When people refer to me as “disabled” it still knocks me for six. I started 2022 happy and fit(ish), but by January 10th I was beginning a four-month stint in hospital. I now have prosthetics to keep my heart pumping, and as a result can officially claim disability benefits.

It was February when I knew that I was in deep trouble. I’d gotten over Covid, pneumonia, liver and kidney problems, then my heart disease was discovered. It was bad, and I was deteriorating rapidly.

The next few weeks are a blur of round-the-clock testing and poking and prodding. Most of it painful and intrusive, all of it done with care, attention to detail and some very dark humour by the nurses, consultants and professors at Ealing Hospital.

What isn’t a blur is what happened when I got to The Royal Brompton Hospital for my operation. It would be a 10-hour surgery with my heart stopped for 90 minutes and removed to be worked on. I was told I had a 30% chance of surviving. I was also told I would loudly tick, which didn’t register at the time.

After the operation, I woke and asked my surgeon Dr Edlin if she was happy. “I’m ecstatic” she said, and her being one of the most measured people I’ve ever met I knew it must have gone ok. I then passed out and slept for 15 hours. And she was right, it had gone well. I recovered, but I wobble now and then and get upset. My mind plays tricks on me, my body hurts or gets a sudden pain and I panic, and it doesn’t help that I live alone.

And after all this I also got a new label – disabled. It’s so surreal to write that about myself. On the tube, I’ll get out of my seat for people, forgetting I need it, oblivious to my disability until I’m not. I think that’s the whole point – when it’s you, you’re just you.

You don’t think of yourself as different or changed, although I do have a permanent reminder: I now tick like a grandfather clock due to my prosthetic mitral heart valve replacement. And yes, everyone has mentioned the crocodile from Peter Pan.

One thing you discover quickly is that you are not alone. Thanks in part to our culture of oversharing, we know all about the latest celebs to declare their disabilities: Celine Dion recently spoke about the impact of stiff person syndrome, while actor Christina Applegate was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and Millie Bobbie Brown suffers with hearing loss. It’s not just me and there’s some comfort in that.

I’m at eleven months post-op and feel pretty good already. I’ve joined a gym, where I get a reminder of my disability every time I use the pool and people stare at my epic scar. I’ve also gone back to work, where I’m lucky to have a supportive environment with colleagues who knew me before I became disabled, forget I am, and who I know are there for me if I need them.  My boss Helen said the other day that I’d not dodged a bullet but dodged a machine gun which made me laugh, and that’s a good lesson – laugh about it.

I think about living and second chances. We can safely say I’ve had a second chance, and if I had to pass on something it’s to live. I’m not talking about doing a marathon or bungie jumping – I’ve joined the gym because that’s a no-brainer, and I’ve not smoked in 12 months (I really miss smoking). But I’ve been drunk and hungover a couple of times for friends’ birthdays, I’ve eaten a McDonalds breakfast and a KFC, and I don’t beat myself up about it.

Some of my funniest life stories and favourite memories are born from my mistakes, and I think that’s what I’d like to pass on – just live, the good and bad, regrettable, and sad, that’s the colour of life. My disability scares me, and I feel sorry for myself occasionally but I’m going to live life until I don’t. If you see me in person and are overcome with a morbid curiosity to hear my tick tocking heart you only have to stand next to me, I won’t mind. But please remember, I’m just like you.