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Lady G's story of the paralysed woman reminded me of a very fraught day at the hospital where I used to work.

There was a patient – a boy in his late teens – no longer a child, but not quite a man – and therefore fated to be wheeled back and forth between the children's ward and an adult ward where more specialised treatment could be provided. He was dying from one of those rare genetic disorders that lie beyond the reach of medical science. He eventually lost most of his bodily function. He could still talk, but it became increasingly hard to understand him

One morning, he was asked a question by a nurse, who I imagine was just making friendly conversation. He answered vigorously. As the nurse could not grasp what he was saying, she summoned one of her colleagues. She could not understand him either. What followed rapidly assumed the dimensions of a parable or a fairytale – a parade of hospital staff, representing a wide array of medical disciplines, attempting to interpret the mysterious declaration of their patient.

It wasn't until the afternoon that somebody cracked the code. He was telling them to: “Kiss my arse.”

I spoke to his mother the day he died. She was ready for it; it wasn't a shock. I asked her what she was going to do now. She thought maybe some voluntary work. I suggested that she should take some time for herself. For years, she had struggled on her son's behalf – for his treatment, for his quality of life, for his dignity. She got nothing from him in return, but she fought for him anyway. I think that is the unequal kind of unreciprocated love that you mention at the end of this dispatch. It is something that I struggle with too – a girlfriend once described me disparagingly as a “typical Libran” - I want balance. The problem is that many manifestations of love are intangible, while others only become obvious when they are absent. I suppose everybody has, at one time, wondered whether they are giving enough, in return for what they get. The ground is continually shifting underfoot – sometimes you give more, sometimes you take more.

On the urgent subject of itching, I cannot think of any writer, living or dead, whose balls I would scratch upon request. It is a very big ask and once you've done it, you've set a precedent. You also have to take into account that writers share agents and publishers. Scratch one writer's balls and eventually you are going to get an awkward phone call from someone representing one of their peers - “We hear you scratch balls. We can't pay you, but it would be good exposure...”

Before you know it, you are the ball-scratcher-de-jour for any writer who cannot, or will not, scratch their own balls. After you die someone will pen your biography, titled 'The Ball-Scratcher of Bloomsbury' - a weighty hardback, focusing on the period of your life when you scratched the balls of some of the greatest writers of your generation. Imagine all of those books, piled-up in ziggurats on podiums, in the Christmas window display of Waterstones – your life distilled into a highbrow gag gift. I have too much pride for that.

I have my own battle with itching, which is related to a disease of the bile ducts called Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. I have been fortunate in that it is not continuous itching. Some people really suffer. I keep my fingernails short and smudge away any tingling with the flat of my hand. Occasionally the itching is sub-dermal. You can scratch the skin as much as you want without neutralising the irritation. In those maddening moments, I have come to sympathise with flies as they pound themselves against an invisible layer of glass in a bid to get outside. When I was new to the disease and didn't have a very good understanding of it, I once raked my palm with such ferocity that my hand swelled to almost twice its normal size and I couldn't close it.

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Here's a huge gift you've given that you may not have considered. Since reading of your situation, I confess that almost every time I have a big itch that needs scratching, I think of your inability to do so. Having that that ability gives me great joy and it's made me appreciate the "little moments," or Ikigae as the Japanese call it. Thanks for your most personal column yet.

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Once more a piece replete with the simplicity of the complexity of being human.

This touched me in a particularly personal way.

A neurodegenerative disease means the lightest, kindest touch is experienced like glass paper at best.

Yes. We all depend on the kindness, understanding & love of others in the most simple ways.

Get a scratch soon 🙏 x

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Dear Hanif

I send you a virtual scratch.

Wherever you like.

Love,

Leonie

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“We are loved into the world and even as age we expect love from others as an initial impulse.” 💕✨ sending love and light. Thank you x

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

I'm listening to music composed and performed by an American actor who died unexpectedly at age 60 this last week. Hearing his voice and playing is eerie- an echo heard after the original source has gone beyond reach- not so different than anything else we see or hear, or think. Not different certainly than your entry today. How vivid your description of wanting to scratch an itch is! My mother used to ask many, many questions and one of them was "Why do things itch?" I looked it up over and over on the internet but somehow the answers were never quite enough to... stop things from itching and the curiosity was never adequately scratched either. Your comments about babyhood and the expectation of being loved, the shock of anything other than that...are very moving. They really answered something for me- that sense one has when one is not loved and responded to with care that something IS NOT RIGHT. We all feel that, don't we? You do a lot for others- that must be the habits of a lifetime- but that is not what makes you lovable; that is intrinsic.

