Half Life - 17 - 3.27 am
February 19th, 2021
Her love of tennis balls never goes, even when asleep. JJ the dog, parked in her place on the other side of the bedroom, whimpers and twitches, running after them as she relives the last walk. She can ignore her dinner, but walking past a ball, particularly if it’s not hers, is impossible. In the dark I imagine the tiny smile she has when her ears are pushed forward in floppy joy, as an unconscious tail-wag thumps the wall. Younger Boy’s mild asthmatic breathing drifts in from his room, carried in by the stillness. Older Boy, soon to be at the age when he will gently close his bedroom door, is a silent sleeper except for the occasional outbursts of single words, something he’s done since tiny. The Wife is perfectly still, catching up on a sleep-debt going back months, maybe years.
The clock announces it is 3.27. Looking away, the light-echo in my eyes blinks around the room; staring at the green numbers for too long means they fade slowly. By the time it’s cleared, and the shadowed edges of the room have come back, the minutes have ticked on. Shades of grey pick out every object, and the internal voices which pulled me awake, fully awake, start to stir. Sitting up, pillows pushed to support the mild ache in my back, the covers tucked neatly under my chin to guard against the freezing room, there is no expectation of sleep until this is over. As the bed-nest wraps me in comfort and warmth, thoughts start to race and fill the silence.
Imagination can be a real pain the arse at half past three in the morning. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier, or the fight that is about to happen any less real. Maybe wearing my karate suit in bed would have been a good idea, most people think it looks like white pyjamas, they’re very warm and, with 40 odd years in and out of dojos (with the odd break), I have done a lot of fighting and jumping about dressed like a Japanese man ready for bed. Battles are won or lost in the mind long before the first punch is thrown, anyone who has stepped into a ring or a karate square learns that quickly. When dealing with the inner, dark, demons of the mind even the best kicks, punches, and blocks are useless. It’s all mental; the physical struggles are nothing compared to the ones in the head. Even when you know what to expect, it’s a contest for mental health against despair and illogic, as the darkness releases the fears from their hiding places. Like ninjas with halitosis, you can smell them coming.
There’s no bowing, touching gloves, or other acts of mutual respect, just the first intrusive thought stalking across the room. As usual, it starts with death, my death. It’s a rubbish start for the demons, and I bat it away without a tear. Death is not scary, we all know it’s going to happen and, depending on what you believe, the number of people who have sidestepped it is either one or none, so the odds have never been in my favour. A little too comfortable with the ease of pushing away the first attack, the follow up, about dying, catches me off balance. Cursing the ability see myself in that hospital bed, aided by the memory of my mother in her last days only a few months ago, the mental punch lands and plants the question of what that final, suffocating, breath will be like. Emotions punch below the belt, defying logic or clear thinking, and using my mother was a nasty move. Fear of pain not yet experienced rises and the first tears drop onto the soft, white, cotton sheet beneath my chin. Grabbing the image of my failing breath I turn it round, push it away, and force in the smile my mother gave me as she lay there knowing she was dying. The fear dies away but leaves me with a shiver, despite the covers.
Like all real fights, battles with the midnight demons of the mind are fast and with no rules. You can stand there and get the hell kicked out of you or, like the karate I love, fight back. Expecting them to go of their own accord just results in an endless battering; you have to fight them away. The next one comes in fast, a mental knee to the groin and, despite the lack of testosterone and the failure of that part of my body to work anymore, it hurts like hell. The darkness knows that the pain which beats all pain is when it’s in those you love, and bringing The Boys into it is vicious. Flashing up all the realities I know already, such as never seeing them grow up or knowing what they will become, knocks me back. The Boys don’t yet know how serious Nobby is and, in the darkness, the day they are told looms like the worst day in the future. Defiance, a trademark of a significant portion of my life (ask my parents or people who have worked with me) puts up an effective defence and, even though the pain is gut-wrenching, the vision of that day we will tell them fades away.
