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A FAMILY ON LOVE RELAY
My last few blogs, I’ve been told, have been gloomy, if not outright sad. But from the start, I have tried to keep this journal as honest as I can, writing down exactly how I feel. When I first began to write, as a disturbed and semi-delinquent teenager, I believed there were people outside of my bedroom and the suburbs – at least one person – who would recognise or understand me.
There is something of that, I think, in what I’m trying to do with this blog. It is partly a diary, written for myself, but as my son Carlo likes to remind me, this journal has gained a considerable audience; people look forward to reading it, and seem to appreciate it. That has certainly surprised me, since being new to Substack and Twitter, I had no idea whether there would be a readership or not. Now, something has happened between writer and reader, and it is beautiful and ongoing. Carlo adds that nurses and people with lifelong ailments all over the world – from Nigeria to Lewisham – seek solace in my ramblings; they follow them intently and write me long letters every week, urging me on, talking with one another. A real community has formed.
My school friend David, who contributed a wonderful piece of writing about his family to the blog – a reply to my piece entitled A HeartThrob and Cool Kid - advised me that I should develop the characterisation of the people I am surrounded by, my family and friends. I told him I was nervous about including family members, since I don’t want to inadvertently irritate or expose them. But on the other hand, they are part of this story, and this trauma has ripped their lives apart too; something that they will have to live with in their own way, as well as they can.
Isabella has gone to Rome to see her family and to work, and the boys and Tracey have been looking after me. Tracey puts me to bed most nights, and we have the opportunity to sit and talk, as we haven’t been able to in years, renewing our relationship. My friendship with the boys has also been altered and matured in many ways; I would never have any reason to rely on them as I have had to since my accident. My demands on them have been profound, and they have responded commendably, almost without complaint.
Kier came in on Monday lunch time, bringing me the tuna and cucumber sandwich from Pret that I like, as well as some coffee. Then he then took me out for a walk by the river saying it was probably the last good day of the year. As always, we discussed his dating scene; his outings at the gym, the prospects of our beleaguered, beloved Manchester United, and how his mother was doing. It was a lot of fun to see him, before he took me to my physiotherapy session in the gym here at the hospital - and off he went to work, teaching piano and guitar to young children.
After, Sachin came bouncing in on his white cushioned trainers, and I was pleased to see he was in a good mood. He sat down next to my bed and we had a long discussion about his work as a writer; then we talked about my friends’ children and what they might or might not do if they were in the same position as my kids – would they visit a parent in hospital every day, or would they go missing? Does this sense of love and duty apply to everyone? Of course, it is not a question anyone can answer until it happens to them.
Then the discussion moved on to younger children, those in their early to mid-teens, and I asked Sachin - since he is closer in age to these kids - why he thought they were suffering so much in terms of what is now called ‘mental health’. Whether in fact they did suffer more from anxiety than previous generations. After all, I suffered from huge anxiety as a teenager, and indeed in my 20s and 30s, and it took a whole lot of therapy to remove some of that burden from my back.
My last few blogs, I’ve been told, have been gloomy, if not outright sad. But from the start, I have tried to keep this journal as honest as I can, writing down exactly how I feel. When I first began to write, as a disturbed and semi-delinquent teenager, I believed there were people outside of my bedroom and the suburbs – at least one person – who would recognise or understand me.
There is something of that, I think, in what I’m trying to do with this blog. It is partly a diary, written for myself, but as my son Carlo likes to remind me, this journal has gained a considerable audience; people look forward to reading it, and seem to appreciate it. That has certainly surprised me, since being new to Substack and Twitter, I had no idea whether there would be a readership or not. Now, something has happened between writer and reader, and it is beautiful and ongoing. Carlo adds that nurses and people with lifelong ailments all over the world – from Nigeria to Lewisham – seek solace in my ramblings; they follow them intently and write me long letters every week, urging me on, talking with one another. A real community has formed.
My school friend David, who contributed a wonderful piece of writing about his family to the blog – a reply to my piece entitled A HeartThrob and Cool Kid - advised me that I should develop the characterisation of the people I am surrounded by, my family and friends. I told him I was nervous about including family members, since I don’t want to inadvertently irritate or expose them. But on the other hand, they are part of this story, and this trauma has ripped their lives apart too; something that they will have to live with in their own way, as well as they can.
Isabella has gone to Rome to see her family and to work, and the boys and Tracey have been looking after me. Tracey puts me to bed most nights, and we have the opportunity to sit and talk, as we haven’t been able to in years, renewing our relationship. My friendship with the boys has also been altered and matured in many ways; I would never have any reason to rely on them as I have had to since my accident. My demands on them have been profound, and they have responded commendably, almost without complaint.
