Ten years ago when I turned 43 I had no idea that what felt like reduced fitness and cramps when I exercised were signs that my motor neurones were dying and that in that prime of my life I would receive my MND diagnosis. The last week was shittier than most as I was knocked about by a sinus infection and also lost the residual thumb twitch I was using to control my NeuroNode/phone. For a few days I was rendered both headsore and exhausted and impotently incommunicado.
I’m very grateful that smart, intuitive,empathetic carers were on hand and my excellent GP Anna and pharmacist Andrew were quickly on the case. And that my dear, generous Densil and Kimi presented me prematurely with my phancy new phone which they and wondercarer Jack set up for me.
And on Sunday afternoon, Peter Ford, despite flu, spent hours on the phone guiding Densil and Jack to test (and find wanting) various possible NeuroNode electrode sites before settling on the muscle above my expressive eyebrows. So I was able to enjoy making it into this prime – hurrah! – with my beautiful family and some lovely carers.
Now we just have to come up with an alternative to my eyebrow raise of assent so I don’t accidentally order a pizza on my phone when a carer asks if I want a coffee.
I have been a fan of the number nine since, well before I hit double digits, I started to notice number patterns.
I liked how it could be made by placing three light green cuisenaire rods side by side into a 3×3 square, and how that square plus a 4×4 made a 5×5 – the quintessential example of what our brusque but caring, number-loving 6th class teacher, Miss Bryan, was later to reveal as Pythagoras’ theorem in a lesson surely so enchanting that she felt no need to threaten to have our “guts for garters” in her Yorkshire brogue.
I liked how its proximity to the number ten, inscribed in its Roman form IX – one less than X – shapes and simplifies its calculations. Add 10 and subtract 1. Or multiply a number by 10 (by sticking a zero on the end) and subtract the original number. This also leads to the very cool fact – useful for factorising – that for any multiple of 9, the sum of the digits is also a multiple of 9, and you can continue this process until you get a single digit 9. For example, for 3,285 the sum is 3+2+8+5 = 18, and then 1+8 = 9; conversely for 3,287, the sums are 20 then 2, so this is not a multiple of 9 (not coincidentally, a similar trick can be used to identify multiples of 3).
But now, today, I am even more a fan of the number 9. For today – 7 January 2022 – is the 9th anniversary of my MND diagnosis, an anniversary which for so many of those 3,287 days (Leap Years included) I did not expect to make.
I did not expect to make it on that terrible, scorching Monday morning, 9 years ago, when Densil and I were given the news that would bifurcate and dislocate our lives: as we clasped hands and shed tears while the neurologist pronounced those unfamiliar words – motor neurone disease – and told us that ‘typical progress’ was 2-3 years; as the clinic nurse empathetically asked about 6-year-old Kimi and cursed the shit sandwich; as we started to tell family; as we reeled and howled and talked and hugged through that first day of all the stages of grief.
I did not expect to make it the next day, as in its early sleepless hours I started reading, and found not only the wonderful MND association publications for children – which equipped us to gently answer Kimi’s questions that started that morning with enough truth, with the important certainties of love and science – but also numbers. I found life expectancy statistics, the distinction between medians and mean somewhat blurred. I preferred the Australian reported figure of 27 months to the UK 14 months, and hoped with this as the median I might be in the lucky 50% who made it to 27 months (understanding I had the same chance of dying sooner) and didn’t dream I would still be alive in 4 times that.
I didn’t expect to make it as I started to share the news with dear family and friends, exchanging our love and shock and grief and hope and fear. We were embraced with such generosity of loving support: offers of meals and company and fundraising and gifts and lifts and sewing and organising and prayer and immediate and ongoing care for Densil and Kimi; practical advice from those with lived experience or research knowledge in disability and healthcare and superannuation and advocacy and coming out and chronic illness and parenting and bereavement and dying; and MND stories. I found that this thing that hadn’t been on my radar was on the radar of so many friends, with direct experience of MND amongst their loved ones and colleagues and communities. Their stories emphasised reasons for hope, those who had lived longer and remained true to themselves, the large, light-filled, lingering presence of bedridden yet entertaining grannies and still-working, world-changing colleagues. I had to dig for, or leave unspoken, the heartsore tales of rapid progression that often lurked beneath understanding quiet mentions of ‘personal experience’ and ‘other friends’ and ‘family connection’.
I didn’t expect to make it as I met with and quizzed and relied upon my expansive healthcare assemblage. My kind and thorough GP, Anna, who guided my diagnostic journey and unnecessarily apologised for weeping with me when we met two days after my diagnosis, has been steadfast and adaptive in her care, adopting home visits and written communication. My fabulous MND neurologist, Dom, initially emphasised the variability and uncertainty of individual trajectories and a sense of urgency, start your stand-up comedy career do it now before it’s too late: his deep knowledge and warm, personal commitment to his patients and their families has since proved to be literally lifesaving. Early meetings with the first of my occupational therapists, physios, speechies, dietitians and so many other good people who have supported me along the way often included gentle questioning to check that I understood the need for urgency that accompanies this ferocious disease.
I didn’t expect to make it as I became part of the MND community. In my first few days I joined MNDNSW, encountering reassuring advice when I spoke to David on the infoline, and being visited by energetic regional advisor Jo, who urged a flurry of organisation to get supports in place before they were needed and cited advances in genetic research to promote a hopeful ‘never give up’ attitude (but knowing the long, arduous, precarious journey from laboratory discoveries to approved, effective treatments, at least in pre-Covid-19 ‘old normal’ times, I mentally translated this to be hope for future others rather than for me). I started to meet gorgeous people with MND and their heroic families at association events, through mutual friends, and participating in fundraising and awareness campaigns; social media helped to augment these friendships but also to connect with MND families not only in surrounding suburbs and wider Sydney but across Australia and around the world. Apart from its membership requirement, it’s a privilege to be part of this ‘club’: a diverse community of compassionate, creative, funny, thoughtful, beautiful people. The awful flipside of getting to know and love people with MND is the inevitable heartache of losing them, grieving these precious people and for those left behind. As I saw this reality of how quickly MND can take people, regardless of their inner strength or how much they are cherished, I felt no reason that I would be spared.
