John Batty is the Director of Technical Services at Bridge Insurance Brokers Ltd and a Main Board Member of BIBA.
He is an ex-colleague of mine and someone I’ve known for over thirty years. He is a good man through and through, always full of cheer and one of the insurance industry’s genuine good-guys.
If you are lucky enough to meet John, I can promise you that you’ll not meet a more charming and affable person…
Anyway, when I was at the BIBA conference earlier this year, I met up with John, who I’d known had been seriously ill with Covid a while back. I naturally asked him how he was doing and what had happened. To say that I was shocked by his response would be an understatement, because I hadn’t realised, nor I suspect had many of his other industry friends, quite how close to visiting that big insurance broker in the sky he had come. What followed was one of the most courageous and inspiring stories from a friend in the industry I had ever heard. I have to be honest, I may have had some ‘grit’ in my eye by the end of our chat.
I asked John to share his Covid story in the hope that it would doubtless inspire others who are facing challenges in their personal lives outside of the humdrum world of insurance. I hope that it serves as a reminder to us all that when the hussle and bustle of the crazy world of insurance gets too much (which it does for all of us from time to time), it’s worth remembering that at its heart the industry is a human business that, if we care to look that little bit deeper, has more than its fair share of amazing people.
Before I sign off, I must doff my hat to Bridge Insurance Brokers CEO Roger Potts. Like me, I’m sure you read a lot of old toffee written about ‘leadership’ in the insurance media and on LinkedIn, etc. Well, I cannot think of a finer display of what good leadership looks like here.
I write this because I believe that everyone is (potentially) a great leader when things are going fabulously well. When things are not going smoothly, adversity gives truly great leaders the opportunity to shine and boy did Roger Potts, who I don’t know incidentally, do exactly that…
Paul Handleigh – August 2023
Here are John’s unedited words…
“Renewal has been secured at £1.6m, Martin, but I'm going to have to go for a COVID test as I can't stop coughing. It's not a bad legacy to leave, though, if it is the dreaded virus.” Those words almost came back to haunt me when I made a light-hearted comment about my chances of catching COVID-19. Deep down, I knew that getting COVID would put me in trouble. On the morning of February 5th, 2021, the news came, and my biggest fears became a reality. "Your coronavirus test is positive. It is likely that you had the virus when the test was done. You must self-isolate immediately for 10 days."
Being told that I tested positive for COVID despite my best efforts to shield myself for almost a year was unbelievable. Trying to figure out how and where I may have caught it drove me mad, and to this day, I have no idea. What I did know was how sick I felt. I had no energy and didn't leave the bedroom. Soon, my wife Suzanne and son Samuel also tested positive, and it was thoroughly depressing.
The 10-day self-isolation was just the beginning of the difficulties. We had bought an oximeter, and after three days, it seemed like my oxygen levels were fluctuating, and I felt terrible. My wife called an ambulance, but when they arrived, my oxygen levels stabilised. The ambulance crew offered me the opportunity to go to the hospital and be monitored for a few hours, but they believed I would likely be sent home. In hindsight, I wish I had taken their offer. Just four days later, and one week after my positive test result, the ambulance was called again. This time, there was no doubt, I was seriously ill, and I realised I had waited too long from the first call out, hoping not to burden the ambulance service. But waiting was no longer an option.
With blue lights flashing and sirens blaring, I was rushed to Stepping Hill Hospital in Stockport. The paramedics, exhausted from the sheer number of COVID-related calls, teased me about my wife, joking that she looked too young to be my wife. They showed incredible strength of character. Upon arrival, I was immediately taken to an isolation unit and hooked up to oxygen. The prognosis wasn't good. The consultant informed me that no COVID patient arriving in Stockport had required as much oxygen as I did just to stabilise. It did not look promising. They were honest and told me that the next 72 hours were critical, and survival was unlikely.
By late evening, I was moved to a COVID intensive care unit, resembling a lab from the movie "Contagion." Most staff wore masks with hoods and airline feeds. I found myself wearing a full-face mask for nine hours at a time, with only a few minutes of respite. A small procedure was done to monitor my vital signs, but alarms constantly disrupted my sleep, and other patients in extreme distress surrounded me. The staff performed heroically.
While fighting for my life, the loss of dignity was the most challenging aspect. Unable to visit a toilet, a catheter was fitted, and I had to rely on the staff for everything else. It was a situation I despised and could never get used to.
