Arriving Unannounced

I was sat at the kitchen table when I saw it, just the other week. Behind me, a window above the sink displayed the garden, which was still but not quite tranquil. Whilst there was no wind to disturb a single leaf or branch, there was no warmth or sunshine either, and so the lawn and its many accompanying plants were a somewhat unremarkable sight on this particular day. It tended not to interest me anyway, and my attention was indeed commanded by my laptop, at which I was typing away eagerly with only a mug of tea for company. The brightness of the screen had been turned down to preserve battery power, so the light from the great outdoors shone heavily on the screen. In this was reflected myself and everything behind me – cupboards, the kettle and the aforementioned window.

Very little is capable of breaking my concentration when I am engrossed in typing, but I would soon be stopped instantly in my tracks when the bottom-left hand corner showed me a most unexpected but intriguing visitor. Framed perfectly by the right-angle of the laptop corner, I was sure that a face had appeared for a split second in the window, as though someone was standing on the garden path that ran in front of it. I initially thought that maybe it was Dad, but if that had been the case, I would have recognised him immediately. Instead, I struggled to make out any features at all. No eyes, ears, nose, mouth or hair. No clothing of any kind. It was almost like whoever I had seen was merely a silhouette.

My reaction to this seemingly shapeless figure was what surprised me the most. I did not wheel round to see if anyone or anything was actually there. I was not scared, and I did not fear for my safety. The possibility of the visitor being an intruder or even a ghost – if you believe in that sort of thing – never crossed my mind. I was as cool as a cucumber and, interestingly, I found myself thinking back to somebody I used to know, but unfortunately am no longer in contact with. I had always longed for a reconciliation since we last spoke, and this desire had intensified more than ever in the weeks leading up to this visitation. I imagined the visitor taking the form of this person and granting me my dearest wish, but sadly it was not to be. As I have already said, the appearance was fleeting, but the impact it made has lasted. Some unexpected visitors are cold callers, frowned upon by those on the receiving end and swiftly forgotten once the encounter is over. Mine, however, had the effect of causing me to reminisce about better times, and hope once again that they may be rekindled one day. Perhaps it was less of a ghost, and more of an angel.

Mason

Half Time Oranges

I like to keep this blog as open as I can in terms of the subject matter it covers, but recently I’ve still felt pressure to write a “mission statement” or objective of sorts for Third Time Enabled. If I’m going to take it seriously and make it some kind of living, what do I want it to be? It was while pondering this question recently that I decided to take stock and compose a post that addressed it directly. In an ideal world, I want this project to grow into an outlet where myself and all other contributors have the opportunity to express respectful “opinion”, stories and thoughts from all corners of the “imagination”, and various items of interesting “information” from different areas of popular culture. I like to call these key words “the three ions”.

If I want to reach these as objectives, I’ve decided that we’ll first need some new voices. With that in mind, if you’d like to bring the three ions to life in a warm, humorous, imaginative and polite manner, please feel free to get in touch. You can email me at thirdtimeenabled@gmail.com, tweet me – I’m @HawkerMason – or message me on Facebook. I won’t bite, I promise; in fact, I’ll be delighted to discuss any ideas you might have floating around. Hopefully I’ll hear from you soon!

I know this post is much shorter than most of the others, but normal service will resume with the next one. Anyway, sometimes the brief job advertisements are amongst the best, don’t you think?

Mason

Sixteen of Mind

Tomorrow is my 20th birthday, but by contrast to my 18th two years ago, I’m beginning to feel more like an adult as it approaches. As I’ve said to a few people this week, I felt like I had more maturing to do when I first became a legal adult, as I was 18 of body but 16 of mind. It was strange that – for want of a better term – the “safety catch” had been taken off of my life, and I was now free to drink, vote, bet and buy things like knives or fireworks if I wanted to. Even though I was living (and still live) within the bosom of my family, I was suddenly faced with so many more independent possibilities. The world could have been my oyster at any moment, and although I probably sound like a drama queen, that was a daunting prospect at the time.

After all, I had only finished Year 13 two months earlier (although I had a short-lived spell at another college to come after that). I felt security there, with friends, work to keep me occupied and plenty of people to consult if I needed advice, but beyond the subsequent course I had lined up I could be on my own – it would be up to me what to make of my life. Despite my real age, I just didn’t feel old enough to be confident in making those decisions for myself. Maybe my inexperience in adulthood at the time was to blame. Whilst two years seems like an insignificant period of time in the grand scheme of things, they have come with a number of changes and challenges, with my recently-ended one year work placement teaching me a lot about the workplace as well as how to conduct myself within it. I feel better now about my ability to progress further, even though there is little to keep me busy at the moment. I’ll spend tomorrow with Will, who has just told me that he feels 6 on most days rather than 16 or 20, and have as much fun as I can – it’ll undoubtedly help me feel even more optimistic about finding something to do soon. I have a feeling it could only be a matter of time.

Mason

An Audience With The Sunrise

Many of us have been there. You go to bed one night at around this time of year, knowing big plans are going to be set in motion when you wake again. You try to get as much sleep as you can in the time that you have, but the adrenaline within has other ideas. It’s pumping through your veins, and you’ve never felt quite so alive since…well, since roughly a year ago, actually. You know you need to suppress it as best you can to get the rest you need, but this proves to be an impossible task. Every inch of you is almost shaking with the electric excitement that courses through your body, as if you’re hooked up to the National Grid. This goes on for something like five hours, and all the while your eyes are tightly shut in the hope you’ll drift off. These efforts are ultimately in vain, but at least you don’t need an alarm to know when to rise. The glow is there to guide you, both from the bedside clock – telling you it’s precisely 2:00am – and the landing, because the next bedroom is a hive of activity. You hear muffled and weary voices, and the hurried packing of suitcases. This is normally something done with the discipline of a military operation, because everything has to fit perfectly in every case and bag, but this morning it’s being done somewhat more excitedly, even as you try not to disturb the neighbours in their slumber. After all, you’ve got somewhere to be.

You’re going to the airport, and then you’re going abroad for a fortnight.

That paragraph described with relative accuracy how pretty much every one of our family holidays began for around twelve years. After the initial hustle and bustle upstairs, we’d all come down and gather in the hallway, adding the finishing touches to our preparations before leaving. We’d make sure we had a round of squashed Marmite sandwiches each to eat in the airport, and then we’d depart, driving away with the house in darkness behind us. To some, pitch-black and empty roads may have an eerie quality, but for me they always had a charm of their own. Street lights and shop signs of different colours would turn the early morning into a wondrous microcosm as they illuminated the gloom we journeyed through. I’d see other cars in both lanes, but their drivers would remain anonymous to me, so my imagination would be left to wonder what their stories were and where they were going. And as we drove further and further towards the airport, we’d find ourselves passing empty fields that were vulnerable to harsh winds, or motorways that were saturated thanks to a brief but torrential shower. Such sights meant that I always felt cocooned and warm, and most importantly that I could concentrate on the trip that lay ahead for us all to enjoy.

The numerous glows before me really did help with that. As Mum or Dad drove, the light from the instruments on the car’s dashboard were there to comfort me, and they made me smile as they pierced through the blackened yonder. When we reached the airport parking and had emerged into air that was chilly and crisp even in August, the hustle and bustle of the expansive buildings was there to greet us, and one could see the blazing white light of the countless rooms and corridors from quite a distance away. But between those two points, there was the most natural and eagerly awaited glow of them all in the form of the Sun itself. The latter stages of the journey would see it just poking its head above the horizon, giving the sky a faint orange tint that grew brighter as the giant orb ascended further into the sky. It felt like a race sometimes – who would finish their journey first, the Hawkers in the Vauxhall Zafira or Mother Nature? We did, of course, but the Sun was never far behind. As we wearily ate our sandwiches at a mucky table after check-in, its rays would be seeping through the windows. As we waited patiently in the Departure Lounge at everyone else’s breakfast time, it would be welcoming a morning in full swing with blue skies and birdsong. And then, when we were venturing out onto the tarmac to board the plane, it would be high in the sky, ready to welcome us with its full force when we disembarked, and to remind us – usually with all of 30 degrees or more – that the best fortnight of the year had begun.

Mason

Every Great Decision Creates Ripples

I know I’m a bit late to the party here, but as a dedicated Whovian I want to talk about Doctor Who – specifically, of course, the newly-cast Thirteenth Doctor, Jodie Whittaker. Before I start, let me draw your attention to some words uttered by the good Time Lord in one of his earlier incarnations, almost exactly three decades ago:

“Every great decision creates ripples, like a huge boulder dropped in a lake. The ripples merge, rebound off the banks in unforeseeable ways. The heavier the decision, the larger the waves, the more uncertain the consequences.” – the Seventh Doctor (Sylvester McCoy), Remembrance of the Daleks, 1988.

There is no question that the decision to cast the first female Doctor in 54 years was definitely great, in terms of both magnitude and brilliance. It was a pioneering move by a pioneering show that has never been quite like anything else on television, and I for one see it as something that heralds a bright new era for Doctor Who. Jodie is a fantastic actress, and from the moment she pulled back her hood and showed her face to the world I was immensely excited to see what she could bring to the role of the Doctor. We have new leadership in the form of incoming head writer Chris Chibnall, too, and I have no doubt that he will prove to be another mighty weapon in the show’s arsenal as its approaches its 55th year and eleventh revived series. Of course, there are those who – for reasons I simply cannot understand – are unable to accept the oft-repeated fact that Doctor Who thrives on change, and seem to be sure that a female Doctor will drive the programme to a swift end. Their ignorance and misogyny saddened me when I saw it on social media, and it proved to be a startling reminder of the darker side of the Internet, but let’s not focus on such people. They assume, without even giving Jodie a chance, that the consequential ripples from her appointment will be bad ones, whilst for me they can only be good.

The news reminded me why I fell in love with Doctor Who in the first place, and it once again encouraged me to embrace my inner geek. I don’t know what to expect in Jodie’s first series, and it’s that sense of unpredictability that I believe captivates Whovians all over the world. It’s often been said that you should never apply logic to the show, because nothing is ever truly impossible. The format is more open than that of any other programme I can think of, and so are the people around it, both in its production and its audience. An overwhelming majority of fans – 80%, to be precise – are looking forward to the Thirteenth Doctor’s debut, because they’re optimists and the show’s truest enthusiasts. They do not fear change, and certainly not the lead actor’s gender. I have always said that we have been blessed as viewers with twelve (thirteen, if you count the late Sir John Hurt) fantastic Doctors, and I am certain that Jodie will prove herself as yet another perfect choice for this iconic part. I wish her the very best of luck, and I know that throughout her tenure she will be able to count on the support of millions. As Noel Clarke said on Twitter after the news broke, I do not see a man or a woman. I only see the Doctor.

Mason

The Condition You Have Described Has Not Been Recognised

Mason asked a fair while ago if Will, Tamara and I could write a post each about our conditions, but naturally I had completely forgotten about it until Will wrote his own. Luckily I can use my condition as an excuse here, as memory issues (also known as “fibro fog”) are a big symptom. This leads me nicely on to explaining what on earth is wrong with me – specifically, Fibromyalgia.

For those of you who are unsure of what Fibro is, it’s described as a “long term illness” or “condition”. The biggest symptoms are widespread pain (sometimes chronic), fatigue, and muscle stiffness. It also causes memory loss (as mentioned previously), difficulty sleeping and concentrating, and headaches. Unfortunately, not much is known about Fibro. There has been little research done into it, and they have struggled to find a common cause. It has been suggested that it’s linked to abnormal levels of particular chemicals in the brain and the way that the central nervous system processes pain messages that are carried around the body. The main triggers appear to be mental trauma (e.g. losing a loved one or having an operation), childbirth, and inherited genes. Mine is likely to be a combination of the former and the latter, as my mother also suffers with it.

I was only diagnosed in January this year, after seeing several specialists, having a very minor op for a dislocated jaw and being misdiagnosed a couple of times. They informed me that my record showed symptoms from as far back as Year 7, when I was struggling with back pain, and then from Year 9 onwards, in the forms of recurring costochondritis, headaches, and fatigue. By far my biggest issue, as a lot of Fibromyalgia sufferers find, is the lack of support I receive. Not only is it an invisible illness, but there is rarely any awareness raised for it. I get a lot of “you shouldn’t complain so much”, “it’s all in your head”, and “you’re awfully young to have a condition like that”.

