The C Word

‘It’s like I’ve been marked DNR, and not told.’ Stephen and I are of an age. He’s 57 years old. He became disabled, for want of a better term, a year or so ago, when he spectacularly fell down a flight of stairs and waited hours for an ambulance. Stephen is an eloquent writer who doesn’t pull his punches. A horrified Twitter audience watched as he documented his fall, wait and subsequent rehabilitation. His humour is dry, self deprecating and peppered with expletives.  Tonight, he announced that he’s had enough - that he’s going to kill himself. But not because of his pain levels, not because of his diabetes, nor his impeded mobility. Stephen wants to kill himself because of the failure of the health care system. And you know what? I don’t blame him. Not one little bit. Here’s a succinct version: Stephen is diabetic and depends on Ozempic, a non insulin medication for diabetics, as well as Endone, an opioid medication for chronic pain. His regular GP, in Dubbo, left suddenly. His S...

You are sitting next to a man who wants to kill you. He’s not wearing a mask. Neither is anyone else on the aircraft, even the stewardess who leans too close to your face to give you the special safety instruction for disabled people. You try to hold your breath. ‘Do up your seatbelt low and tight,’ she says, and you think about that word, ‘safety’. You can imagine how much viral load she comes into contact with. You can imagine the tiny red cells floating out of her lipsticked mouth, bright as her cheerful voice. She’s trying not to look at your respirator. But by now, it’s just part of you, like your wheelchair. People take a step back in the shops, apologise to you as though you’re already sick from the plague they’ve just given you without a second’s thought. Some people look at you angrily, as though you’ve made them think hard about something they were trying to forget. COVID is not over, you whisper beneath your breath. The man next to you looks up once, sharply, as though...