Courage?

I'm not a particularly courageous person. I much prefer to avoid conflict than to enter into it with any enthusiasm; and when I do find myself in tense situations, I have a distressing tendency to seize up with nervousness and babble. Confrontations and difficult phone calls are anathema to me; all too often, keeping out of trouble has been more important to me than doing the courageous thing.

So I greatly admire those who have the strength to stand up to bullies, speak difficult truths, and fight against injustice in the face of opposition from determined and angry people. I wish I was more like them, but I'm not.

But what about now? I have been called “courageous” for daring to address very honestly and very publicly the issues around my imminent death. However, whilst I do appreciate and value this commendation from friends whom I respect, I'm not sure that the word “courage” is the appropriate one.

In fact sometimes I wonder if “recklessness” isn’t closer to the truth! I suspect that for some readers my disarming transparency about death comes across as a sort of violation of my own privacy; when it comes to the very sensitive and intimate moments of life, they might think, there is a veil that should not be opened to reveal what lies behind. And what is more sensitive and intimate than the approach to death itself?

I have some sympathy with these reservations. But I also notice that other readers express great appreciation for being included in these significant moments of my own personal journey; that's what leads me to continue. But whether I'm right or wrong to do it, from my point of view this sharing is not an act of courage. It seems very natural to me and requires no effort of bravery.

It was not always so. Twenty years ago a work colleague lost her daughter in a terrible car accident. To my shame I found myself avoiding her, even though I was at the time the school’s assistant chaplain. The enormity of what she was going through made me feel dreadfully inadequate to respond in any meaningful way, and I was quite simply scared of talking to her. It wasn't until Becky’s sickness and death several years later that I began to shed my fears about suffering and bereavement. From then on I became and more comfortable talking about the end of life. Hard experience, not courage, has prepared me for a peaceful acceptance of death.

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It is great to have Chris from London at the moment and the four of us are having some lovely times together. I’m happy to say that the 6XL clothing we bought for me is still too big, so I am still hovering somewhere between Homer Simpson and Mr Creosote (from Monty Python's Meaning of Life movie). Energy levels continue to dwindle gently; getting from a horizontal to vertical position requires a major effort. The old morale takes a hit from time to time, but nil carborundum illegitimi as they say.