After three days, I began to feel a slight improvement. On Valentine's Day, I even managed to have some flowers delivered to my wife. It seemed like I was no longer in immediate danger. However, little did I know that this was just the beginning of a rollercoaster journey. Some days, I would feel like I was on the path to recovery, while on other days, I would wish it would all be over. The truth was that the combination of continuous air pressure and pure oxygen was deceiving my body into thinking I was getting better. But then the virus would fight back, requiring increased oxygen to keep it under control.
MRI scans and chest X-rays revealed extensive damage to my lungs, which were described as a frosted shower screen with blood clots and scarring. Even a week later, I remained in a very poor condition. The nights were horrific, with vivid dreams that would come and go during brief moments of light sleep. At times, I felt almost delusional, believing I was a prisoner in an organ harvesting lab somewhere in the Far East. It was a recurring nightmare, where only my screams could attract the attention of a nurse and save me from an impending chainsaw.
Amidst the darkness, there were moments of upliftment. The overwhelming messages of support I received from so many people humbled me. Every night, my brother Chris would video call with a different guest appearance, whether it was a family member or a close friend. The pictures from the virtual BIBA Dinner in Manchester, where I had been unable to attend, with best wishes from the table guests I had invited, deeply moved me. It was the first BIBA Dinner I had missed in over 10 years.
My wife Suzanne was constantly calling, and I knew it was tough for her. In fact, I even sent her an email containing all the necessary financial records, including details of the secret bank account that all guys supposedly have, along with my funeral wishes in case the worst happened. To this day, she has never been able to bring herself to open that email.
Suzi was also caring for our son Sam, as both of them were recovering from their own battle with COVID while trying to work from home. I know my CEO at Bridge Insurance Brokers, Roger Potts, regularly called her to offer support and find out if there was anything the company could do for her. The way companies take care of their employees and their families speak volumes about their ethics, and I will forever be grateful for the unwavering support Bridge Insurance Brokers provided to my wife during this time.
However, the reality of the situation became increasingly evident as the days passed. Men around me were being placed on ventilators, their families in tears during video calls as the possibility of losing a loved one became all too real. Soon, the beds next to me fell silent, with only nurses providing regular treatment to turn those individuals over from side to side and front to back, as they were being kept alive solely by machines. Every now and then, a bed would be wheeled out, tragically carrying another victim of this dreadful virus to the morgue.
To my left, a Romanian man was admitted to the bed next to mine. He had been transferred from a COVID unit within the hospital to the intensive care unit, and for a few days, he appeared to be improving. Meanwhile, my own condition continued to fluctuate, with good and bad days on a rollercoaster ride. After 14 days, Adnan, the Romanian man, began to show progress. He could get out of bed, sit in a chair, stand up, take a few steps around his bed, and return to bed by the end of the day shift. All the physio staff who visited me encouraged me to do the same, but I was unable to move. The weight of my body, coupled with the burden of oxygen, left me confined to the bed. Any attempts to move would cause my oxygen levels to plummet dangerously, triggering alarms.
That evening, the consultant paid a visit and delivered grim news. "It's not looking good, John," he said. "Your body can't continue to handle the levels of oxygen you're receiving. If you don't show signs of improvement soon, we will have to consider putting you on a ventilator tomorrow to give your organs a chance to recover from the strenuous battle they've been fighting." It was an emotionally tough evening, and sharing the news with my wife only confirmed that the inevitable was just around the corner.
The morning arrived, and I noticed the consultant making his rounds, attending to all the other beds before reaching Adnan and me. Adnan's cough had worsened, and he sounded dreadful. The consultant wanted to closely monitor him today. As he approached, I braced myself for the worst, but to my surprise, he remarked, "You look a little better this morning, John. However, if there's no improvement by tonight, we really need to consider ventilation. Let's see how you fare today."
That morning, my angel appeared in the form of Ali, a nurse who rearranged all the medical equipment behind me so I couldn't see the dire state of my vital signs. She insisted on helping me out of bed and into a chair, despite my oxygen levels suddenly dropping. Within minutes, she had stabilised them again. She rolled a TV into the intensive care unit and urged me to relax, watch some TV, and not dwell on the statistics, assuring me that she would take care of everything. She promised that today would be the day I started to improve. It felt like Ali was there with me all day. I'm not even sure if she took a break or had lunch, but I will forever be grateful to her. In just one day, she significantly reduced my dependency on pure oxygen, from over 80% to 40%. She saved me from having to be ventilated, and I was no longer in danger.
