I was listening to a podcast of Richard Fidler interviewing Tim Ferguson the other day. You may remember Ferguson as one of the Doug Anthony Allstars. Long and lanky with a sweep of black hair across his brow, he was often referred to as ‘the good-looking one’—so he says, anyway. Fidler was an Allstar too, and that moody, misanthropic genius Paul McDermott was the third.
I’ve been watching Ferguson’s career a lot more closely since I learned he had MS. I bought his memoir, Carry a Big Stick (2013), and it was good to read about someone just getting on with it, despite. Lately he’s written and directed a movie.
So I was brought up short when I heard him say, ‘I get around in a wheelchair now, because I’m just too slow when I walk around’. Hang on, I thought, what about ‘use it or lose it’? But I had to admit that it just sounded so sensible. There are days, bad ones, when I catch myself staring wistfully at wheelchairs—the end of effort, the end of leg pain. The end of people’s panicked glances as I teeter past them.
Ferguson’s words made me realise how hard I am on myself. Always have been. Ten years ago I delayed getting a stick until I was almost falling over. This year, finally, I got myself a walker for those times that I’m out without the Mechanic’s steady arm to hold onto. The stick just wasn’t giving me the confidence it used to—I needed something more stable to lean on. Now I admit that I could have used the walker a while back. Having my own dedicated seat wherever I go is just a bonus.
But why the reluctance? Well, I’m beginning to realise that every time my condition has progressed I’ve blamed myself. Where did I go wrong? Wasn’t I trying hard enough? And acquiring the next level mobility aid was a public concession to that personal failure.
I won’t be rushing out to the wheelchair shop just yet, but now there’s an opening where there was once a firmly closed door. It’s not failure, I tell myself. It’s self-respect, and compassion for this body and what it’s going through. Really, it just feels sensible.
Care to comment? See below.
Those walking so easily may be disabled emotionally. Your competencies are intellectual. Look to your somewhat incredible strengths. x
Too kind xxx
However you move S it will be dancing in my eyes. Sometimes it’s a different type of dance but it’s still dancing….
Bee good (sometimes) and bee happy (always)
Aw B, I think we dance well together xx
When people used to ask me how I was in respect to my cancer, I replied “I am still riding to work once a week”. It was a 28km round trip. Now that is out of the question. We adapt and we embrace our new capabilities.
Thanks for the post!
Jonathan, you made me stop and think when you said “capabilities”. Maybe when we lose an ability it’s automagically replaced with a new capability. I pay more heed to many things, now that I’ve had to slow down. But I’m sorry you can’t ride to work anymore. Thank you.
Nice perspective. Last time we were in France we played petanque with my blind “beau-pere” Michel. We would click the boules above where he needed to aim. He absolutely nailed it.
It took me a moment but “beau-pere” must be “father-in-law”. I know which one I’d prefer! But what a lovely image. I can hear the boules clicking now. x
If we leave doors firmly closed we cannot benefit from the experience beyond them. x
Julie, just writing about it has opened something up.
None of us are completely independent and control is an illusion. We are just dependent in different ways some less obvious than others. Wheelchairs make a statement – “I have taken control of what I can”. x
That’s a great reminder, Julie. I can’t help watching people walking and thinking how competent they are. I think, “they make it look so easy!” I have to remember that there’s more to life than walking
Thanks for your wisdom xx