I sometimes feel almost claustrophobic about it all. I rarely talk about it to anyone anymore unless they explicitly ask because I’ve been made to feel like it’s a hassle listening to me. Luckily, I currently work in a pharmacy – so my boss has the pleasure of being the person I confide in. I can only hope that anyone reading this will know to make sure their loved ones are okay and supported, whether they are affected by a condition or not.

Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind.

The Sixpence Test

Yesterday marked Mum’s birthday (I’m far too chivalrous to reveal a lady’s age), and to celebrate it we went out for a meal. Yes, my main was fantastic, yes, the slice of chocolate fudge cake I had afterwards was very generous, and yes, I laughed a lot as well – but I’m going to cut to the chase here. The evening’s crowning glory lay not in the food, drink or company, but in the disabled toilet facilities, which stood head and shoulders above many others I’ve used recently. When the able-bodied amongst you are out and looking to spend a penny or more, you are probably able to take the environment in which you do so for granted and without a second thought. It is unlikely to prove impractical to you in any way, shape or form, and as such you can breeze in and out leaving only the commanding hum of the hand dryer – and no trail of devastation – behind you.

I and my fellow disabled loo patrons are not always so lucky. The history of the disabled toilet is littered with major blunders that make these cubicles, which can be designed with a foolish lack of foresight by people who will never have even the slightest reason to venture into them, completely inaccessible to people with handicaps of all shapes and sizes. Over the years I’ve visited disabled facilities so small that even the most compact wheelchair user could not close the door behind them, let alone have enough space to transfer safely between toilet and chair so they can do their business. Those who dare to provide rooms so inadequate are showing blatant ignorance towards the needs of the disabled, and their disrespect is therefore equally as clear and insulting. When I find myself with so little room to manoeuvre and do what is necessary, it becomes apparent that perhaps the only reason some business owners install disabled toilets at all is to tick a box and satisfy legislation. I can only assume that said people still have more reading to do on what equality means.

There are, of course, people who get everything right with regards to disabled provision. The toilet I used last night was clear evidence of this. You could definitely swing a cat or two in there, and upon entering my wheelchair was able to turn perfectly on the spot – or “on a sixpence”, as some like to say – without either end activating the hand dryer or scraping paint off the wall. I could park up and move between gel cushion and toilet seat with room to spare, and without having to worry about getting tangled up in the emergency cord and pulling it by accident. The whole process was a breeze, just as it should be, and this was thanks to a great deal of careful consideration from a proprietor who realised their duty to make every disabled customer’s experience a comfortable one. When it was suggested that I write a post about this, I was encouraged to name and shame those who show neglect and disregard for disabled comfort breaks. I cannot do this, as I fear it would be a hot-headed affair, but I can live in hope that they realise the error of their ways and do their bit to make our everyday lives that little bit simpler.

Mason

Unwritten

Will wrote about his dyspraxia recently because it was our shared intention that all four members of this project – Emily, Tamara, Will and myself – would write about our respective long-term conditions. In my case, that obviously meant banging on about cerebral palsy again, which I suspected you’d heard enough about for the time being, so if I was going to do this I’d have to think of another way of talking about it. And that seemed impossible. A lot has been covered, so what could I tell you that you probably haven’t read already?

Then I had a thought – namely that there’s always more to write about any given topic than you think there is. Take my life, for example. As I may have said before, I resisted starting a blog for years, and all because I doubted that I’d have more than ten posts’ worth of material. 108 posts (including this one) later, and I’d like to think that Third Time Enabled is still going strong. That must mean that either my life isn’t as dull as I thought it was, or I’ve just been consistently repeating myself for the last two years. I would imagine it’s probably the latter, on second thoughts! Seriously though – at the moment it might seem like I’ve exhausted every possibility when it comes to talking about any topic, but maybe it’ll transpire that there’s a new perspective on my disability that I haven’t found yet. Part of the beauty of life is that some of its best stories are yet to be written, and when I find them I’m glad I have the perfect space to bring them to life.

Mason

To Chester

Like most days, I was scrolling through my Twitter feed. Inside the trending box, it read ‘Chester Bennington’. For the few that don’t know, Chester Bennington is the lead singer for rock band Linkin Park. Whenever I see a celebrity’s name on that list, I get a bit nervous as to why so many people are talking about them. For Chester though, I didn’t get that same feeling. Maybe it’s due to his age or some other reason, but I thought, “Everything’s fine.” And then my Twitter feed refreshed, and the hashtags started.

