You wake up buzzing. Sun’s out. No aches. Today’s the day you finally crack on with the floor. You nip to Homebase for cheap brushes… except it’s shut for good. Fine. Wicks it is—warehouse vibes and DeWalt dads everywhere. You emerge with “Clean Spirits,” which turns out to clean absolutely nothing, plus a pack of brushes that should’ve stayed on the shelf. Still, morale high. Bacon roll (brown sauce, obviously). Then—somewhere between the car park and the A-road—that energy just drops through the floor. Like someone’s nicked your battery while you were paying for parking.

I told myself it was “the bug” that everyone had. I went home, ate, and slept it off. Next day, worse. The kind of washed-out, head-full-of-sand feeling you can’t shake with coffee or bravado. I’d been blaming a mystery virus since January. Turns out it wasn’t a bug. It was the main event.

Fast-forward to A&E: beeps, wires, a nurse doing that calm, efficient panic they do when things are going sideways. Two ECGs. Chest X-ray. Bloods. Then the sentence that puts your life behind glass: “You’ve had a heart attack. We think you’re still having one.” There’s a bed that looks like every TV medical drama. Drugs that make the curtain rail countable and the world oddly hilarious. A second, smaller heart attack later, and I’m on a ward with stickers on my chest, a monitor that never shuts up, and a very sudden change of plans.

Let’s be honest. I love the grind of a van build. It’s physical, it’s fiddly, it gives your brain something to bite. But nothing takes the shine off a job like not being able to breathe properly after carrying a sheet of 18mm ply ten metres.

Post-hospital, I’m on a boatload of pills, gassing out after a kilometre and a half, and napping like it’s an Olympic sport. Four weeks off driving. Six weeks off work. A house to move out of. A van to finish. One of my dogs passed while I was in hospital. And there’s background employment nonsense that doesn’t exactly help keep the blood pressure down. It’s not a pity party. It’s just the messy truth behind the Instagram story.

Here’s the bit nobody advertises when they post moody sunset shots: the van will wait; your body won’t. The obvious solution—“just push through”—isn’t clever, it’s reckless. That attitude helped put me here. The reality? You build slower. Smarter. You plan like an adult and work like someone who wants to see next summer.

So this is how I’m doing it now:

  • No hero lifting. If a panel takes two people, it takes two people. If I can’t get help, it waits. There’s no medal for popping a stent because you insisted on bench-pressing a fridge carcass.
  • Break jobs into stupidly small chunks. 25-minute bursts with a timer. Then tea. Then sit down. If I’m flagging, that’s the day done. The floor won’t run away.
  • Stage the heavy stuff. Pre-cut ply at the timber yard. Use a trolley for lugging materials. Keep the tool bench at waist height so I’m not folding myself in half to find the one Torx bit I own.
  • Choose materials with mercy. Lighter panels where I can get away with it. Pre-drill everything. Box sections I can handle solo. No one’s giving out awards for “heaviest possible construction.”
  • Maintain the van like a life support system. Because it is. Diesel heater serviced. CO alarm tested weekly. First-aid kit restocked. Water topped, electrics checked. Small wins keep the wheels turning.

If you’re reading this thinking, “I’ve been exhausted for months, must be a cold,” listen—get checked. I’d been waving it away with jokes and Lemsip while my blood pressure was sat in Stage 2 hypertension’s VIP lounge. The NHS saved my bacon (roll) and I’m grateful.

And yet, there are moments of ridiculous, stubborn joy. Hearing the diesel heater click back to life. Finding a perfect, rust-free patch of floor and deciding that’s today’s win. Laughing with a nurse because I made a Star Wars quip while off my face on pain relief. The van is still mine. The road is still there. It’s just… different now.

I wish I could tell you the next episode is a neat montage of insulation, wiring, and triumphant engine starts. It won’t be. It’ll be small steps. Tea breaks. Swearing at badly labelled screws. Naps. Lists shortened by one line a day. Progress you only notice when the light hits a clean bit of metal and you think, yeah—still here.

What I’m doing next (realistically)

  1. Health first: Cardiac rehab sessions, daily gentle walks, blood pressure logs. Non-negotiable.
  2. Plan the build in stages: Floor prep → battens → insulation → one ply panel at a time. No overlap, no heroics.
  3. Ask for help on heavy days: Two-person lifts only. If you’re local and fancy holding a board, I’ll pay in tea and questionable playlists.
  4. Keep the van liveable: Tidy tools, quick wins (seal edges, label circuits), heater working, CO alarm tested.
  5. Document the truth: Not just the shiny bits. The naps. The do-overs. The weeks where the only progress is ordering screws.

Van life isn’t an escape from reality; it’s just reality with fewer walls and more weather. This episode isn’t the one I wanted to make, but it’s the one I’ve got. And if it helps one of you get checked sooner, or gives you permission to slow down and still call it progress, then it’s worth more than any perfect floor.

See you in Episode 17. Slower. Still stubborn. Still building.