During his evening rounds, the consultant visited and couldn't believe the transformation. "This is a miracle," he exclaimed, inquiring about how it had happened. Ali jokingly replied that she had sprinkled some magic dust on me. We shared a few tears, and I expressed my gratitude for everything she had done. It was a day and a nurse I would never forget. However, sometimes I wonder if Ali was a figment of my imagination, a fleeting presence that appeared when I needed her the most, orchestrating a remarkable turnaround. Real or not, she was my angel, and I had no doubt in my mind that she had saved my life.
Unfortunately, Adnan was not as fortunate. By the end of the day, the curtains were drawn around him as he was placed on a ventilator, vividly displaying the harsh reality of this disease and how quickly circumstances can deteriorate.
In the following days, my oxygen levels continued to decline. When they reached 21%, it was time for me to leave the intensive care unit and be transferred to a COVID ward. As I made this transition, every member of the intensive care nursing staff clapped and cheered for me. Tears streamed down my face; it was a moment to cherish.
Day by day, my oxygen dependency levels gradually decreased. The colours of the oxygen delivery devices would change as the regulated levels came down. After another week, it dropped as low as 4%. However, I couldn't bring it down any further. Whenever the nurses attempted to reduce it, my saturation levels would drop, necessitating an increase in the pure oxygen level. Just as it seemed I was nearing the point of discharge, I found myself trapped, unable to make the necessary improvement for a smooth recovery. I became disheartened; all I wanted was to go home and recuperate there. Finally, the consultant expressed his doubts, stating, "John, I don't think you're going to make further progress for quite a while. You have two options."
Option one was to remain in the hospital until I was completely weaned off oxygen dependency. Option two, which I had already made up my mind about, involved converting a ground-floor room in my home into a hospital ward. It would require a bed, washing and toilet facilities, and oxygen machines delivering a prescribed level of oxygen for at least the next three months. However, I couldn't be discharged to home care until the room was ready and a comprehensive treatment plan was established.
Driven by my instinct to return home, I communicated with my CEO, Roger Potts, and my wife, Suzanne. Within three days, thanks to their efforts, the room was prepared, and all the necessary equipment was provided, courtesy of Bridge Insurance. This was yet another example of why I hold our company, especially Mr. Potts, in such high regard.
Finally, the long-awaited day had arrived. It felt like an eternity waiting for the home care plan from the hospital. Would it arrive in time? Could I finally go home? The hours ticked by, and with each passing moment, it seemed more and more unlikely. However, at 5 pm, a nurse burst into the room and exclaimed, "You're going home, John!" I was overcome with elation and shed tears of happiness.
By this time, the army was assisting the NHS by driving ambulances and moving patients and medical equipment. It was a Royal Marine who arrived to collect me in a wheelchair. Though I still couldn't walk, nothing could deter me now. With a mobile oxygen cannister and mask in place, we set off. However, there was one final obstacle standing between me and the converted room at home: the steps leading into the house. Panic washed over me as I wondered how I would manage. But in an instant, to the delight of my wife, the Royal Marine lifted both me and the wheelchair off the ground and effortlessly carried us into the house. It was a display of strength that I believe will never be surpassed.
In just under five weeks, from the moment I was rushed to the hospital with flashing lights and blaring sirens, I was finally back home with Suzi and Sam.
Initially, the transition from a hospital ward where nurses attended to every need to an environment where I relied on my wife and son for assistance was challenging. Particularly when they had work or school commitments, and I didn't want to burden them. These are the times that truly test a marriage. I'm certain Sue must have been thinking, "Yes, I want my husband home, but wow, it's difficult to juggle a full-time job, take care of you, manage the household, look after Sam, and tend to the dog, all while recovering from COVID myself." It was tough, and after a few days, something had to change. Either I had to return to the hospital or I had to push myself to start the process of getting better.
Every day, the hospital staff would call, and I had to provide them with my stats over the phone. To be honest, even if there was any deterioration in my statistics, I had made up my mind—I was not going back to the hospital. Three months with no improvement was simply not an option for me!
I began pushing myself, starting with small tasks while wearing the oxygen mask. I transitioned from the bed to the sofa, from the sofa to standing, and from standing to walking. At first, it was just a few steps, then a few more. Then, on a Saturday morning, an Amazon delivery arrived. It was Suzi's birthday and Mother's Day was the following day. I had ordered her a watch, but she wasn't home to accept the delivery. I had no choice but to take off the mask, walk to the front door, open it, accept the parcel, and return to the sofa. I felt like I was gasping for breath by the time I reached the sofa, but it taught me something crucial—I can do this!
