We debate amongst ourselves. By we, I mean the ones who waited as I did, and who came away with a scar that mirrors mine.
Would it be better to have been sick from the start than to get sick in the middle? Would we have coped better than we did?
Do people look at us differently now? Do we give a fuck?
We endured the same hardship, but of course we are each individual.
One says in relation to almost everything, as he rolls along now, one restful night’s sleep after another: “I don’t regard [x] as a problem, because I know what a real problem is”.
Another says: “Fuck you, do you know what I’ve been through? I don’t care if you like me or not”.
I wonder if it has changed me at all. I wonder if all my perspective was used up after my father died.
I can assure you I didn’t give a toss about my Junior Cert the following year.
Does perspective in fact have a shelf life? I think mine did.
But then, I shouldn’t give myself a hard time. This evening course I’m taking at the moment? I went last night, and it was all about how stress relates to cardiac events.
There was a scale drawn up in the seventies, rating how your chances of cardiac events increased dramatically when you were hit with shades of hell on earth.
Death of a loved one, marital breakdown, job loss, serious illness – they all break you a little.
The last 30 years have put my score ahead of the average, and the odds for my heart aren’t great really.
But then, Christmas made that list too, as an event that can be so trying it can damage the most fragile organ that represents life itself.
I guess some people just hate carol singers.