writer-in-residence. When pulmonary fibrosis unexpectedly became part of his own story, he did what he does best and put his experience into words.
What’s Pulmonary fibrosis?
January 4th this year, when the postman pushed through a white NHS envelope with my name on it. We left it on the Welcome mat, thinking it was the usual report from my yearly M.O.T. Ok, I thought it odd the hospital X-rays/scans, and that glass cubicle where I was asked to breathe in, then out as fast as possible. It was a surprise, but I left at that.
We now live in the Wigan area, where COPD and other lung diseases are endemic. But I kept my promise to mum about not working in the cotton mills or the mines, after hearing her brown lung disease rip a beautiful soul to pieces.
For the first 30 years, most of my working life was outside gardening/forestry, mainly in private service. Mum used to visit us down in Kent, where I was head gardener of a five-acre private estate, and she would spend the summer with us. It was so special knowing I had kept my promise. When mum became seriously ill, we moved back into the Wigan area to look after her. There I qualified as a youth worker on the streets, working in drugs and sexual health with 16-21-year-olds. It was about the fourth week of COVID when I tested positive, forcing me home, where I had trouble walking from one room to the next. Four months later, Covid was behind me. Sandra had been infected, but she was just troubled with the occasional sniffle.
A manager I know at a local HMP youth offending remand centre. needed someone on the education unit with experience working with young men on the periphery of society. I got the job. I was back at work and back in the pool, and back in the gym twice a week. Life was good.
I’ve been poorly all my life with one thing or another, but never with a breathing /lung problem. I never gave CODP or P.F a thought until I watched Sandra fitting on her walking/hiking boots and the rest of her weatherproof gear, how easy it was. I had always been the first to be ready for a walk. My breathing suddenly became laboured as I bent down to pull on my boots and tie the laces. I had to sit up and take a breath, and I became really tired, with no energy for our usual 10.000 steps and more some days. That day, I managed to push 4000 steps twice as long as our usual walk, and I was exhausted; we knew then that something was seriously wrong.
Over tea and digestive biscuits, we opened that white envelope that had been patiently waiting for us on the doormat.
“What’s pulmonary fibrosis?”
“Not a clue” I said.
We first climbed out from under the ton of bricks that had been dropped on us after googling P.F., and after shedding a bucketful of tears. A couple of hours later, we ordered curry. Got our thoughts together. Two days later, we started sorting out a Solicitor for our Will, and who gets what. Then a funeral plan. Next was telling the family. We sat at the table with our cups of tea and dark chocolate biscuits. Pen and paper ready, in order, for what we were going to say. Three sheets of paper were thrown in the bin.
We invited our close family round for pizza and explained everything. We all kept ourselves together. It all went well. There were lots of questions which we answered as best and truthfully as we could. I know it’s odd to say, given that there can be no future planning with any certainty. There was a strong sense of optimism that everything was going to be okay.
One week later, and after the initial shock, we were back on our 10.000 steps (no hiking), but the walk outside and inside was spread over twelve hours – not every day, but we are doing ok; now we know what’s in front of us.
Peter Street — writer, poet and person living with pulmonary fibrosis
You can find out more about Peter here