Having an impairment
I hear from readers quite often, writing to me and talking about having read Trapped. Typically a message will begin, “Hi, I’m Andrea, I’m 27 and I have cp. I read your book and…”
Which makes me wonder. Some readers want to write, and ask for advice about that. And I would say, if the first thing you identify about yourself is that you have CP – or any kind of impairment – then yes, you do need to write, if only to get that narrative out of your system.
For decades, my intro line was, “Hi, I’m Fran, I’m X years old and I have CP.” But really, identifying what might be the main challenge in your life as essentially You, is a bit limiting. I have CP, yes, but it no longer defines me, or limits me. The sense of having limitations is odd, relying as much on other people’s ideas of what is possible, as my own. And, I choose not to see myself like that anymore, because to do so is unnecessary and unhelpful.
I’m Fran, I am fifty-four and I have blue eyes; dark blue, almost teal, with a ring of brown around the iris. I like singing, so much so that even at my age, I do so unselfconsciously only dimly aware that other people consider this eccentric. I sing along to music in the supermarkets, because there seems no reason not to: it’s the kind of thing that other people would do, if only they had the nerve.
I’m Fran, I’m fifty-four, and I’m a carer. I care for my family, and for my mother, and I care about the environment. At the moment, four large men – or is it five? – are trimming back the trees at the bottom of the hill at the back of our garden, and I have wept, because I love those trees, which, for me, are a precious glimpse of wildness in the city. I love those trees for being a refuge, for whistling when the wind blows, for being solid and optimistic, and for growing with branches extended wide. And for being taller and bigger than me. For being unfathomable and private to many creatures I will never see. For being faithful, for believing that growth is good and life is sacred.
As for having an impairment… What is that? Is it, as the social model of disability would have me believe, something that I really should be able to ignore? I’d like to, but actually, trying to ignore it is like trying to ignore the elephant in the room…
So instead, I try to make friends with the elephant and listen to what it might be trying to tell me. Often, I might chance a ride on its shoulders, from where I have the most amazing view of life. It’s a metaphor I prefer to play with, rather than push against. And, if we are playing with this particular metaphor, it might be an expensive thing, that hints at a grander life, needing a bigger space to play in. I love those trees because they were elephant sized, and expanded my sense of what I was. Looking up at them, I forgot about having an impairment.
Thank you for listening, and have a wonderful summer vacation.
Please share:
August 19, 2019
I am over fifty
Fran Macilvey Fran Macilvey, Happiness Matters 0 Comments
I am over fifty so… it’s all but over for me, is it?
Everywhere I look, in my daily newspaper, in magazines, leaflets and booklets that tumble through my letterbox, on bus adverts and these annoyingly persistent on-line ads that announce, “Over fifties’ health plan / life insurance / home equity release scheme/ travel insurance / no medicals/ Tenfor Ladies Always Discreet pads for the active “mature” lady”… I am reminded that I had better think of slowing down. I am over fifty so…?
Honest to God, perhaps I should just give up and accept that I’m old. But I don’t feel old, and in more ways than I can enumerate I feel younger, more able, more positive and more alive than I did when my age was thirty-something. I’m not just saying that, either. I have a much better grasp of what my life is for, what I can do to feel more excited, more interested and more alive. And, I would like to be allowed to do that without being dogged by the constant, promoted assumption that because I am – ta da! – over fifty, I somehow need to slow down, take it easy, ease up a bit.
I resolutely refuse to slow down, even though, in many ways, I have slowed down. I no longer pelt along the street and slam into the pavements when I fall because I’m moving so fast. Instead, I saunter, and trip and fall in a more graceful pile but, I don’t seem to notice, even with my reduced speed and my care with each step, that I am much slower than I was before.
And what is this obsession with speed, anyway? I notice it at the leisure centre, where people in the fast lane of the pool seem to swim with an almost permanent grimace on their faces. If I was watching them, I would say they hate swimming and want to get it over with as soon as possible. Do I feel like that, always counting lengths and desperate to get to twenty so I can get out and leave? Actually, yes, I had to admit, I do, often. Which is stupid.
Being aware of something we dislike is the first step to stopping it. I dislike this notion that the over fifties are on the verge of obsolescence, decayed, faded and tired. What about kind and patient? What about character-filled and interesting? Are all such qualities to be brushed aside because we walk with a stagger or a stoop, and because we insist on writing, “The man with whom I was talking” instead of “The man that I was talking to”?
Thanks for listening.
Please share: