God. I still get the shivers thinking about it. One minute I'm sitting comfortably on a Qatar Airways flight heading to Thailand, all excited about my speaking gigs, and the next... complete blackout. Waking up in a foreign hospital bed with tubes in my arm and my PA Paul looking like he'd seen a ghost.

I'm 63 now. Been through some battles in my time (most of them in the ring), but nothing—and I mean NOTHING—prepared me for what happened on March 3rd this year.

When your body just says "nope"

We were about 2½ hours into the flight from Heathrow to Doha. Paul had taken one of those typical "look at me on the plane" photos before takeoff—me in my BOSS sweatshirt, feeling on top of the world. I even posted it online. Little did I know what was coming.

I started feeling... off. Not just tired, but properly feverish. Agitated. Couldn't settle.

I remember getting up to use the toilet and then... blank. Complete memory wipeout.

Apparently I was delirious. My temperature shot up, oxygen levels plummeted. Poor Paul thought he was watching me die right there in seat 14C.

Qatar wasn't exactly on my bucket list

Next thing I actually remember is waking up in Al-Wakra Hospital with Paul sitting there looking worried sick. Had a drip in my arm and nurses buzzing around speaking languages I couldn't understand.

My first thought? "What teh hell am I doing here? I'm supposed to be in Thailand!"

I had no idea I'd been taken off the plane in a wheelchair, stretchered to some airport medical centre, then whisked away in an ambulance. Paul told me later it was "touch and go." Terrifying stuff.

I've never felt that way in my entire life. If Paul hadn't been there... well, I probably wouldn't be sitting here telling you this story.

Two weeks stuck in a hospital bed? Torture!

Anyone who knows me knows I can't sit still. I'm always moving, training, doing something. So being confined to a hospital bed for two weeks? Pure torture.

The doctors kept b*****king me for getting out of bed and walking around. But I had all this energy! What was I supposed to do?

They ran every test imaginable—brain scans, body scans, even that lumbar puncture thing where they stick a needle in your spine. Not pleasant, I can tell you. At least they ruled out meningitis.

And here's the kicker—I hadn't even cleared passport control, so I had literally nothing with me. No phone, no clothes, nothing. Paul was handling everything, poor bloke.

Those Thailand suits will have to wait

I felt terrible about the fans in Thailand. All those people who'd bought tickets to see me at the four meet-and-greets we had planned. I've been to Thailand before and always have a laugh there.

Last time I was over, I bought a bunch of suits—was planning to get some more bright colored ones this trip. Never happened.

I still don't know exactly what virus knocked me down. After two weeks, our insurers Zurich (thank God for insurance!) arranged for a UK doctor to fly out and accompany us back home in business class. VIP treatment through the airport—one of the few perks of this whole nightmare.

The road back

Spent another two weeks in a private London hospital after getting home. At least there I could eat proper food, watch TV, and take walks around Hyde Park. Came out feeling strong again.

When The Sun broke the story on March 21st, the response was overwhelming. Cards, calls, messages from everywhere. That meant a lot to me.

I'm back at it now. Up at 5:30 this morning training. Got a new personal trainer who's pushing me hard at the local fitness center, plus my home gym workouts.

My life was literally on the line. Makes you think, doesn't it?

What's next for this old fighter?

I'm focusing on the British dates we had to reschedule, and hopefully I'll get back to Thailand soon to see those fans who missed out.

The Frank Bruno Foundation is keeping me busy too—our charity in Northampton that helps people with mental health problems through exercise and wellbeing programs. Something I'm passionate about, for obvious reasons.

One thing's for sure—I'm looking after myself. Promise you that.

Still ducking and diving at 63. Just with a bit more caution now.