I didn’t expect to make it as I witnessed my bodily transmogrification. In the nine years prior to diagnosis my strong body had travelled the world, run a half marathon in my first trimester of pregnancy, birthed our daughter, done a 10km ocean swim, completed a PhD and worked as an academic, and so much more. Subtle changes – cramping in my legs and fatigue when I exercised, tripping over my feet, loss of fitness, spasms in my hands – in recent months had propelled me towards my diagnosis. Now the changes rapidly escalated, with increasing fatigue and weakness and reliance on a succession of more and more items of equipment and help to manage less of what I had previously taken for granted. Within 27 months of diagnosis I had completely lost the ability to take a step forward while leaning on a walker, and spent most of my day in my power wheelchair. Densil and I had moved out of the bed we had shared for 23 years so that I could sleep in an adjustable hospital bed: raised to its maximum height, Densil or a carer could pull me into a standing position and plop me onto my shower/toilet commode – soon I would need two carers and a hoist to transfer. I was still reliant on my morning carers or family or friends to get me on and off the loo (cue 1986 song of the year): a suprapubic catheter the next month came just in time and at least addressed number one challenges (I will spare you the details of number two, except to say that I am not the repository of all wisdom) but also marked the end of the pleasure of hydrotherapy. My arms were well past the point of being able to hug my family, shower or dress myself, type on a laptop, lift a coffee to my mouth or sign my name, and my neck muscles could only support my head for short periods; but I could still, then, push my wheelchair joystick, drink from a strategically placed straw, type on a mini iPad, and with elbows braced against my armrests perform a two-armed manoeuvre to press the traffic light button. I could see the direction my body was heading in: I knew I was lucky to have made it through 27 months, and didn’t expect to reach four and a half years, let alone nine.
I certainly didn’t expect to make it as breathing became a struggle. In one of my early appointments with Dom I asked how rapidly my MND was progressing. “Too [alliterative participle] fast” was his short answer, softened with the advice that respiration, nutrition and hydration were the functions critical for life and these could be supported when the time came. Before each MND clinic appointment I spent the night with a fancy pulse oximeter gripping my finger to record my blood oxygen sats while I slept. The respiratory physician explained that respiratory muscle weakness usually manifests initially overnight as dips in oxygen and consequent disruption of sleep, and that in a “typical course” of three years, respiratory failure occurred for the last year. I was oxymoronicly both hyper vigilant to, and in wilful denial of, the accumulating signs that my breathing wasn’t what it used to be: needing my head elevated to sleep, puffing with the exertion of moving, delegating birthday candle blowing, waking tired, waning appetite and consuming my fat stockpile despite my crème brûlée regimen, quietening voice. And deepening dips in my nocturnal oximetry. A couple of months off my fourth diagnosversary, with the need undeniable, I started spending my nights tethered to a bipap machine, which supported my weakened diaphragm by pushing air in and out of my nostrils – a change which improved my physical comfort and undoubtedly prolonged my life but emotionally signified my approach to The End. Within 9 months, after three emergency admissions to hospital in serious respiratory distress, I was reliant on Masky McMaskFace around the clock. In March 2018, we eagerly watched an episode of Australian Story featuring Professor Justin Yerbury, who I had met talking about his MND research before and after his diagnosis with a hereditary variant that ran through his family, and who we learned was still alive thanks to having received a trachie two months earlier – something I had previously asked the respiratory physician about and been told it wasn’t done in Australia. In a subsequent meeting with my GP and neurologist we talked about this possibility – one that Dom emphasised that only a handful of his patients had pursued (I seem to recall a metaphor involving spheres and metal) but that opened the magical potential of making it to my next anniversary and more. We were able to talk and investigate and articulate our sense that life – even in this strange, utterly dependent, deteriorated and deteriorating body – was worth living. Thus, on the third of November, 2018, when plummeting oxygen and blood-poisoning buildup of carbon dioxide forced me into a sleep that was very likely to be my last, as my life dangled on a gossamer thread, my darlings Densil and 12-year-old Kimi when ushered into that sacred, scary hospital conference room, and Dom in a long phone call, told the Emergency doctors that I didn’t wish to quietly slip away, that they should try to resuscitate me. And (thank God, thank Science, thank diligent, expert medical care), after six hours of being on – maybe beyond – the brink of life, I woke up. In the next couple of weeks, of being transferred between hospital ICUs, talking with surgeons and specialists, having precious final conversations in what had become of my voice, our inclination to prolong my life crystallised into a decision to go ahead with a tracheotomy and laryngectomy. Within the week, surgery completed, a ventilator connected through a hole in my neck was breathing for me, I was speaking in the voice of Ryan, I was hydrated and analgesed via an IV drip, I was ingesting isosoy, drugs and coffee through a tube up my nose. I was alive. And making it to nine years was no longer an impossible dream.
As i have been writing this, on and off, over the past month and a bit, I have been feeling grateful for nine years, for my ninth year, for this baker’s dozen last month, for each of these 3321 (see what I did there?) days.
The past year has been a terrible one for so many, in a no-longer-unprecedented way. Despite Ryan’s pronunciation, the effects of Omicron have not been micro. For those of us in the MND and broader disability community, Covid has brought extra challenges and fears – vulnerability to the disease, the health of loved ones and carers, safe access to essential supplies, what happens if we, family or carers become sick or have to isolate, policy settings and rhetoric that dismiss the lives of people with disabilities, availability of healthcare and hospital beds, evaporation of opportunities to carpe diem, compounded mental health issues, and more – with the minor compensation of online delivery and community empathy. But the year also held treasures, amongst them: occasional visits from dear masked friends; Grace Tame, Brittany Higgins and other brave women speaking out; rainbowfication of our Hills Hoist; our excellent MND and videogames team and other research/writing projects; Bruce’s weekly mandalas and lovely nieces’ artworks; Wordle; Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun, Lohrey’s The Labyrinth and other wonderful audiobooks plus much good radio and telly; joining the Your Story Disability Legal Service Advisory Group; beautiful new dresses (thanks Eleanor); our cat, shorn by the vet as part of – mercifully successful – treatment for paralysis tick, choosing my foot coverings as a preferred cosy spot to nestle (which lost its gloss when, two weeks on, he performed his telltale dance and, tail aloft, peed on me); and witnessing little Elspeth’s delightful explosion of meaning-making during our weekly family FaceTimes and, finally, RAT-proofed face-to-face family gatherings.
