Do Not Resuscitate

I’ve stared death in the face a few times during my life and a trivial matter it ain’t.

Things happen when doctors start using words like stroke.

People stop asking what football team you support, what you're having for dinner, or whether you've remembered to put the bins out.

Instead, they start asking questions that make the room go quiet.

Questions like:

"What would you want us to do if things went badly wrong?"

At some point during the various strokes, TIAs, scans, consultants and hospital appointments, I found myself having exactly that conversation with my kids.

Not because I was dying.

At least, not as far as anyone knew.

But because for the first time in my life, the possibility of ending up alive but not really living had become a realistic prospect.

I remember sitting there trying to explain it.

I wasn't frightened of dying.

I was frightened of surviving.

There's a difference.

If my heart packed up tomorrow, then fair enough. None of us are getting off this crazy ride alive.

What worried me was the thought of being trapped in a bed, unable to speak, unable to think clearly, unable to recognise the people I loved.

The thought of Alison having to visit a shell of the man she'd spent her life with.

The thought of my children standing beside a hospital bed wondering whether the bloke lying there was still their dad.

I explained in my own gruff sweary way that there are some situations where I wouldn't want extraordinary measures taken.

Some situations where enough would be enough.

The kids didn't like the conversation much.

To be honest, neither did I.

No parent wants to sit discussing mortality with their children.

Parents are supposed to know everything.

We're supposed to have answers.

We're certainly not supposed to be discussing what happens if our brains stop working properly.

The conversation stayed with me for weeks afterwards.

Not because it was depressing.

Because it felt strangely familiar.

It took me a while to realise why.

The truth is, that wasn't the first time in my life I'd reached a point where I thought I had nothing left.

The first time happened when I was twelve years old.

I won't go over every detail here. Some of you have read the book and already know the story.

What I will say is this.

People often imagine that major events break us.

A beating.

An illness.

A bereavement.

A betrayal.

The reality is usually different.

By the time the final blow lands, the damage has often been building for a long time.

The final incident gets the blame because it's easy to point at.

But sometimes it's just the last straw.

At twelve years old I was already carrying more than a child should have been carrying.

I was ill.

I was frightened.

I was exhausted.

Ignored by those who were supposed to love me , to look after me and when that day came, when that final beating took place on the wet , rainy street in full view of everybody something happened that I've only really understood many years later.

It wasn't the physical pain that mattered.

It was the disappearance of hope.

Up until that point I'd always believed things would somehow improve.

That somebody would intervene.

That somebody would notice.

That somebody would make things right.

Then one day I realised nobody was coming.

And when a kid loses hope, they can arrive at some very dark places.

The years passed.

Life moved on.

I met Alison.

We raised children.

Grandchildren arrived.

Jobs came and went.

The usual chaos of ordinary life carried on.

Yet sitting there discussing Do Not Resuscitate orders decades later, I suddenly recognised something.

The twelve-year-old boy and the middle-aged man were asking completely different questions.

But they were both wrestling with the same subject.

What makes a life worth living?

At twelve, I couldn't answer it.

At forty-something, I thought I could.

At nearly sixty, I'm not so sure.

What I do know is this.

The twelve-year-old version of me couldn't imagine any future worth having.

The older version of me was sitting in a house full of evidence that he had been wrong.

A wife.

Children.

Grandchildren.

Friends.

Stories.

Memories.

A life.

None of those things were visible to that boy.

How could they have been?

When you're twelve years old, tomorrow feels like forever and forever feels impossible.

You can't see forty years ahead.

You can't see the people you'll love.

You can't see the battles you'll survive.

You can't hear the laughter waiting for you around corners you haven't reached yet.

All you can see is the pain directly in front of you.

That's why I sometimes think the most important thing any of us ever do is simply keep going.

Not because life magically gets better.

It doesn't.

Some problems never leave.

New ones arrive.

Knees wear out.

Bodies break down.

Doctors become more familiar than pub landlords.

Trust me, I know.

But life keeps surprising you.

The bloke who once thought he'd never make it to adulthood somehow found himself explaining end-of-life decisions to grown-up children.

The child who had run out of hope somehow became a grandfather.

That's not a miracle.

It's just time doing what time does.

Adding chapters you never expected to write.

These days my body is falling apart with an enthusiasm that borders on professional commitment.

The knees are shot.

The walking stick has become a permanent companion.

Retirement appears to be arriving whether I invited it or not.

Yet strangely enough, I find myself more attached to life than ever.

Not because I'm fearless.

Quite the opposite.

Because I understand now how precious ordinary things really are.

A cup of tea in the garden.

A laugh with Alison.

A message from one of the kids.

A swim with my mates in the early morning.

The simple stuff.

The things we spend most of our lives overlooking.

So yes, when the time comes, there may be circumstances where I don't want heroic measures.

There may be circumstances where enough really is enough.

But that's not because I've given up.

It's because I finally understand the difference between preserving life and pres

I’ve stared death in the face a few times during my life and a trivial matter it ain’t.

Things happen when doctors start using words like stroke.

People stop asking what football team you support, what you're having for dinner, or whether you've remembered to put the bins out.

Instead, they start asking questions that make the room go quiet.

