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Mar 5, 2023·edited Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Hanif, your vulnerability is a tremendous point of connection in this human experience wrought with suffering in many permutations. It is this suffering we all share in our own ways that binds us together and that illuminates and amplifies the profound beauties and subtle majesties of life — yet of course this can feel so out of reach in this dark place you’re in. I suffered a traumatic brain injury 14 years ago that had me in months of neurorehab and the hopelessness of that time still makes me shudder. I found others in similar positions and I felt validated in the compounding traumas I was experiencing. I was also able to normalize that my debilitated brain was actually fueling feelings of anger, agitation, impatience, etc because my frontal cortex was so injured I couldn’t make decisions, couldn’t process what was happening, and was locked in a limbic overdrive that was not only psychological but physical — a fear state much like what you describe. Wishing you courage to make the move you need for your ultimate well-being. I can only imagine how supportive it would be to your recovery to be in a familiar place — softening the stressors, soothing the sensation of being out of control. The bad, dark days are inevitable. And you are still handling them with immense grace, as demonstrated here.

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I am sitting at my desk in front of an east-facing window, feet on the desk, sun on blinding new snow outside. I'm in central Maine. I can hear, faintly, the sound of our wind chimes on the west side of the house. I'm reading your words, imagining where you are, so far away, sitting in a wheelchair, trying to encompass your darkness and the changes you're experiencing. I think about anguish, despair, frustration, anger, grief, loss -- the human experiences we all share. I think about my own introversion and need for solitude combined with the terrible loneliness and sense of isolation I've sometimes experienced. I want you to know your words reach me. I read them. They move me to tears, to laughter. I cannot help you. I cannot fix you. I cannot visit you or give you back what you've lost, but when you write I read, I imagine, I am touched and made bigger by your presence. Don't let go of me, of us, of the world. You still belong to Life. Don't let go. Keep us close with your words. I am here. We are here. You are not alone.

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The friendships that one makes in hospital have the air of container ships that pass very slowly alongside one another in the night. I don't know why I thought of that laboured metaphor. I think it is because, occasionally at dawn, I walk for a couple of minutes to the bottom of my road, and go over the wall and onto the beach. Depending on the tides, there are sometimes enormous ships – the biggest anywhere in the world – inching their way along the deep channel of the Thames Estuary to and from Tilbury Docks. They move in slow motion. It seems to take them an age to go anywhere. Where two pass by one another it is like watching a city skyline ponderously reshuffling itself. It reminds me of a science fiction film – 'Dark City' – where exactly that happens every night. The ships advance so gradually, you can imagine the respective crews being able to go out on deck and talk to one another across the rail, and maybe even establish the basis of friendships before their vessels move on, and all of that promising groundwork is wiped away.

I have never spent a prolonged period of time in hospital. My grandmother, whose body was warped by arthritis, endured the final years of her life going back and forth between her home and one or other of the wards at Southend Hospital, where she was frequently admitted with infections.

I used to visit her almost every day, and I watched her friendships develop with the other long-term patients. To the casual observer these relationships seemed robust, forged from shared circumstance and experience. One by one these women left. Despite assurances that they would stay in touch, my grandmother never heard from any of them again. I think it upset her a bit, though I understand why, after being in hospital for a prolonged period, a person might want to draw a line under the experience.

For a while I formed my own friendship with a patient. I was passing by one of the side rooms. He was staring out through the door from his bed. A long-haired man in his 50s who was recovering from a hip replacement. He'd suffered a bad car accident in Kenya. I asked him if he was okay and then we got talking. I used to visit him either before or after my grandmother. One day he was gone. Discharged. I 'd given him my phone number on the off chance he might want to meet up for a celebratory drink. He never called. I don't begrudge it.

When I was diagnosed with Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis there was initially a period of unreality where everything seemed to be up in the air. I thought: 'I'm a dead man walking. No-one can touch me. I can do anything I want.' For a while, I conducted my life in that manner – rather like Pac Man after one of those large pep pills has given him the temporary ability to chase away the ghosts who, under ordinary circumstances, torment him with impunity.