The shiniest, richest, most glorious treasure of this year has been another year with my Densil and Kimi. I fell in love with Densil 35 years ago, when we were practically babies, and this year will be our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I still love, like, admire and enjoy him – his wisdom, cheeky smile, eclectic interests, gentleness, astute insights, perfect pitch, care, subversive wit, practical problem-solving, deep intelligence, lustrouslocks, world-knowledge, forbearance, quirkiness and creativity. I’m so thankful that I have been able to watch Kimi grow from a beautiful, kind, friendly inquisitive six-year old to a beautiful, kind, friendly inquisitive fifteen-year old. She has transformed from a well-behaved junior primary schooler two years in to a motivated, bright senior high schooler in her second last year; from a reluctant classroom speaker to my superb co-opener of last year’s national conference; from a Frozen and Deadliest 60 watcher to a sophisticated appreciator of Tarantino, Insiders, the Three Colours Trilogy and Mad As Hell; from a recorder squeaker to a grade 8 alto and bari sax funkster; from littlest cousin to enthusiastic big (and not so little) cousin; from a fan of Diary of a Wimpy Kid to a reader of Barthes and Silvey and Honeyman. She is wonderful, they are wonderful.
I know how very lucky I am to have had these nine years.
Nine years of family. Nine years of friendship.
Nine years of learning. Nine years of teaching.
Nine years of social change. Nine years of community.
Nine years of loving. Nine years of trusting.
Nine years of laughing. Nine years of crying.
Nine years of awareness raising. Nine years of celebrating.
Nine years of observing. Nine years of contemplating.
Nine years of writing. Nine years of playing.
Nine years of caffeinating. Nine years of adventuring.
Nine years of hoping. Nine years of remembering.
And amongst all the shit and joy, best of all, nine years of partnering, nine years of parenting.
I haven’t written here for quite a while but I have been busy – at least what counts for busy in this time and this (busy)body of lockdown.
I have had some turnover of carers, with 3 lovely peops heading off to concentrate on careers in social work, architecture and cheese vending, and new people learning the ropes of dealing with my machines that go ping and moody silences, the tricks to safely handling my weak, betubed body, the complexities of my input and output, a new or newly inflected vocabulary, and distinguishing essential from malleable routines.
I have been occupied by some interesting collaborations with excellent people, including a research project about procrastination inclusive video games for people with MND that I will write about in a separate post.
And Kimi and I were honoured to be invited to give the opening address to the biennial national MND Australia Conference, co-organised by MND Australia and MND NSW and held on 3 September. It was such a delight to collaborate on this with my awesome daughter, reflecting on our shared and different experiences of living with MND and distilling what has helped us.
One of the advantages of having “Ryan” voice my words is that he can motor on regardless if I find myself laughing or blubbering, both of which happened as I watched Kimi’s mature, poised, thoughtful, generous performance. I wish I hadn’t brought MND into our little family, but I couldn’t be prouder of Kimi and Densil or more grateful that I have had the opportunity to witness Kimi’s transformation from that shy, bewildered 6 year old to this sensational 15 year old. I greatly appreciate everyone who has supported us along the way.
As Kimi articulated so perfectly:
MND is hard. It’s furious, and fierce, and unrelenting. But, even more so, are we.
The conference fell on the 34 month-versary of my perilous trip to hospital with catastrophic respiratory failure. I wouldn’t have been able to share the experience of doing the conference talk with Kimi, or the last 34 months, if my life hadn’t been saved that day and if I hadn’t been given the chance to have a tracheotomy and laryngectomy so that a ventilator can breathe for me.
After my trachie I was approached by Gabe, a beautiful, determined woman with MND who was exploring having the same procedure so that she too can stay alive with her closeknit, beloved family. Gabe asked questions of me and other ventilated MND people over email, communicated with Dominic Rowe and other experienced doctors, and she and her carers had video calls with me and mine. She did her research, and she was really well informed and sure that this was the path she wanted to take.
I think often those looking in at the MND experience must consider it intolerable. And don’t get me wrong – it’s not the life that anyone would wish for, and I recognise that many – perhaps most – come to a point where they don’t want to extend their lives with MND.
But Gabe and I also both know that despite our malfunctioning bodies and needing carers to tend everything from our machines to our euphemisms, life can be wonderfully worthwhile. We can still explore our rich inner worlds; appreciate beauty and humour in the everyday; use technology to communicate, connect, create and for leisure; maintain relationships and contribute to our communities; and delight in our loved ones. We can still love and be loved as parents and children, partners and siblings, aunties, nieces, cousins and friends.
Tragically whereas my wonderful neurologist supported and facilitated my choice to have this life-saving surgery, Gabe has faced a very different response. Despite asking and arguing and having the Human Rights Commission on her side,￼ Queensland Health are denying her the surgery.
This weekend Densil and I (plus my carer) had a rare and beautiful outing to consider our next investment celebrate our notching up of 29 wedded years.
29 years of wedded love and walking up the world’s steepest street and “do you want dinner?” and laughter and thesis slog and multimedium jewellery making and music and weekend sleep-ins and Christmas Eve Taizé and family and San Fran eclipses and surprise award ceremonies and adaptation and getting left behind on islands and (not trying then trying and trying and wonderfully) making an excellent person and companionship and bridge-crossing for reconciliation and Murray River camping (intense!) and grief and Mad Hatters Bushbanding and Bulgarian fat stew and entertainment and Spring bulb resplendence and Godzilla and parenting and scrap metal furniture and “You can smirk in Hell” and uncertainty and dinner with friends and teatowel-wrapped lebkuchen and encouragement and sound art installations and cockatoo communing and creativity and parent teacher interviews and concert hall tours and adventure and picnics in the park and train commutes (getting off at Redfern) and compromise and farewelling loved ones and Lawson grocery shopping and communication and theatre gallivanting and Pescal and sacrifice and sax/bass/keyboard jamming (lagerphone anyone?) and voting yes and aging and Neufchâtel clockwork and meeting new niecephews and silliness and hanging out washing and Bluey the (purportedly male) ovulating budgie and hope and pizzabeerTV nights and cherry blossom and teamwork and (insert swear words of choice) MND and family birthday celebrations and complacency and Escalade pot-smashing and Hanshin Tigers baseball and joy and Canyonleigh walks to the dam and finding Super Dickmann’s in Paris and despair and media appearances and swell ferry trips and intimacy and the Good Weekend quiz at Roger Bakery and long marking sessions and patience and Bright starlit nights and emergency hospitalisations and disruption and the snow-buried Aomori art museum and water’s edge penguins and comfort and an enigmatic pet kumara and beginner Italian/Japanese classes and peace and Pitt St neighbourhood group and Spohr’s Four Paws poetry and bliss.
