After I wrote a piece about my experiences of mental illness for Mind’s website, they invited me to speak at the launch of a new initiative called Heads Together on World Mental Health Day 2016. Heads Together is spearheaded by Prince Harry and the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (or William and Kate), and the event involved lots of people sharing their stories on stage.
They were keen for me to explore the idea that one conversation can change everything. And it was that first conversation with Rich, when he dropped everything to answer his mate’s SOS call, that they wanted me to talk about. The message they wanted me to convey was that however isolated you feel, and however short of friends you might be, there is always someone who can help, whether it be a colleague, a doctor or a Samaritan on the end of the phone. If only Paul had known that there were people out there who wanted to listen. People he’d never even met.
I actually had a whole network I could plug into, including my old mate Neil, my wife, my parents and even my children. So I felt slightly uncomfortable about playing down their support. But each person in a support network can’t be looking out for you 24/7. They go to work, look after children, go on holiday and have their own problems to deal with. And in this case, it was Rich who best understood how great a toll an ambulance person’s work can take on them and how difficult it is for them to admit vulnerability. Rich made me realise that asking for help is okay.
Heads Together had also invited people like the former England cricketer Andrew Flintoff and musician Professor Green, so I guess I was there as the ‘normal’ person. It was a surreal experience for an everyday working-class lad, but it was great that they wanted to use my story to get people talking and I felt good that I’d managed to turn such a scary period in my life into something positive.
While the Duchess of Cambridge was giving her spiel, it was just me and Prince Harry on the side of the stage. He knew I was on next and could tell I was nervous, so tried his best to put me at ease. It was just small talk really. A bit of stuff about the weather and about how nervous Kate looked. But he also told me how great my story was and how important it was that I told it to as many people as possible.
I did my talk and when Harry did his, he said lots of nice things about me and that he hoped more people would talk about their problems as a result of me opening up. When he left the stage, he shook my hand, told me how important it was that I keep telling my story and asked if I fancied running the London Marathon for Heads Together. Crafty sod, he’d buttered me up and hit me at my most vulnerable. You can’t say no, can you?
Harry disappeared, probably while laughing his head off that he’d pulled off the old royal mind trick, and the next thing I knew someone was taking pictures of me with a London Marathon magazine in my hands. There was no going back from there. The only problem being I was in no fit state to run anywhere. I was still partial to the odd cigarette, the only place I ran was to the bar and the marathon was in five months’ time. But I left the event with a spring in my step and a sense of purpose. Just a few well-chosen words from Prince Harry had acted as fuel to get myself fit and fanned my campaigning zeal, just as a few well-chosen words from Rich had helped me back to my feet.
When I ran past Prince Harry at a Heads Together day in Newcastle, he collared me and asked me how the training was going. I couldn’t believe he remembered who I was. And I made sure to thank him for inspiring me to pound the road, shift the beer belly and put a bit of lead into my pencil. We met up again on the morning of the marathon and arranged to meet again after I was done. Sadly, he went home before I finished, later than planned.
There were times that day when I thought I’d have to quit. The first five miles were fine. London was a riot of colour and noise – cheering, steel bands, people calling my name (it was written on my bib, to be fair) – and it felt like I was riding the crest of a gigantic wave. After 10 miles, I felt a bit leggy. After 12 miles, I was coming apart at the seams. All I could think was, ‘There’s no way I can do another 14 miles of this.’ After 18 miles, I had to stop because I was completely and utterly broken. But after twenty minutes of walking/hobbling, the support of the crowd got me jogging again. Though I didn’t exactly ride on their shoulders, it was more like they were dragging me along by my armpits.
At mile 20, I spotted my wife and burst into tears. She said to me, ‘You’ve nearly done it!’ I replied, ‘I haven’t nearly done it, I’ve got another six miles to go . . .’ I was running on fumes, but off I popped again, walking, limping, occasionally even running. And when I saw the 25-mile marker, a wave of energy came over me and I started running my socks off. In my head, I imagine I resembled Usain Bolt over those last couple of hundred metres. In reality, I probably resembled a man pulling a fridge. But who cares really?
I completed it in about five hours, but my time was irrelevant. I ran the same number of miles as the winner. And the faster you go, the less time you’re out there suffering. That’s what I told myself anyway. Finishing that marathon was one of my biggest achievements. And while it might be trite to compare the suffering endured in a marathon to everyday mental strife, I was struck by the surface similarities: had people not reached out to help me along the route, there is absolutely no way I would have made it to the finish line.
In 2017, I was invited to a Queen’s garden party at Buckingham Palace. But the night before it was due to take place, a bomb exploded as people were leaving a concert at the Manchester Arena. There was some talk of cancelling the garden party, but the organisers decided to go ahead with it. I think that was the correct decision. It’s become a cliché, but the cancellation of events would have meant the terrorists had won. We marked the attack with a two-minute silence and the atmosphere was suitably sombre. But I felt very uncomfortable making pleasant small talk and nibbling on cucumber sandwiches while my colleagues in the emergency services and NHS were dealing with the aftermath.
Ambulance crews raced to the arena, some of them on their days off, and when they arrived on the scene they were expecting minor injuries. What actually awaited them was a vision of hell. I felt guilty that I wasn’t able to help, just as a soldier feels guilty when his mates get caught up in a firefight and he’s elsewhere. I just couldn’t help thinking, Why them and not me?
There was some criticism directed at the emergency services in the aftermath of the bombing. It was claimed that the response was too slow and confused. This isn’t the place to discuss such things. But what I can say, having heard some of my colleagues’ stories, is that it’s impossible to imagine the terrible things they saw that night and I’m incredibly proud to have all who were involved as colleagues.
The Manchester Arena bombing, along with the Westminster attack a few weeks earlier and the London Bridge attack a few weeks later, suggested that our emergency services were involved in a war of sorts on the UK’s streets. As such, the public suddenly saw what valuable assets we were. And valuable assets need to be looked after properly.
I’ve heard that some emergency service staff who attended the Manchester bombing were still off work with PTSD more than a year after the event. Maybe some never returned. It’s perhaps not appropriate to talk about silver linings where terrorist attacks are concerned, but they did at least succeed in focusing minds on the vital importance of providing staff with sufficient psychological support, as well as the right knowledge and equipment. My chief executive said to me, ‘If it wasn’t for the work you were doing prior to this, I don’t think we would have delivered support in the way we have.’ With another atrocity inevitable, the consensus seemed to be that 999 staff needed to be mentally prepared. The penny seemed to have dropped that support shouldn’t just be offered in the wake of an atrocity, it should be on tap. There were lots of meetings, events and bold pronouncements. Change seemed to be afoot.
As part of the NHS’s seventieth birthday celebrations, me and Rich received a public tribute and a Points of Light award (which are for outstanding volunteers making a change in their community) from Theresa May (though I couldn’t attend 10 Downing Street because I knackered my back the week before). And at the 2018 NHS Heroes Awards in London, me and Rich received the Mental Health Champion honour. In a line-up for the Duchess of Cornwall (Camilla to me and you), I was stood next to Tito Jackson. When everyone was shushing each other and getting giddy about the arrival of Camilla, I was more interested in having a chinwag with Tito about The Jackson 5.
The award was presented to us by the actor Michael Sheen, and there was also a lovely video message from Prince William, who is a former colleague, having been an air ambulance pilot for a couple of years. And as I was stood on the stage, I thought about that policeman who had written me off as a kid, the one who told my head-teacher that I was a bad person and destined to end up in prison. I so hoped he was watching.
Also at the NHS Heroes Awards, I met a girl called Freya Lewis, who survived the Manchester bombing. Freya was only fourteen at the time, and just a few metres away from the explosion. Tragically, her best friend died. Freya was in hospital for six weeks, underwent seventy hours of surgery and had to learn to walk again. But she was back at school just four months after the attack and has raised tens of thousands of pounds for various causes since. Freya was one of the most incredible people I’d ever met, a force of nature. She still has scars, both outside and inside, but she just keeps ploughing on regardless.
Freya confirmed what I already suspected, that there are amazing people out there who are able to turn suffering into something positive. And she made me think of Roger, my wonderful counsellor who had set me on a similar path. I’d always wanted to tell Roger what a positive effect he’d had on me, and so many others by extension. Everything that had happened to me since getting back on my feet, and the changes I’d been able to effect, stemmed from him. But when I next visited my GP surgery with one of my kids, I noticed a book of condolences in the waiting room. Roger had died of cancer, which meant I never got to tell him how much he’d helped me. When you want to say something, don’t delay. Otherwise, you might leave it too late.