And my breath caught for a second.

I just stared at the screen for about a minute, trying to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t believe that Chester was dead, and that he had killed himself. I mentioned earlier the amount of celebrity deaths we’ve endured, but this one hit me harder than any other. And it took me a while to figure out why. For a large portion of my life, music didn’t mean much to me. I listened to some stuff in the car that my parents listened to, but that was about it. But when I went to college, my friend Alex introduced me to Linkin Park. And from there, my music taste expanded to what it is today. Linkin Park helped me to find a huge part of my life,which I am indebted to Chester for. There have been other celebrity deaths that have shaken me, from actor Robin Williams to comic artist Steve Dillon, because both of their industries are something that I am deeply invested in. But Chester and Linkin Park threw me into rock music. If it weren’t for them or Alex, then a lot of what I’ve discovered about myself might still be hidden.

I’m sorry, Chester. I’m sorry that you felt like the only way to take away your unimaginable pain was to end your life. But know that there are millions of people who were affected by your work. Your voice was unreal, and sends shivers down my spine every time I listen to it. There are people who were brought away from the edge by your music. There are people whose lives were saved by your music. I don’t think there’s a higher accomplishment.

There’s a Wonder Years lyric which reads “I’m sure there ain’t a Heaven, but that don’t mean I don’t like to picture you there.” And at moments like these, they stick with me. I’m an Atheist, so I don’t believe in any religion. If I did, I think there would be a space for Chester in Valhalla.

Thank you.

Will

“And the Sun will set for you”. – “Shadow of the Day”, Linkin Park

My Disability and Me

A couple of months ago, Mason popped up on Facebook and asked: “how does your disability affect you?” This made me think, as I had never really thought about it.

I have mild Dyspraxia, a disorder which affects hand-eye co-ordination. This means that my balance, handwriting, drawing and other such activities have been skewed. I was first diagnosed when I was about 7, when my teacher realised that I was as clumsy as a one-legged horse on Strictly Come Dancing on ice.

When I pondered Mason’s question, I realised that my Dyspraxia had a bigger effect on me when I was growing up. My failure at sport and dodgy handwriting often led to bullying and name-calling. And I had them all, including “retard” and “spastic”. This and me feeling like I wasn’t good at anything led to a huge decline in confidence and self-esteem. Another thing that happened was that I would give up a lot. I know people who have Dyspraxia who have become good at sport, defying the odds to prove themselves. I tried to do that. I started tennis and even became good at it. But for the most part, I just stopped. I’m still just as bad at most sports as I ever was. For a while, I used my disability as an excuse to not get involved. The only thing I kept doing was writing. The use of a computer helped with that, as I often felt that I couldn’t write things down as quickly as I wanted. The way I described it was that my hands couldn’t keep up with my mind. I also found that being friends with people like Mason has made me learn to not make my disability define who I am. I have never once known Mason to complain about his wheelchair, he just gets on with it.

As I grew older, I’ve put less emphasis on my Dyspraxia. People stop caring as much about how physical you can be, and with the help of a computer I can write as much as I want. The one thing that I have started doing as I’ve grown older, and Mason’s question helped me do this, was wonder how much my Dyspraxia impacts me. When I do something clumsy, I think “was that me just being clumsy, or was it part of my disorder?Or, are they one and the same?” The great thing about university is the fact that difference isn’t really a huge problem. When I got my laptop out in middle school and college, I felt like it immediately created a difference between myself and the rest of the class. Now I feel like it’s not even thought about.

So in answer to Mason’s question, I suppose it’s “it doesn’t anymore.” Every child with a disability feels like an outsider. I’m not trying to draw sympathy to myself in this, my Dyspraxia is very mild. I suppose I have two messages with this. To those that don’t have disabilities, I say this: be considerate with your words and actions toward those that do. And to those that do have disabilities, just know that it doesn’t have to be your defining feature. You don’t have to be known as “the kid with *Insert disability here*”. Choose your own label.

Will

“There is no greater disability in society than the inability to see a person as more.” – Robert M. Hensel