(Photo of cockatoo trying to deprive me of privy privacy)
Last week included the usual stuff – beautiful, fun, fascinating conversations with my clever loves (how good is the year ten curriculum!); background thinking for some writing projects; a demoralising backlog of tedious admin that speaks, in part, to the huge difference between an excellent NDIS planner who understands my situation and one who doesn’t; dedicated carers and machines working round the clock to make up for my body-that-can’t;￼ musical accompaniment by Densil on keys and Kimi on sax; appointments with health professionals; and an unhealthy amount of screen time (don’t tell the kiddies), often accompanied by wonderful ABC audio or podcasts (currently the gobsmackingly compelling In the Dark).
Plus, these things.
Monday: a power outage stops the thermomix mid-flight, revealing that tepid mushed lentils, Brussels sprouts and zucchini makes a palatable dinner by candlelight. Our cat, who normally tries to poach vegetarian morsels from Kimi’s plate, disagrees.
Tuesday: I finish watching West Wing, all seven seasons of which I had missed back in the day. It has been a soothing, deftly crafted antidote to recent American politics, with an unexpected neurodegenerative subplot.
Wednesday: Anne and I, doing the cryptic crossword, deduce that a titlark is a kind of bird and resolve to exploit this fact in Scrabble games and conversation (see what I did there?).
Thursday: Alan Kohler’s casual incorporation of the verb “spifflicate” into his ABC News finance report gave me much joy. As a kid I thought Dad had invented this (never realised) threatened punishment, which, accompanied by air-tickling fingers, elicited paroxysms of giggles.
Friday: Sonia and I watch my carer’s beautiful film school major work and I cry and think about lives and stories; I note the date (12/02/2021, or more succinctly 12/2/21), but decide I don’t have to research the history of palindromic (and as friend James pointed out, ambigramic) lunar new years.
Saturday: not for the first time I received my carer’s feedback on the state of my nether regions with momentary regret, before reminding myself that my pre-MND body also couldn’t see some parts of itself. Later, catching up on the week’s Tegan-captained Coronacast, I heard my lifelong and excellent friend Julie Leask giving lucid, constructive, evidence-based advice about vaccine communication, and I fondly remembered our Barrie St adventures.
Sunday: as my two carers uncovered and cuff-pressure-checked and shoulder-massaged me from sleep I became conscious of the date, the eleventh Valentine’s Day anniversary of Dad’s death from mesothelioma. My grief has mellowed such that I am grateful to have so many happy memories and be aware of his lasting imprint on my life. As I was fed breakfast on the commode (you know it makes sense) I joined the end of an in(ter)continental zoom call with schoolfriends and heard about Nat’s life in lockdown Toronto and Sonya’s and Halfy’s reliance on communications technology. We acknowledged Dad during our weekly family FaceTime – my remarkable tech-savvy, community-building mum and Lexi with her digital-native, increasingly verbal (actually nominal) 420-day-old littlie in (hopefully snappy) lockdown Victoria; Sonia with cat and us in Sydney. I wondered how my soft-hearted, gregarious, self-confessed Luddite Dad would have coped with this age of Coronavirus. And I wonder what effect it will have on my niece and her generation.
On 7 January 2013, our Prime Minister was Julia Gillard, who would “not be lectured about sexism and mysogony by [that] man”. Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’s “Thrift Shop” topped the ARIA singles chart. Barrack Obama has been elected for a second term. A novel coronavirus, MERS, had been found the year before, and had killed a handful of people. On that day, any typical day, two Australians are diagnosed with motor neurone disease and two Australians die with motor neurone disease. On that day, that particular day, I was one of them.
Since then I have lived in this world for eight years, eight precious years.
Year one saw the brief second coming of Kevin07, to be replaced by Tony Abbott, who gifted us with “the suppository of all wisdom”; the end of analog TV, which we were imagining back in the nineties; a large dog masquerading as a lion in Louhe, spawning jokes about the shih tzu; and the global screening of I AM BREATHING, the poignant doco about Neil Platt’s final stretch for MND awareness day.
In year two Prof Maryam Mirzakhani was awarded the Fields Medal for her work on complex mathematics; knighthoods were introduced with the bonza choice of Sir Prince Phillip; beautiful, puzzling game, Monument Valley, was released; and the game-changing ice bucket challenge for ALS/MND made our hearts sing.
Year three featured the arrival of Netflix; Matilda, the spectacularly joyous musical; Malcolm Turnbull sans leather jacket; Australia’s bizarre yet welcome inclusion in Eurovision; a black and blue or white and gold dress; and Tim Minchin and the SSO’s evocative depiction of MND in the Fading Symphony.
Then year four brought the 2016 Rio Olympics, reminding me of our holiday there four years earlier; the Census that didn’t quite go as planned; Pokémon Go; Trump’s election and the rise of the pussy hat; and the launch of the Deloitte Australia report on the economic cost of MND.
In year five we got covfefe, La La Land Moonlight, the televisual Handmaid’s Tale, marriage equality, the magpie’s victory over the “bin chicken” in the Guardian’s inaugural bird of the year poll, #metoo, and Prof Justin Yerbury was awarded MND Australia’s Betty Laidlaw MND Research Prize.
In year six: Greta Thunberg delivered her passionate address to the UN climate change conference; those young footballers were rescued from the flooded cave in Thailand; I dreamt I saw the lunar eclipse on the night of the century’s longest lunar eclipse; Kim Jong-Un crossed the DMZ; and Fight MND held its fourth Big Freeze at the G.
During year seven we saw banning of the Uluru climb, confident claims that Australia was “back in black” celebrated in a Liberal Party mug (withdrawn from sale with 2020 hindsight), the devastating Australian mega-fires, popularisation of the question “Does it spark joy?”, Jacinda Adern’s shiny leadership and beautiful community compassion in the wake of the horrific Christchurch murders, the fifth Firies Climb for MND, inspired by the magnificent Adam Regal.
Year eight featured Covid-19 (what a lot is captured by those four syllables), the gracious concession ugly decline of the orange one, further impetus to the international Black Lives Matter movement, Parasite, Sophie Townsend’s stunning “Goodbye to all this”, and MND Australia’s creative Covid-friendly fundraiser, Australia Moves 4 MND.
On 7 January 2013 I could move.
The day before we had driven home from beautiful holidays where I slept with Densil in a tent, walked through the bush, swam with Kimi, carried shopping, sat in a fast-flowing creek, stayed up late playing cards, and hung out the washing. On that day I got out of the car, stepped onto the kerb, walked into the lift and pressed the button for the second-floor neurology office.
Since then I have had eight years of moving, eight precious years.