Those pep pills eventually wear off. The ghosts return, as persistent as they ever were and ever will be. What once seemed strange becomes the new normal. You have to work out a way to live with the hand you've been dealt. I don't have a good answer – only something I learned from my own experience that may carry some weight:

If you try to confront your condition head on – if you give it your full and undivided attention, it will destroy you. It will eat away at your joy and your optimism; it will gnaw at the edges of your relationships with the people who you care about the most, until it draws blood and touches raw nerves.

My theory (and I will give an account of a time when I had to apply it in a moment) is that you need to identify those parts of your life where happiness is possible and then steer your focus in that direction. This is not the same as living in denial of reality. Rather you are nurturing those parts of your life that will give you the strength to face the many difficult challenges that lie ahead.

Almost a decade ago I found myself suddenly homeless. What I mean by that is that, in the morning I had a roof over my head. Perhaps twelve hours later I was standing outside St Paul's Cathedral, in London, with nowhere to go, and no-one who I felt comfortable turning to for help. It was getting dark. There was a realisation: I've got to find somewhere safe to sleep.

A week passed. I had established a little camp inside the graveyard of St Sepulchre without Newgate, just down the road from St Paul's. At the time the exterior of the church was undergoing extensive repairs. One of the gates was left unlocked. The area around the tower was very badly overgrown. I was able to crawl under the bushes and be completely hidden from people as they passed by only a few feet from where I lay. That place saved me. I had been badly beaten twice – once on my first night on the streets, by a madman. I was so defeated, I made no effort to defend myself. A few days later, I was attacked in the small hours by a group of teenagers. The assault probably lasted no more than 30 seconds. It seemed longer. I thought they were going to kill me. I had not eaten for seven days. I had lost so much weight, my trousers had slipped down my waist. The movement of the crotch had flayed all the skin off my inner thighs. Every step was agony. People would go to great lengths to move aside when I approached. I once stared, for several seconds, at a reflection in the mirror of Fenchurch Street Station toilets before I realised that it was me.

If I had dwelled on these circumstance for too long, I would have certainly killed myself. My unlikely salvation was a temporary outdoor exhibit of bollard and manhole cover designs, just off Tottenham Court Road. Part of the exhibit was a library trolley of second hand books, one of which was 'In Search of London' by H V Morton. Everyday I would hobble the one and half miles from my improvised bedroom at St Sepulchre, to the exhibit on South Crescent, where I would read some more of Morton's book. That pilgrimage, which was incredibly painful, is where I cultivated a small amount of happiness during a very dark time in my life. It was the foundation upon which I built my recovery.

You will have something similar, and maybe just as absurd, in your life. That is where you dig in and make your stand.

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I have been following your blog, both as a fan of My Beautiful Launderette, fellow writer and a hospice patient. I live alone and am intolerably lonely. I really feel your pain. Wish I was in a "right to die" state. You are very lucky to have a loving family, especially Isabella. I am old, 80, and don't see a future for myself. I wish I felt differently.

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Hanif, I have been devouring and savoring these columns for weeks now. They are constantly enriching and edifying. This week's piece shot straight through me. Thank you for sharing the difficulties of your situation.

There are lots of things I would like to say, but I cannot find the words to do so. Inspired by your elegant brevity, I simply remind you that your readers are rooting for you, all around the world.

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Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

I wish I could visit. For sure I'm not the only one. You would have hundreds, if not thousands, if we could all jump through this blog and get to your hospital or rehab room. I did try posting bars of chocolate to you at Gemelli Hospital but they came back to me. Sending love to you,the adorable Isabella and the family members who will see you through the trauma until the light comes back. Because the light will come back. Kathy x

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Dear Hanif, Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing your panic and sorrow with us. It's human. And we are here for you always. Long ago I experienced another kind of physical catastrophe, not like yours but there was so much pain I could barely think or function. I was told by 6 or more doctors that my illness was incurable. Finally, there was nothing left but to pray and envision better days and gradually, gradually with hypnosis in which I envisioned my body healing, plus mantras and every conceivable diet and herbal remedy. Over a couple of years, the miracle unfolded. Hanif, however your body mends, I promise you that better days are coming. And I can also say that it is fine to cry and to call out to us. We will always listen and offer up our prayers for you! Peace will come, company will come and I believe even that physical healing will come. It can be hard to believe but belief is just a choice and not a bad one. ❤️

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Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Hi Hanif,

You gave me a good reason to catch my complaining about ANYTHING 😉 before I verbalize it. I had my own dark times in 2016 when my colon perforated twice in a week. I was very sick and was filleted like a fish in the surgeries that followed. None of my recovery went as expected as their was one complication after another. My surgeon started calling me his pain in the ass patient. I spent three weeks in the hospital and all is good now. They even reversed the ostomy and what a feeling to take a shit again on my own. I'm living in Florida now as opposed to Central New York where all of that happened. It's just past noon here and I'm wishing you well Hanif. This is the part where wtf do I say next lol. I have been reading you off and on but damn, you got me to reply ! Hang tough my new friend.

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Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Dear Hanif,

I am moved by what you have written. I just wish I could have a laugh with you in a Shepherd's Bush cafe again and cheer you up....all I would say is of course you are angry and bewildered and relations can be strained at times. Inevitable. Be calm...be patient. Look forward to the day you go back to London and home...but don't rush. The hypnotist will get in touch...try that...I think you would like my friend Brendan if not...there are many healing mental therapies to explore...without being all weird...

I have no idea what caused your fall in the first place or what the neurological prognosis is. I hope it helps you to know that I have twice defied all formal medical prognoses with serious spinal injuries...I did break my neck and have surgery and nobody knew if I would be ok...I was angry and rude and horrible and scared stff all at once. But I was very determined and kept imagining all my nerves growing and connecting. And they did. My loved ones loved me and became frustrated with me in equal measure. I am not always the easiest guy and can be a real pain. But...it took 3/4 years and nobody would know now. All I am saying is that it is quite normal...inevitable...for you to feel as you do....but other things are possible in time. Things could feel better. You are not only still in shock but the enormity iis perhaps sinking In. The fact you have had the strength and imagination to create all this makes us all realise what a phenomenal achievement your life's works have been. I really liked stuff like "Outskirts" and "The King & Me" which I think was on at the original Soho Poly Theatre.

Dealing with doctors and medical procedures can be challengung, not least in a an NHS ravaged by Tory ideological lunacy since May 2010. But, there are amazing people here and I look forward to hearing you are coming home. Your body is injured but your mind is very active and is capable of making changes in the body.

Stay cool. Things will change.

A x

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Dear Hanif - I don’t know if you remember me from your writing group in Hammersmith about 20 years ago and 2 minutes ago. You moved and inspired then, in a life changing way for me, and you still do. From my own family, I know how devastating circumstances like yours can be. I am so sorry for all you suffer and I am so grateful for every word you share. Love Yasmin

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Dear Hanif thankyou for sharing your life with us. We are with you!

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Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Hanif: Please don't despair. You will have these periods - they will pass and they will return and then they will pass again. Get through your intense rehab with a goal to get strong enough to get home. Keep your goals modest and please, above all, be kind and patient with yourself and with Isabella. You're going through an enormous trauma and your feelings of wellbeing are bound to be variable. Keep up your connections to people when it feels helpful and take time for quiet at times when it doesn't. With love from one of your many followers, Emily

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Weeping now. I so appreciate your honesty. I have two friends who have suffered similar accidents in the last few years. Know that your writing is being read. And your emotions are being felt. You’re not alone

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Mar 5, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Dear Hanif, some years ago my husband stayed in the hospital for several months and I experienced exactly what you are describing. It was awful. I really wish you the best and if you need any help please ask, I live in Rome. Don’t give up. “And then we went out to see the stars again…” wrote Dante Aligheri in the Divina Commedia. Thanks four your chronicles

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Dear Hanif, this will pass, and the light gets in (to misquote L Cohen). Journeys widen, and when medical matters stabilise, there are many ways to resolve or circumvent other barriers you may experience. I know, I live it and have done for most of my life. Including dictating this on Google Voice! Not perfect, but better than it was. Come to us disabled activists when you are ready. Do not be a thing for others to merely pity, yet allow it for yourself when you need it. You've shared with us before the journey of not fitting in, of a disjointed identity. Here's a new pot-holed version of that...

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Your readers are here, Hanif, wanting to know how you are, how you really are, day-to-day. Thank you for trusting us enough to tell us and let us hear.

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