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Hanif, i am in a similar situation to yours, which is what attracted me to your postings from the outset. I have been diagnosed with a nasty form of cancer, and the first set of treatments entailed a strong series of chemo infusions. They gradually leave you losing weight, struggling to get a mouthful of food down with a mouth that has lost its ability to taste, and very fatigued. In short, dependent on others, dependent on them to do the chores, to get whatever food or drink you can tolerate, and helping with all the physical chores around the house, like putting out the garbage or filling the birdfeeders, or even helping you get up and do the walking you need to keep going. You need them to keep going psychologically; that’s the real scratching you need. To be able to see the worth of a tomorrow, a today even, and to want it, not to wallow in despair over not getting even to scratch your balls. The relationships with everyone changes, in ways you might not have ever appreciated, like offers to bring over dinner or the now urgent need to speak on the phone or email, or to see you before you die. The unspeakables and unthinkables appear: how many years do i have left (not many); will i see anything of my grandchildren growing up, my kids with their marriages and lives. Will i ever get to visit them again. Will i get back to france again, and live those summers walking to the boulangerie or seeing the great photo festival at arles, the theatre festival of avignon. Will i have anything left of my life. Your postings help me go back to those few times in the past when we crossed paths, your great visits and exciting talks at msu attended by hundreds of students; and the times you visited our classes in london. In short, our past, the traces of which remain, and that ask us to scratch them for the pleasure such remembering brings. It gives me great pleasure also to share in the signs of your comeback, the slight movements in your hands, which are signs of the future still being accessible. The real power or our moments of disability lies in seeing with clarity the sheer temporality of our lives, our shared past, our present condition, and a future that will not be there for us forever anymore, as it was for that gurgling baby you described. And it’s ok.

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Another lovely post! Thank you Hanif. And with this one the thought that comes to mind is ; How can a person’s body be so damaged yet his mind so sharp agile and pristine? Bravo!

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Thank you so much Hanif for letting me still comment for free - I love to write back to your writings and especially if you are feeling low - and this thing about scratching and touching yourself of course / I am constantly twisting the ring on my left hand third finger for instance it’s a st Christopher ring my ex husband got (second hand there’s no sentimental value whatsoever we had split up by then had to) and the day I moved from this ancient flat with my daughter a letter arrived from the jewellers saying the ring I’d left there to be resized would be sold if I didn’t pick it up. So I’ve worn it ever since and twisted it back and forth. Nearly finished on my twisting and rubbing story I have a tiny st Christopher and a heart on a chain round my neck and have to twist and turn that as well. Scratching god. It’s bad enough when you mustn’t scratch say an insect bite when really you just want to maul yourself. Loved that bit about the couch so none of that ridiculous staring thing. People coming at you though - still need permission somehow - when you feel fragile and vulnerable you need the strength coming to you and that is proper love.

Thank you again Hanif you definitely are giving so please be assured of that. And as long as I can write some rambling stuff back that is lovely / I was in hospital yesterday only for a routine procedure (obviously a terrifying thing to me while it lasted) and just so overwhelmed by it I did nothing but cry when I came back round and the amazing thing was the black woman in charge nurse doctor whoever I said who are you? She said Princess her name was Princess - why amazing because that’s my cat’s name little Princess. But she held my hand and asked me if I wanted a hug. It’s the kindness isn’t it. Take lots of care I will put some silver in my wishing well (miniature) for your precious hands- Maddi x

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All this scratching’s making me itch - You have subtle hand movement - there is progress - thank you for bringing me back to gratitude once more 💜🙌

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I have never before considered scratching a pleasure but I will do so now! I am also cross posting this to my Substack The Pleasure Principle. Thank you Hanif!

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

I swear, reading this post made me aware, or created, the need to scratch in several places, one unmentionable. I imagine the more you think about your itches, the more they pop up.

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

A most beautiful, profound piece of writing. Sending love, Kathy x

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Wonderful to hear your hands move a little bit now thanks to the physio, slow progress is better than none. A lovely post. Gratitude is enough for the love from those helping you, it is everything you have right now so is immense. Again a lovely post.

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Mar 19, 2023Liked by Hanif Kureishi

Great article, as always! Sympathies with having unscratchable itches. That must be most distracting and difficult. At least re the undercarriage -- as a prostate cancer patient, I have to wear a continence pad 24/7. I have found giving the scrotum and tops of the legs a good going-over with Dr Pickles' Tattoo Balm after my shower fends irritation to that area, now almost always clothed. Anything would do, of course. Maybe your carers could oblige?

Re the couch -- I always thought Freud came to use this so that the analyst could be a blank slate on which patients could project their fantasies, undistracted by the analyst's features. Could be wrong there. Of course it also made it easier for the analyst to roll his eyes, yawn, pick his nose, remove the sleep from his eyes, or whatever.

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A luxury indeed.

I read an article once about itching, and what it was. At one point it was scientifically categorized as pain but now it’s moved out and has its own definition.

As well it should. Pain doesn’t spread when it’s relieved!

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