During my first year: I walked with a stick (skipping queues at Tokyo Disney Sea), then walker, and was pushed in a wheelchair for long walks, at the aquarium, airport, Walk to D’Feet MND; I got in and out of bed, cars, seats, buses, trains, the pool, with help; I hugged, scratched, lifted, turned pages, tugged sheets; I started riding a “Cool!” mobility scooter for school pick up; I (approximated) swimming and aquarobics, floated over the Great Barrier Reef, was liberated by the warmth of the hydrotherapy pool; I was helped up when I fell.
During year two I walkered short distances, rode my mobility scooter on the train (grateful for station lifts), sat in our MNDNSW raiser recliner, and was pushed around. I transitioned to my power chair in time for our cruise and on my last flight was glad Ellie and Jo could help when airline staff used trial and error to fit it on the plane. Lynne helped with a local pool variant when hydrotherapy finished and we recruited a hoist or ambos when I fell.
Year three: I lose the ability to take a few supported steps, and then to remain standing, so am hoisted between bed, commode and wheelchair, making up for never having got my licence with my new driving skills. My sisters and their families take us for my last glorious float in the ocean, thanks to the accessible pool at Watson’s Bay.
During the fourth year I got new, more sensitive wheelchair controls for my weaker fingers. I became reliant on others to press traffic light buttons: when someone appears on the opposite side of the road I try signaling that I need help; unfortunately they probably think I am trying to call them a wanker!
For year five someone else drives my wheelchair from behind.
Year six: in ICU I spent most of my time in bed and having a shower was an adventure.
In year seven, we managed a lovely day trip to Pauline and Susan’s, and caught the train into town for the Firies Climb.
At the end of year eight I can still move my face – smile, blink, mouth words, dance with my eyebrows – hurrah!
On 7 January 2013 I could communicate.
I told Kimi stories, enjoyed conversations and jokes with family and friends, ordered coffee, gave classes and talks, scribbled notes as I read, went to meetings, filled out forms, exchanged emails. I loved writing, the (at best) beautiful, almost magical, process of finding just the right word, and watching meaning become clear as you fashion and refashion sentences and paragraphs. That day, I answered the neurologist’s questions as she edged cautiously towards delivering the diagnosis.
Since then I have had eight years of communicating, eight precious years.
Year one: with my strong voice I have many profound, lovely conversations as I share our news. My generous uni sick leave and colleagues and arm supports that cradle my arms as I type enable a relaxed, fun teaching schedule, and somehow I continue contributing to our healthcare maze project, Gary and I submit our Australian Sociology book manuscript, Kris and I edit our special issue on teaching, and Nick and I the TASA newsletter. I out myself on Facebook before my first public talk about MND at an I AM BREATHING screening and join the MND NSW Board.
In year two I officially retired to concentrate on time and conversation with family and friends, with the luxury of ongoing research contributions using a wireless keyboard or iPad plonked on my lap. I did interviews for a TV story about the ice bucket challenge and for MND fundraisers.
During my third year Kimi and I read the first Harry Potter Book to each other, me on an iPad mini. I can still speak clearly, and do some radio interviews about the Fading Symphony.
In year four I gave talks at Parliament House and the Day of Hope and Remembrance, alternating between the efforts of finger on screen and speech to text.
Year five: I can speak clearly but quietly without my Bipap mask, or with my mask have a louder, distorted voice. I can sometimes get my finger to the desired part of my iPhone screen. It took time, team effort and hopefully not an ABC news story to convince the NDIS that communications technology was worth funding.
During year six I rely on the NeuroNode strapped to my wrist to control my iPhone; my voice becomes almost unintelligible to those not closest to me, and then, with my laryngectomy, it is gone.
Year seven, in hospital I become attached to my synthetic voice Ryan and get used to slowly typing what I want to say. I exchange text messages with my loves, and my friend Julie helps me set up this blog.
Bilateral breathing every third stroke and holding my breath for the tumble-turn; gently inhaling Kimi’s sweet scent as we hugged; puffing up a steep hill; slowed steady breaths as I slept. On that day I expelled mucus with my tears as she told me I have motor neurone disease, that typical life expectancy is two to three years.
Since then I’ve had eight years of breathing, eight precious years.
In the first year I breathed harder as short walks required more effort.
Year two: I slept with my head elevated on pillows to keep my diaphragm functioning overnight.
In year three I migrated from marital to hospital bed and my blood oxygen levels started dipping during REM sleep.
During year four reduced exhalatory force quieted my speech, and my breathing muscles were supported with the introduction of a bipap machine overnight.
Year five: serial emergency admissions with racing heart and respiratory distress leads to a quasi diagnosis of pyrexia of unknown origin, treated as if it were Familial Mediterranean Fever; meanwhile, I am tethered to the bipap machine pushing air in and out of my nose and lungs for increasing stretches of each day.
During year six, I breathed out with the help of the bipap machine, its mask prongs occupying my nostrils 24/7 apart from hurried moments when carers lifted my dress over my head or suctioned out mucus – the discomfort of stuffed nostrils briefly replaced with the discomfort of breathlessness. Then, suddenly, my bipap-supported chest muscles were not enough: my oxygen levels plummeted and carbon dioxide poisoned my blood. After my life was saved I was given a life-saving tracheotomy and laryngectomy so that a ventilator can breathe for me.
During my seventh year, we learned about inner cannulas, suctioning and all of the rest. As we settled in at home, we figured out how to do transfers without blocking the vent airflow, after an unintended carer training session in emergency bagging.
While year eight has witnessed the inevitable ongoing weakening of my breathing muscles, the ventilator has kept me safely aerated.
On 7 January 2013 I could (arguably) look after myself.
As usual I got up, went to the loo, ate my muesli, had a shower, got dressed, brushed my hair and teeth, and checked my handbag supplies. I didn’t consider any of this a major achievement (tidying up, another story). That day, I pulled out a tissue and wiped the tears off my face.
Since then I have had eight years of being cared for.
Year one: I manage with a few adjustments (and occasional accidents) – a front-fastening bra, elastic waists, chunky-handled cutlery, electric toothbrush, raised toilet seat and bidet – and become familiar with the geography of (sometimes aptly named) accessible toilets.
In year two we installed a shower ramp and welcomed my first lovely carers to help me get out of bed, accompany me and my walker to the shower chair, wash and dress me, initially two mornings a week. I often take a lucky relative or friend with me to troubleshoot getting off the loo.