The next day, I washed and got dressed for the first time. I put on a pair of shoes and thought, "If I can get to the front door, I can get to the car." So, with my mobile oxygen cannister in tow, I embarked on a mission to visit my mom on Mother's Day. Suzi drove, and when we arrived at my mom's house, Suzi knocked on the front door and asked her to come to the car. When she saw me there, she burst into tears and said it was the happiest day of her life. I was just grateful that I could give her a bunch of flowers for Mother's Day when just a few weeks earlier, there was a real possibility she would never see me again. It was a pivotal day.
Day by day, I pushed myself further. At first, it was from the front room to the back room, then to the back door and the kitchen. Then I tackled one step on the stairs, then two, then three, four, and before I knew it, I had reached the top of the stairs to my daughter's old room, which I turned into my temporary bedroom and finally had access to a real bathroom after eight weeks. Within two weeks, I was back in the marital bedroom, although I was still reliant on the oxygen machine and the tubing that extended throughout the entire house.
As long as I had the mobile oxygen with me, I could venture outside, and everything was fine. We even had machines installed at our static caravan so we could spend some time there. However, the time had come. Around one month into my recovery, I felt confident enough to start trying to reduce my dependency on oxygen.
Now, I know some people may consider this very foolish, but I can be quite stubborn when I set my mind to something. The homecare team had already discharged me, with no appointments scheduled until the oxygen clinic in two months' time. So, I thought, why not give it a try? I remembered how the nurses attempted to wean me off oxygen while I was in the COVID ward. I started replicating their approach, gradually reducing the oxygen level. If my saturation levels deteriorated, I would increase the oxygen level again. However, to my surprise, my saturation levels remained stable for hours on end. Hours turned into days, and after a few days, I repeated the exercise. After a month, I only needed oxygen at night and even gave that up two weeks prior to the appointment with the oxygen clinic.
By this point, I had resumed driving and even received my COVID vaccination, which resulted in a remarkable improvement in my condition. So, when the date for the oxygen clinic appointment arrived, I placed the mobile oxygen cannister in the trunk and drove myself to the appointment in Stockport.
Upon arrival at the oxygen clinic, they asked me where my oxygen was. I replied that it was in the trunk, but I was doing fine without it as I had weaned myself off it. I was scolded for doing something deemed stupid and dangerous, and they insisted on being the judge of whether I still needed oxygen. I understand that most of you reading this would agree with their concerns, but I insisted they conduct the necessary tests to prove my progress.
The process began with a walking test, measuring my oxygen levels before and after I completed it. I walked farther than anyone had previously and my saturation levels remained stable. They also performed blood tests, taking samples from my earlobe to accurately assess the oxygen levels in my blood. The nurse was astounded by the results and even called for a second opinion, but the results were indeed accurate. The nurses proclaimed it a miracle and stated that no one in the entire borough of Stockport had recovered as quickly as I had from such a severe illness. As a result, I no longer needed an oxygen prescription.
The miracles continued with my return to work just a month later, initially on reduced hours and then full-time by August 2021. In September, I had a follow-up MRI scan, six months after my discharge. Once again, the lung consultant marvelled at how well my lungs had recovered, describing it as miraculous. However, he emphasised the importance of being cautious. My weight had played a significant role in my illness, and if I could take steps to reduce it, it would further strengthen my resilience against COVID-19.
A few weeks ago, my extended family and I were at Zip World in Bethesda, North Wales. They all went on Velocity 2, but I was unable to participate due to my weight. Consequently, my son Sam couldn't do it either. That day, I promised him that I would lose the weight and we would both experience Velocity before the end of my 50th birthday year. The consultant's message was crystal clear—shedding the excess weight was a necessity!
During the final three months of 2021, I conducted extensive research on weight loss techniques and diets. However, what I needed was a goal, a target that I couldn't ignore because it was public knowledge. So, in collaboration with the marketing team at Bridge, we launched JB's Fitter For Fifty campaign on New Year's Day. The aim was to lose 40kg and achieve the maximum weight allowed to fly Velocity 2.