Kier came in on Monday lunch time, bringing me the tuna and cucumber sandwich from Pret that I like, as well as some coffee. Then he then took me out for a walk by the river saying it was probably the last good day of the year. As always, we discussed his dating scene; his outings at the gym, the prospects of our beleaguered, beloved Manchester United, and how his mother was doing. It was a lot of fun to see him, before he took me to my physiotherapy session in the gym here at the hospital - and off he went to work, teaching piano and guitar to young children.
After, Sachin came bouncing in on his white cushioned trainers, and I was pleased to see he was in a good mood. He sat down next to my bed and we had a long discussion about his work as a writer; then we talked about my friends’ children and what they might or might not do if they were in the same position as my kids – would they visit a parent in hospital every day, or would they go missing? Does this sense of love and duty apply to everyone? Of course, it is not a question anyone can answer until it happens to them.
Then the discussion moved on to younger children, those in their early to mid-teens, and I asked Sachin - since he is closer in age to these kids - why he thought they were suffering so much in terms of what is now called ‘mental health’. Whether in fact they did suffer more from anxiety than previous generations. After all, I suffered from huge anxiety as a teenager, and indeed in my 20s and 30s, and it took a whole lot of therapy to remove some of that burden from my back.
Sachin said that it is no wonder that kids who spend hours of their day on TikTok and Instagram, viewing thousands of images and videos - their desires, fears and phobias reflected at them via the pernicious and addictive algorithm – were suffering mental exhaustion, if not collapse.
Sachin is now in his late 20s, and so grew up before social media became so all-consuming. “There was a time when social media was more about connecting with friends, before this age of over-stimulating, rabid image and video content, which can upset a young person’s mind.”
Sachin added that all of this is not at all like the scare that surrounded violent video games in the noughties, “This is much more pervasive and insidious. It’s not the blood and guts that we should be afraid of, but the repetitive image- bombing of better lives and fitter bodies.”
Then, we discussed how difficult it was to get started as a writer, and we tried to compare the beginning of his career with mine. I worked in the theatre, which he doesn’t do. And there were many more opportunities, since theatre is a much cheaper medium than television. But it is certainly tough for any young writer at the beginning of their career, if they don’t have much success to show for their early efforts. When you are a young writer, you never know for sure if you’re going to make it or not; whether in fact you will become a professional writer or just fade away, as so many others do, inevitably.
In the evening, Tracey came back, along with another friend who comes regularly, and she went to a local Indian to get me some tarka dhal, pilau rice and some papadams. I like to eat the same thing for every meal, three times a day, and it doesn’t bother me, as long as I don’t have to eat hospital food.
Tracey and I discuss her work, the dog, the kids, the state of the nation, the history of the locale where the hospital is located, and whether or not I will be moving to the new rehab facility next week. In fact, not long before I began writing this blog, Tracey rang to say that I will indeed be leaving here next Thursday for the long hoped-for rehab facility.
I am, as you can imagine, apprehensive about this move since it is in North London, about an hour away from where we all live. My stay there will not be open-ended. The staff there apparently try to prepare you for independent life in the outside world, to get you as well as they can before you return home.
You, dear reader, will be kept well-informed.
Your loving writer, Hanif.
XX
Sachin is now in his late 20s, and so grew up before social media became so all-consuming. “There was a time when social media was more about connecting with friends, before this age of over-stimulating, rabid image and video content, which can upset a young person’s mind.”
Sachin added that all of this is not at all like the scare that surrounded violent video games in the noughties, “This is much more pervasive and insidious. It’s not the blood and guts that we should be afraid of, but the repetitive image- bombing of better lives and fitter bodies.”
Then, we discussed how difficult it was to get started as a writer, and we tried to compare the beginning of his career with mine. I worked in the theatre, which he doesn’t do. And there were many more opportunities, since theatre is a much cheaper medium than television. But it is certainly tough for any young writer at the beginning of their career, if they don’t have much success to show for their early efforts. When you are a young writer, you never know for sure if you’re going to make it or not; whether in fact you will become a professional writer or just fade away, as so many others do, inevitably.
In the evening, Tracey came back, along with another friend who comes regularly, and she went to a local Indian to get me some tarka dhal, pilau rice and some papadams. I like to eat the same thing for every meal, three times a day, and it doesn’t bother me, as long as I don’t have to eat hospital food.
Tracey and I discuss her work, the dog, the kids, the state of the nation, the history of the locale where the hospital is located, and whether or not I will be moving to the new rehab facility next week. In fact, not long before I began writing this blog, Tracey rang to say that I will indeed be leaving here next Thursday for the long hoped-for rehab facility.
I am, as you can imagine, apprehensive about this move since it is in North London, about an hour away from where we all live. My stay there will not be open-ended. The staff there apparently try to prepare you for independent life in the outside world, to get you as well as they can before you return home.
You, dear reader, will be kept well-informed.
Your loving writer, Hanif.
XX
For more writing, please visit my Substack and consider becoming a subscriber. Let’s keep this show on the road.
hanifkureishi.substack.com/about
hanifkureishi.substack.com/about
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