Year three brought several exciting developments! I can no longer get myself between wheelchair and toilet and a team of friends helps with daytime wees until I am equipped with a two litre bladder (my golden handbag) via a suprapubic catheter. Discovering an allergy to an ingredient in some medical tubing added to the adventure. I now need two carers to hoist me from bed to commode, where they insert a microlax and feed me breakfast to encourage a daily motion, and I add bum-wiping to the growing list of tasks I’m too lazy to do for myself. In the evening I am hoisted back to bed, by Densil (mostly) or a carer. And I have another trip to hospital, for an endometrial ablation to keep Aunt-Flo-on-her-white-horse at bay.
Starting in year four a carer stayed with me for a few hours one day per week, adding to the schedule of family and friends who chat, help with outings, coffee, food and weebag-emptying and make sure I am rarely alone.
In the fifth year, my attachment to the bipap machine added a layer of complexity to my transfers and its insistent alarm added to my quiet calls for help – to move my head, my arms, my legs, my feet; to scratch an itch or adjust my mask nosepiece or strap; to add or subtract a blanket; to evict the cat – so that Densil rarely had an uninterrupted night’s sleep.
In hospital during year six I became accustomed to nurses’ favourite question – Have you opened your bowels? – and said opening happening in bed, preferably after a porter and two nurses can be enlisted to turn me so the shit hits the pan.
Year seven: my hospital stay stretches out, month after month, as a new team of carers is recruited and trained, not only to position, move, feed, medicate, wash, cream, dress, toilet, monitor and understand this strange creature with tubes emerging from my neck and my belly, but to keep my communications tech, ventilators, humidifiers, suction and cough assist machines running, keep my airways clear and deal with emergencies.
In year eight carers are now an everpresent part of my life, our lives, attending to me day and night. They are a diverse, kind, multitalented, patient bunch. At best they are not only skilful at keeping me relatively safe, comfortable and healthy, and tolerate (if not share) my sense of humour, ABC habit and asparagus-scented output, but help me be myself, as a mum and wife, relative and friend, MND activist-pacifist, sociologist and writer.
On 7 January 2013 I could eat.
Contrasting textures in a garlic lemony felafel roll, warm fruit and nut bread with coffee, a colourful fresh salad, crunchy chips with beer, spicy veggie stew with brown rice, a perfect crisp apple, too much chocolate. On that day Densil bought pear bread and coffee at Harley’s (no relation) Cafe after our appointment, but I barely tasted it as a confusion of shock, fear, grief and uncertainty spilled out of me.
Since then I have had eight years of eating, eight precious years.
In my first year I savoured food, an enthusiastic adherent to the medical advice to try not to lose weight, and we are grateful for Donna’s roster of delicious vegetarian meals provided by Kimi’s primary school community.
Year two: Swallowing remains mercifully unproblematic but the physical process of getting food and drink to my mouth becomes more difficult and tiring. I combine the strength of both arms to lift food and drink through a straw.
With year three I become fully reliant upon others to feed me and become grateful for my fat reserves.
In my fourth I avoided difficult textures and my appetite waned. My MND clinic dietician endorses the coffee milkshakes the local patisserie makes for me.
Year five: I eat slowly and carefully in an effort to avoid choking and aspirating. Crème brûlée is my friend.
Ending year six I spent more than a month after surgery with a tube running up my nose and down to my stomach, through which I was fed nutritious Isosoy and a daily medicinal espresso shot.
In my seventh year my remaining hospital stay brought a progression of dietary milestones: ice chips, water, coffee, beer, gradations of mush, lentils, soft veggies, Jaffa cakes, vegemite toast!
Year eight: As I settle into home my appetite rebuilds, and I am softly repadded on a soft-food diet. I enjoy food, knowing that my swallowing muscles continue to decline, most obvious now when food heads up my nose instead of going down.
On 7 January 2013 I had a wonderful community of family and friends.
Our siblings and parents and niecephews and cousins, friends I saw regularly and friends far away, old friends from childhood and new friends via parenting, strictly IRL friends and social media friends. That day, Kimi played with her cousins while we went to the appointment. When we arrived to collect Kimi, Anne saw the news on our faces and invited us in; we talked for a couple of hours about what it might mean, how we might live this new life.
Since then I have had eight years of love and support, eight precious years.
In the first year, as I went through the process of telling family and friends, I was buoyed by waves of love and practical support: meals, useful gadgets, visits, lifts, sewing,help with Kimi, and generous donations. I started meeting fabulous MND families through MND NSW and Macquarie events and later Facebook- a crucial source of advice, encouragement and support, including far too many who have died.
In year two, friends gently helped with decluttering, meetings and appointments. I was invited to join a local coffee group, new friends who became adept weebag emptiers, and I was accompanied to a conference trip where I could hang with my sociology besties. There was a beautiful joint birthday celebration for Mum’s 75th, Sonia’s 50th and Zoe’s 20th, and Mother Mary is kind, generous and gracious to the end.
Year three (and others): lifts and play dates for Kimi and some lovely extended family gatherings and holidays. My cousin painted me for the Archibalds.
In my fourth year, every year, a crew of family and friends came regularly to look after me and keep me company with chat, coffee and crosswords; and attended or supported MND events and fundraisers.
Year five:Kimi’s primary school held their fifth fundraiser and a lovely group of parents and teachers continued providing meals.My fabulous GP Anna and neurologist Dom kindly start visiting me at home.
During the sixth year I start making new hospital friends. A friend with sewing superpowers starts making me dresses; an old church friend scrapes baked plastic off our oven innards; and an overseas friend who has made me digital mandalas every week since my diagnosis posts one hope-filled mandala, which arrives hours before I lose my voicebox.
In year seven (and during earlier, shorter stays) our families and so many friends visited me in hospital, broughtfood and coffee, decorated my room and told me how they’d celebrated my 50th. Lexi’s belly magically grows! Before Covid intervened, special friends who live far afield have spent quality time when here, and amongst visitors were school friends bearing memorabilia and an artist friends for drawing sessions.
Year eight: all this time there has always been non face-to-face support – calls, cards, flowers, pictures, messages, packages, behind-the-scenes advocacy, links – and this has become more the norm in the age of Coronavirus. A highlight this year has been weekly FaceTime sessions with my mum and sisters, starring my wonderful 12 month old niece.
On 7 January 2013 I was proud of my gorgeous Densil and Kimi.
Kimi was a shy, funny, caring, creative, friendly, Diary-of-a-Wimpy-Kid-reading, vegetarian, ridiculously world-travelled 6 3/4 year old on the cusp of second grade. Densil was a quiet, clever, witty, musical, knowledgeable, photographic, black-wearing, hard-working acoustics academic, my husband of 20 years. That day, Kimi overheard the words “motor neurone disease”, so the next morning as the three of us snuggled in bed.
