Is life with Friedreich’s Ataxia just one long funeral? or can it bless us with a unique outlook?
Part of having an incurable and progressive condition is accepting you will have a shorter life as a result. This develops from the initial shock, grief and mourning to the significant realisation that life is short, anything can happen, and we must live in the moment. This insight has been reinforced through my experiences, but is it something other people glimpse, but don’t seem to hold on to.
My first experience of death was that of the assassination of John Lennon, Christmas 1980. I was nearly five. Even though I knew him as ‘John Lemon’, I was familiar with all the songs from ‘Imagine’. He held the status of poet and guru for my parents, and someone they had grown up with as a cultural reference point. A hero, a good man, something to be. I remember seeing that they were deeply shocked and asked them to explain what had happened to their hero, where he had gone, and when was he coming back. More than a death, this was a violent murder. I hadn’t thought that bad things were supposed to happen to people that my parents loved. The image of his shattered and twisted spectacles in a pool of blood overstated what was already a terrible loss into a cosmic lesson for a little boy.
There are several experiences that made me feel especially ‘close to death’. These were often moments of intense intervention with medical professionals. I know Doctors are like people, some are good, some are not. They calculate risks and make judgements based on their experience. They can get it wrong. But the institutionalised approach to disability as sickness is very bad for people with disabilities. I avoid medical intervention in my life as a result.
My diagnosis of Friedreich’s Ataxia at fifteen changed everything. I was told I would be fortunate to survive into my thirties. This was the prevailing wisdom at the time, but I wondered what ‘surviving’ meant. That gave me 20 years of ‘life’ to look forward to. It took me some time to grieve before I realised the importance of living in the moment and self-belief and got on with living my life.
Immersed in the worlds of education and employment, I was able to exist without major reminders of my disability – until I retired twenty years later in 2011. I was struggling with tiredness and went to see the Council Doctor. I began the process expecting to return to work on reduced hours, but he said simply, “You should’ve retired years ago.” This process required reports and examinations. Reports from my GP and Neurologist, another appointment with the Council Doctor, forms signed by myself and my Manager, further evidence from my medical notes, a medical examination and final review by an independent doctor and a final decision by the Pension Company’s Doctor. To my surprise, my colleagues had been concerned for my health for some time and were relieved at the news I was retiring. Such was the seriousness of medical retirement process, by the end of it, I was convinced that I had a few months left to live.
So co-signing a 30-year mortgage with my Wife in 2013 made me recognise that I would not live to make the final payment at the age of 67. Our children were born in 2009 and 2014. I talk about having to confront my own mortality in my blog about choosing to become a parent. My assessment for PIP (Personal independence Payment) has been hanging over me since this time too. There is nothing like an impending state review into your disability to make you continuously and painfully aware of your own mortality. Disabled people have found themselves in an increasingly hostile environment since 2010. In November 2018, Professor Philip Alston, United Nations Special Rapporteur on extreme poverty and human rights, reported that “great misery has also been inflicted unnecessarily (by the State), … on people with disabilities who are already marginalized …”
I find funerals difficult because they are purposefully laden with moments that trigger extreme emotional responses and is a concentrated and dramatic copy of this journey through loss to acceptance. Through ritual and tradition, we are brought as close to death as possible only to welcome the understanding that our lives are short, and our loved ones will live on in our memories and actions.
A favourite story of mine is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Scrooge comes to such a revelation after he is brought close to his own death. He is changed forever and finds redemption in bringing joy to others and living in the moment. As someone that has taken the same short-cut, I identify strongly with that ‘reconstructed’ Scrooge.
Death is a recurring character in my writing. I first met him in Terry Pratchett’s excellent Discworld books. I liked the way that although terrifying in appearance, this death was a benign caretaker, somehow kind and gentle – like an old friend. This is the death who comes for those who accept him and are not afraid.
So, is everyone that has been close to death go on to see the world in a different way? Does everyone who has been touched by grief go forwards with a new understanding of the shortness of life and the importance of living in the moment? I don’t see much evidence of this in the world around me. Sadly, modern life doesn’t let us stop for long enough to look around. As a disabled person who has constantly had to face his own mortality, I have no choice but to live in the present – and that is fine with me.