The nights you fight best are when all the weapons are pointed at you.

Charles Bukowski

The Journal published an article last Tuesday about Pádraig’s accident exactly ten years ago.

The last couple of weeks, and especially last Tuesday, have been hard. Everything came back. The moment when I thought this must be a mistake. The long journey from China to the Cape. Seeing Pádraig for the first time after the accident: connected to tubes, machines blinking, drugged to his ears to keep the pain away and blank out the memory, his head in a white bandage like a mummy, and the black hand-written warning on it: No Bone. My body was being flushed out again, as if someone had plugged the cord. There it was again: the feeling of utter helpfulness in the eye of a catastrophe.

When he was talking about his daughter Peaches, Bob Geldof once said, “Time does not heal, it accommodates – but it ain’t accommodating this.” Though you can learn how to live with it, if you are lucky.

Pádraig has learned to live with his injuries. I have learned to live with it. Most of the time we cope. Sometimes, we do better, we see meaning and purpose, we enjoy life and have fun.

We went away to Tramore, a very traditional holiday destination in Ireland’s sunny southeast. It was good to be away that day. Tramore turned out to be pretty sad, with boarded-up houses and shop fronts, a worn out, tired looking amusement park at the beach front, and the distinct smell of fish and chips blown by a stiff wind across the promenade. The weather was anything but sunny. The place reflected our mood.

We remembered how desperate we were 10 years ago. How lucky we were to be together now, in a hotel, beside the sea, having a nice dinner and a healthy breakfast.

Ten years on, I’m not struggling that much anymore with the accident and what it did to Pádraig, but with what happened after it.

Accidents, as bad as they can be, do happen. There is not much we can do about that. But what happens afterwards is under our control, it is our responsibility. In my mind, there have been very few people who accepted their responsibility, the role they played in the context of that accident. That includes the police, the City of Brewster, the State of Massachusetts, the insurance company, doctors and clinicians. I mean, we had to set up our own rehab facility to give Pádraig and others like him the care they need and have a right to access. There has never ever been a contact, never mind an apology, from the driver, Mr Couto.

The accident was devastating. The injustice is infuriating. Pádraig’s resilience is an inspiration.

This week, he continued to try out new exercises in the gym rack we installed. We are trying to get closer to the duration, frequency, and type of exercises recommended by the WHO for the past decades – for everybody.

I might have mentioned that I have been a fan of Charles Bukowski for a very long time. When I was in my teens, he was the cool guy, the cool name to drop – even though I didn’t really get then what he was on about. It took time. I read one of his poems again and realised that today, I am ready to become a brother of the tender sister of joy. And move on. Regardless. Of all the weapons being pointed at me. Of voices hurling their insults. Of the dream being strangled. Of the game being fixed and the laughter of fools filling the air. Regardless.

The nights you fight best are
when all the weapons are pointed at you,
when all the voices hurl their insults
while the dream is being strangled.

The nights you fight best are
when reason gets kicked in the gut,
when the chariots of gloom encircle you.

The nights you fight best are
when the laughter of fools fills the air,
when the kiss of death is mistaken for love.

The nights you fight best are
when the game is fixed,
when the crowd screams for your blood.

The nights you fight best are
on a night like this
as you chase a thousand dark rats from your brain,
as you rise up against the impossible,
as you become a brother to the tender sister of joy

and move on 

regardless.