My secret weapon works. Summoning their faces in my mind, and the laughter we had before bed as they tried to hit me with juggling balls as I changed, the pain slips away. Remembering their diving for cover behind doors, pulling duvets up for protection, and launching pillows inaccurately my head, before we ended in giggles on the bed with me still half undressed, drives the despair back still further. The hugs they gave me were deep, just before their final surprise attack bombarded me with balls, bedding, dirty clothes, and a dozen assorted teddy bears. Weak with laughter, I couldn’t respond and was forced into surrender, left in a pile of cuddly chaos as they did their victory dance. The shame and guilt at dying subsides. Turning the soaking sheet-edge away from me, I use a fresh patch to wipe my damp face and sore, stinging, eyes. Keeping silent, not wanting to wake up The Wife, I stare at her black hair splayed over the sharp white of the oversized pillow she likes to sleep on. I let go of the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding on to.
Ding, ding and the bell goes again, and it really pisses me off. I am exhausted, fed up with this, and the last thing I need is to go back into the fray, but the choice isn’t mine. The loitering mental menaces have not finished yet and launch a final attack with a shift from The Boys to The Wife. It makes me cross that my own mind is doing this to me, and this attack has nearly broken me before. The questions fire in, landing blows one after another. How will she cope? What will it be like for her? Will she watch me in those final moments, hearing the rasping breath, wondering if each one heralds that sudden change from alive to dead? That moment when the last grain of sand drops and plunges her into a life of being alone. We were meant to do this together, to take on the world and, hand in hand, move through the years. ‘You have let her down’, the emotional fist shouts as it slams into my chest, pushing a cloud of despair, shame, and guilt into every part of me. It’s a good attack – the bastard – and has me backing off as a tiny worry creeps in that, this time, I won’t be able to defeat it. Anger saves me and, counter-attacking the mind-demon like a one-legged Kung Fu Panda with a sore head, I throw everything I have back at it. The endless discussions The Wife and I have had sorting out how we will manage things, the plans we have in place and written down and, my final victorious push, the faith and love I have for her and she has for me.
The Wife moves and shifts, I’m worried I have woken her with my fart. Lifting the damp-ended sheet, in what is, apparently, a male-only desire to waft, I instantly regret it. The medicines make my insides a place where alien life thrives on its own and releasing its gaseous toxins makes even me gag. She turns her head away and mumbles a sleepy, but justified, complaint about my smell. I giggle noiselessly to myself, at my own scatty brain jumping from death to farting. The noiseless laugher, and my private grin, pushes the darkness back, giving a moment of clarity by taking joy in everything, however stinky. It gives me back control. The fight is over. The flood of black emotions - hopelessness, guilt, shame, regret - seep back into the light-drained curtains and the two-tone walls. A retreat but not a defeat; we will fight again. Exhausted, partial sleep drifts in until the 6.30 alarm. Our day eases itself into life with JJ needing to be let out, The Boys leveraging themselves out of bed, and the silence of the house broken in every room as life floods back with noise, laughter, chat, barking, and checking teeth have been brushed.
The Boys rush into our room, happy to be awake, jumping all over JJ who joins in the bouncing. The day, in glorious frosty sunshine, beams itself through the windows, curtains wide open. Shouts of ‘the squirrels, the squirrels!’ from The Boys, trying to over-excite the dog as they spot our two playful garden residents racing around the trees, headed for a self-service breakfast buffet that is meant to be a bird feeder. Life’s warmth kicks the last dribble of darkness away, pushing it back. Living each moment, each hug, each laugh, each coffee, each glass of wine, is the weapon that works. I own my day again and want every faltering step it throws at me. I have kept the dark outside; it doesn’t go on its own, you have to chase it away, defeat it. I look forward to my day, our day. I want the day.
To all my readers:
As many of you will know, Mental Health has long been a major mission of mine, in particular at work. I am pleased to say my friend and former colleague, Keith Leslie, Chair of The Samaritans and Chair of Mental Health at Work CIC, has written a leadership book where a mentally healthy workplace is core to strategic leadership, not an add-on. You can read a summary at the website below.
Keith has offered all readers of this newsletter the opportunity to donate the profit from his excellent new book, A Question of Leadership, to The Samaritans. If the book is not for you, please consider a donation to The Samaritans anyway – they save lives. To buy the book, send the profits to the Samaritans, and get a discount (25%) go to www.Bloomsbury.com/aquestionofleadership and use the discount code LEADERSHIP2021.
I don’t do any promotions on this newsletter – but for this I was happy to make an exception.
Beautifully written and moving. Thanks for sharing, Charlie xx
This was a tough one to read Charlie. Don't mind admitting that I 'welled'. Such good writing... it's a privilege to read your posts, it really is. Thank you.