Since then I have had eight years with my loves, eight precious years.
Year one: We celebrated Kimi’s seventh birthday in Japan and those two festooned our lawn with Spring bulbs and MND cornflowers. Keen for a cure, Kimi inspired an excellent crazy hair day fundraiser.
In year two, Densil added saxophone to his repertoire as Kimi started playing in the beginner school band. Kimi chortled as her Dad helped tip iced water on me, and she cunningly challenged “every single person who watches this video”.
Our family year three highlight was the adoption of our beloved, shy rescue kitten, who has since adapted to our busy household of carers.
My fourth year: Kimi asks for pierced ears and Densil demonstrates his parenting skills by googling maggot earrings. During a fun family holiday, they cheerfully exhibited their practised adaptability.
In year five, Densil cracks up the crowd with his Trump-etting 50th birthday speech, the best speech ever. We go as a trio to a fancypants restaurant for our 25th wedding anniversary. Kimi gives a gorgeous interview and we are filmed as a family for an MND Australia campaign.
Year six was the year Kimi transitioned to high school with maturity, sociability, hard work, talent and style. It was the (first) year Densil accompanied her with a glorious solo night performance. And it was the year my loves sat in a private hospital room and urged doctors to try to save my life, wanted me to have the trachie knowing it would be a hard road ahead.
Year seven: hospital visit after hospital visit, again and again and again, bringing stories and jokes and maths homework and love into my ICU room. Meanwhile they painted and reorganised the house and endured bathroom renovations in preparation for my return home. And at father daughter talent night Densil received a gong for his acoustic performance titled “Embarrassing Kimi”.
This eighth year has been a strange and unexpected, dare I say unprecedented, one. Yet amidst the global tragedy: Kimi was disappointed but understanding as her full, fun extracurricular schedule dissipated, enjoyed learning and opportunities to connect with friends, and ended the school year receiving an award for the student who best represents the ideals of public education; Densil supplemented zoom meetings with gardening and bought mini keyboards that Kimi and he played; and we were alive and together and loved each other.
Today is the second anniversary of the day I scared the shit out of my family (not literally, though I don’t know if the same can be said for me), by having a six-hour brush-and-comb with death. You can read about it and the decision that ensued here: On deciding to keep living with MND: A triptych
Today I am grateful.
For the family, carers, ambos, doctors and nurses who saved my life against the odds.
That my beautiful family wanted me to stay around, even with the sacrifices that meant and though I’m not the person I used to be.
That my neurologist, Dom, and his team bust their guts to support their patients to live their lives on their terms.
That I was able to have a trachie, so that a ventilator can keep me alive.
For the team who cared for me for 9 1/2 months in Macquarie University Hospital, and the friends I made.
That my ICU stint preceded Covid-19, so my mum and sister could visit from Victoria, and family and friends co-occupied Room 103.
For my wonderful, diverse team of carers, who enabled me to come home, including two who have recently had to step aside to deal with life, and the newest recruit, a young nursing student who is mercifully adept in her first caring role (if anyone nearby is looking for this kind of work let me know).
For their contributions to my ever-expanding lexicon for body parts that dare not bear (or bare) their proper name.
For being home on days like today – glorious spring sunshine brightening the room and entrancing our cat to his favourite warm windowsill.
For two years of family and writing and music and games and friendship and crosswords and tv and humour and coffee (better through a straw than an NGT) and radio/podcasts and occasional outings.
That in (tragically) longer than many people live with MND, deterioration of my facial muscles hasn’t yet led to losing my ability to eat Jaffa cakes and smile.
For my excellent extended family, in a week where we’re fondly remembering my Uncle Rob, who died peacefully on Saturday after a long illness, and thinking of his three kids and their families.
That amidst the terrible tragedies of Covid-19, the long, difficult, generous lockdown (plus compulsory mask-wearing) endured by Victoria has finally resulted in a string of “double donut” days, and yesterday I was able to exchange phone screen-mediated smiles with my gorgeous 10-month old niece as her parents carried her to meet other babies in a Melbourne park.
For the brave, resilient class of 2020, including my brilliant niece.
That I am part of the amazing, nurturing, grieving, sharing, encouraging MND/ALS community, including such truth-tellers as Team Reilly:https://youtu.be/BLhaYOOpNXc
That the dedicated work of many MND researchers around the world, including the team at Macquarie, is giving us hope (coincidentally this little video of us seeking support for their neurodegenerative diseases biobank was emailed today:
For the ongoing love and support of Densil, Kimi and me by our family, carers and friends – visits, messages, plant cuttings, mandalas, jokes, prayers, meals, dress-making, chess games, science t-shirts, tick extractions, freshly laid eggs, and more.
For two more years with my loves, my Densil and Kimi, their love, teasing, music-making, interest in and knowledge of the world, adaptability, creativity, cat-communing, compassion.
For this evening: of sitting together, with my kind, attentive carer feeding and suctioning and taking my piss; of beautiful Kimi arriving home after band practice and enjoying chatting about her day, the relative merits of ice-cream and salad, and which of her clever lines qualifies as a good joke, before disappearing to her room for some combination of homework and secret teenager business; of watching two hours of ABC coverage of the impending US election, and hoping to God they don’t re-elect Trump; of the loud miaowing in response to the 8pm question: Do you want dinner?
Today, I am grateful that two years ago, after six terrible hours, I woke up.
After introductions by Prof Dominic Rowe (aka my neurologist, Dom), Macquarie, there were presentations by:
Prof Ian Blair, Macquarie, on genetic discoveries (starting approximately 7 minutes into the recording)
Prof Justin Yerbury, Wollongong, on proteostasis and implications for therapy development (23m)
Prof Julie Atkin, Macquarie, on disease mechanisms (36m)
Me (wearing my Sydney School of Health Sciences hon hat), on living with MND, text pasted below (48m)
Dom, on trials to slow and stop MND (58m)
Back when I was tethered full time to a bi-pap machine and losing capacity for my voice to be understood, I couldn’t imagine being able to do any more talks or interviews. I am so thrilled that technology has allowed it, and to Justin for inspiration – even if Ryan needs to work on his comic timing (Communication).
I was even able to say a few words yesterday as the human interest component of Channel Nine’s news story on the latest research “breakthrough” – one of many, many needed towards achieving a world without MND.