Questions like:

"What would you want us to do if things went badly wrong?"

At some point during the various strokes, TIAs, scans, consultants and hospital appointments, I found myself having exactly that conversation with my kids.

Not because I was dying.

At least, not as far as anyone knew.

But because for the first time in my life, the possibility of ending up alive but not really living had become a realistic prospect.

I remember sitting there trying to explain it.

I wasn't frightened of dying.

I was frightened of surviving.

There's a difference.

If my heart packed up tomorrow, then fair enough. None of us are getting off this crazy ride alive.

What worried me was the thought of being trapped in a bed, unable to speak, unable to think clearly, unable to recognise the people I loved.

The thought of Alison having to visit a shell of the man she'd spent her life with.

The thought of my children standing beside a hospital bed wondering whether the bloke lying there was still their dad.

I explained in my own gruff sweary way that there are some situations where I wouldn't want extraordinary measures taken.

Some situations where enough would be enough.

The kids didn't like the conversation much.

To be honest, neither did I.

No parent wants to sit discussing mortality with their children.

Parents are supposed to know everything.

We're supposed to have answers.

We're certainly not supposed to be discussing what happens if our brains stop working properly.

The conversation stayed with me for weeks afterwards.

Not because it was depressing.

Because it felt strangely familiar.

It took me a while to realise why.

The truth is, that wasn't the first time in my life I'd reached a point where I thought I had nothing left.

The first time happened when I was twelve years old.

I won't go over every detail here. Some of you have read the book and already know the story.

What I will say is this.

People often imagine that major events break us.

A beating.

An illness.

A bereavement.

A betrayal.

The reality is usually different.

By the time the final blow lands, the damage has often been building for a long time.

The final incident gets the blame because it's easy to point at.

But sometimes it's just the last straw.

At twelve years old I was already carrying more than a child should have been carrying.

I was ill.

I was frightened.

I was exhausted.

Ignored by those who were supposed to love me , to look after me and when that day came, when that final beating took place on the wet , rainy street in full view of everybody something happened that I've only really understood many years later.

It wasn't the physical pain that mattered.

It was the disappearance of hope.

Up until that point I'd always believed things would somehow improve.

That somebody would intervene.

That somebody would notice.

That somebody would make things right.

Then one day I realised nobody was coming.

And when a kid loses hope, they can arrive at some very dark places.

The years passed.

Life moved on.

I met Alison.

We raised children.

Grandchildren arrived.

Jobs came and went.

The usual chaos of ordinary life carried on.

Yet sitting there discussing Do Not Resuscitate orders decades later, I suddenly recognised something.

The twelve-year-old boy and the middle-aged man were asking completely different questions.

But they were both wrestling with the same subject.

What makes a life worth living?

At twelve, I couldn't answer it.

At forty-something, I thought I could.

At nearly sixty, I'm not so sure.

What I do know is this.

The twelve-year-old version of me couldn't imagine any future worth having.

The older version of me was sitting in a house full of evidence that he had been wrong.

A wife.

Children.

Grandchildren.

Friends.

Stories.

Memories.

A life.

None of those things were visible to that boy.

How could they have been?

When you're twelve years old, tomorrow feels like forever and forever feels impossible.

You can't see forty years ahead.

You can't see the people you'll love.

You can't see the battles you'll survive.

You can't hear the laughter waiting for you around corners you haven't reached yet.

All you can see is the pain directly in front of you.

That's why I sometimes think the most important thing any of us ever do is simply keep going.

Not because life magically gets better.

It doesn't.

Some problems never leave.

New ones arrive.

Knees wear out.

Bodies break down.

Doctors become more familiar than pub landlords.

Trust me, I know.

But life keeps surprising you.

The bloke who once thought he'd never make it to adulthood somehow found himself explaining end-of-life decisions to grown-up children.

The child who had run out of hope somehow became a grandfather.

That's not a miracle.

It's just time doing what time does.

Adding chapters you never expected to write.

These days my body is falling apart with an enthusiasm that borders on professional commitment.

The knees are shot.

The walking stick has become a permanent companion.

Retirement appears to be arriving whether I invited it or not.

Yet strangely enough, I find myself more attached to life than ever.

Not because I'm fearless.

Quite the opposite.

Because I understand now how precious ordinary things really are.

A cup of tea in the garden.

A laugh with Alison.

A message from one of the kids.

A swim with my mates in the early morning.

The simple stuff.

The things we spend most of our lives overlooking.

So yes, when the time comes, there may be circumstances where I don't want heroic measures.

There may be circumstances where enough really is enough.

But that's not because I've given up.

It's because I finally understand the difference between preserving life and preserving a heartbeat.

The twelve-year-old boy thought there was nothing worth staying for.

The nearly sixty-year-old man knows better.

And that's probably the most important lesson I've learned in all the years between the two.

Sometimes the future saves your life long before it arrives.

You’ve heard this many times before , I’m sure but it is what it is.erving a heartbeat.

The twelve-year-old boy thought there was nothing worth staying for.

The nearly sixty-year-old man knows better.

And that's probably the most important lesson I've learned in all the years between the two.

Sometimes the future saves your life long before it arrives.

You’ve heard this many times before , I’m sure but it is what it is.