I adopted a calorie counting method and started weighing my foods. This helped me understand portion control and develop effective techniques that worked for me. I also began incorporating walking into my daily life. Instead of relying on the car, I started taking the train for my daily commute to the office and made it a habit to walk to the station. As time passed, I gradually increased the duration and distance of my walks.
My eating habits also underwent a transformation. It's no secret that I used to be able to devour a large bar of Dairy Milk in one sitting. However, I adjusted my approach and started freezing tiny 4-chunk bars. Each night, I would enjoy sucking on one of these small treats, totalling only 90 calories. Even when I visited McDonald's with the kids, where I could easily consume a large Big Mac, large fries, large chocolate milkshake, and a McFlurry, I opted for a small hamburger happy meal. I still indulged in some foods that dieticians would frown upon, but I carefully managed my calorie intake. At the beginning of each week, I had a personal calorie allowance of 14,000 calories. By practicing portion control and ensuring I didn't exceed my allowance, I maintained a calorie deficit and steadily lost weight.
Slowly but surely, the initial 6kg weight loss turned into 12kg, then 24kg. By September 3rd, 2023, my 50th birthday, I had successfully shed 40kg and weighed 100g below the maximum allowance of 130kg. We set off for Bethesda in North Wales, excited to experience the Velocity 2 flight. However, to my dismay, they wouldn't let us fly with my clothes and shoes on. My weight slightly exceeded their safety limits. Despite my protestations that their terms and conditions didn't specify the inclusion of shoes and clothing in the weight limit, we were denied.
This setback only fuelled my determination to achieve my goal of flying. I reset my weight loss challenge and aimed to lose another 3.5kg. However, it proved to be more challenging than I had anticipated. With 50th birthday celebrations and a major trip to Dubai, my weight started to creep back up by the end of the month. I needed to exert extra effort. In October, I increased my walking routine, although unfortunately, this coincided with autumn. One morning, while walking and talking on my mobile phone, I had a lapse in concentration and failed to notice the largest conker (horse chestnut) that had fallen from a tree. I slipped on the conker, and in an attempt to protect my phone, I held my arm in the air, but I landed with full force on my rib cage. The pain was excruciating, and I had to rely on strong painkillers and rest for eight weeks to recover from a broken rib.
By the end of the eight weeks of rest, I felt a bit discouraged. I started training again, but the gloomy mornings, short days, and dark nights of winter, combined with the usual Christmas festivities, resulted in minimal progress with my weight loss. As the New Year arrived, I set a personal goal to complete my challenge by Easter. I had become quieter on social media as I struggled to shed those last few pounds. However, I made a commitment and persevered. Day after day, I gradually increased the distance I walked. Instead of walking to my local village station, Rose Hill, I decided to walk to Marple train station, which was a mile and a half away and uphill. Upon arriving at Manchester Piccadilly, instead of heading straight to the office, I took a detour through Piccadilly Gardens and strolled around town before finally reaching the office, ensuring I completed at least 3 miles every morning. I repeated the routine in the evenings, walking back, accumulating over 10,000 steps and 5 miles each day. The weight started to come off again.
This boost was exactly what I needed. I discovered that the more exercise I did, the more I was capable of doing. Finally, I achieved a long-desired walk from Llanbedrog to Pwllheli in one go, and I was overjoyed. Easter was just around the corner, and the weather looked promising. I booked myself and Sam for a flight on Velocity 2 on Good Friday, but I kept it a secret, fearing a repetition of what had happened in September. However, upon arrival, my fears vanished. I was 4kg under the weight limit, having lost over 5kg since my last visit without clothes and shoes. I had shed 45kg (equivalent to 7 stone), reduced my waistline by 10 inches, my chest by 12 inches, my neck by 3 inches, and even lost a wedding ring that no longer fit my slimmer fingers. Finally, we took flight. I had fulfilled my promise to Sam, completed my challenge, and it was time to share my accomplishment with the world.
Social media was flooded with videos and photos showcasing my achievement, and donations for my JustGiving page poured in. So far, I have raised just under £5,000 for NHS Charities Together, a small token of gratitude for the remarkable NHS that had saved my life only two years earlier.
My JustGiving page is still open, so if my story has inspired you and you would like to make a donation, you can do so HERE
My story doesn’t end there though. Despite trying I have never succeeded in tracking down Ali, my angel nurse that saved my life. I have a small token of my appreciation to give to her by way of a thank you. If you know Ali and can put me in touch with her then please let me know. #FINDALI