(Talk for Macquarie University webinar, A World without MND, 26 August 2020,
Hi, I am Kirsten Harley, an honorary lecturer in the Faculty of Medicine and Health at the University of Sydney, and one of Dom’s patients.
I am speaking with the help of the NeuroNode strapped to my wrist and my synthetic voice friend Ryan. You can blame Ryan for any uncouth language.
This evening I’m talking about my experience of living with MND. I will be drawing from my paper with Karen Willis, ‘Living with Motor Neurone Disease: An Insider’s Sociological Perspective’, published in Health Sociology Review last month , as well as my blog, kirstenharleymnd.home.blog.
Eight years ago I was nearing the end of a post doc at the University of Sydney. My husband, Densil, and our six year old daughter, Kimi, had flown home from Buenos Aires after a delightful family holiday. I was walking to a cafe to prepare for a conference session on health care choice. I tripped, and fell flat on my face.
There were other falls. And cramps when I stretched my quads after exercising. A few months later, after Karen Willis, Fran Collyer, Stephanie Short and I had been awarded an Australia Research Council grant to examine how people navigate healthcare, I noticed tired cramping hands. Then I fell, once, twice, three times while walking to a post-conference dinner with a friend.
I knew that my body was seriously misbehaving.
I saw my gorgeous GP, Anna, the following week, and after a careful examination and blood tests she rang Dom. His new colleague was able to see me the next week and initiated a series of tests.
On Monday 7 January, 2013, Densil and I held hands in the neurologist’s office and were told that I have motor neurone disease. We were told that life expectancy varies but typically people die within two to three years.
I thought of Kimi, our precious 6 year old, soon to start second class, and my world crumbled. The floor, walls, ceiling, our world – everything – crumbled and fell away (Six years!).
We were, of course, shocked and afraid as we started to process the news. As we tried to comprehend that I would lose the ability to move, to speak, to swallow, to breathe, with an unpredictable order and pace of losses. As we started to tell family and friends, in difficult, sacred, love-sharing conversations. As we snuggled in bed with Kimi, and explained that MND is not the kind of disease that doctors can fix, but scientists are working very hard to understand and cure it.
There isn’t a single right way to live with MND. Some prefer solitude. Some like to fight. Some keep working. Some hit the road. Some pretend it’s not happening. Some get blindsided by its terrible rapid progression.
Personally, I have sought out information and stories and community. I have learned to accept the reality of MND and generous offers of help. I have become something of an unintentional activist, and been so proud to watch Kimi become an amazing awareness raiser (Harley & Willis 2020: 220-21).
We also instinctively took on Dom’s advice – take things week by week and try to make the most of each day – and started a series of memory-making holidays with a glorious Tasmanian long weekend of friends, raspberries, penguins and poo-machine art.
As I tried to make sense of my diagnosis, I turned to our research project, ‘How Australians Navigate the Healthcare Maze: The Differential Capacity to Choose’.
Theoretically, we developed the sociological notion of healthcare capital to understand how the different kinds of resources, or capital, available to people might open and close different pathways through Australia’s healthcare maze (Collyer et al. 2015). Following sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1986), we understood capital as multifaceted, including the economic, cultural, symbolic and social. We added the significance of place in the context of Australia’s healthcare system, where access to healthcare resources is shaped by one’s location (Lewis et al. 2018).
The gloriously truth-telling Macquarie Neurology nurse who saw me on that first day aptly described MND as “a shit sandwich of a diagnosis”.
MND truly is a shit sandwich!
It has taken from me arms that could hug, turn pages and swim. It has taken legs that could run, climb stairs and kick off blankets.
It meant I had to ‘retire’ at age 45.
It has steamrolled over our family life, rearranging our home, schedules and activities, and stealing our confidence in my longevity.
It has killed our friends.
It has taken my voice and breathing.
It means I need others to get me out of bed, to shower and dress me, to feed and move me, to scratch my itches and keep my machines running.
And I won’t talk about the actual shit!
It has been a shit sandwich, for me, Densil and Kimi, our families and friends.
But, in reflecting on our project about how people navigate healthcare, one of the things I realised, in a very real and personal way, is how much more of a shit sandwich this would be for me if I didn’t have my family and friends. I’ve learned, firsthand, how each of the elements of healthcare capital has made a difference in navigating this challenging journey (Harley & Willis 2020: 215).
We’re lucky in Australia to have an excellent public health system, which has offered me free, life-saving emergency care, and universal Medicare and PBS. The support of MND NSW and similar organisations helps level out the playing field and, unfortunately only for people under 65, the NDIS can make a big difference, including funding my round the clock care (The NDIS). But in terms of economic capital, I’m also aware how much harder this would be if we didn’t have sufficient economic resources to pay for things like out-of-pocket costs and home adjustments (2020: 215-16).
My cultural resources, boosted by years of university education, and specifically my research and teaching in health sociology, have helped me to make sense of what is happening: to find and read the research, to understand the statistics, to appreciate the different roles of the team of health professionals involved in my care, and to theorise and write about the experience (2020: 216).
I can see that place has made a huge difference. Living in a part of Australia where I have access to good health resources contributed to a relatively fast diagnosis and led me easily to my exceptional neurologist, Professor Dominic Rowe, and his fabulous multidisciplinary MND clinic at Macquarie University close to where I live.
Dom exemplifies what makes an excellent health professional. Clinical expertise is obviously critically important. But it is equally important for health professionals to recognise the limits of their knowledge, to understand that knowing the disease is not the same as knowing this particular person with the disease, and to be comfortable asking questions and seeking advice, collaborating respectfully with both colleagues and the patient and their family (2020: 216-17).
I can see that this would be harder without the kind of symbolic capital that facilitates comfortable interactions and mutual understanding with health professionals (2020: 216).
Most of all, I’ve experienced firsthand the way that social capital, the network of wonderful family and friends around me, provides access to a collective wealth of emotional and practical support, expertise, advice, knowledge, contacts, stories, research and experience that overshadows and leverages my own personal resources (2020: 216).
Even though MND is a shit sandwich, I have an amazing, kind, strong daughter and husband. And the love, care, support, coffee, humour and joy that I receive from the beautiful family, friends, carers and health professionals around me help make my life very much worth living.
Bourdieu, P. (1986) ‘The forms of capital’, in J. Richardson (ed.) Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, Greenwood Press: NY.
Collyer, F., Willis, K., Franklin, M., Harley, K. & S. Short (2015) ‘Healthcare choice: Bourdieu’s capital, habitus and field’, Current Sociology, 63(5): 685-99.