THE LONGEST RESIGNATION LETTER IN HISTORY.
THE LONGEST RESIGNATION LETTER IN HISTORY. (A lengthy polemic for my own satisfaction).
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for most of my adult life, like many of my contemporaries I choose, or have chosen, to ignore it.
The fear of being labelled a ‘feckless slug’, a ‘benefit scrounger’, or even ‘economically inactive’ propels me into doing something (anything!) with gusto.
Life is for living, and the amount of time we spend bedridden, behind closed doors, in medical establishments, or just ‘existing carefully’, means that when we get ANYWHERE NEAR hale & hearty, we tend to compulsively lunge at the door to freedom, and invariably undo any good we may have done.
It’s a double-edged sword.
The desire to live like the able-bodied or unafflicted.
Then the physical consequences of easing-off the brakes of restraint.
And I’m NOT asking for any sympathy here!
I have enough solicitude and concern in my 'Hello Pity!' tote-bag to last a lifetime! Everyone has their cross to bear, and to all extents this is my Golgotha.
It’s what I do.
I choose not to be defined by my illness, but I have no option to live outside of its constraint.
I wouldn’t have achieved half the things I have, had I not been ‘forced’ to give up my career, ‘challenged’ with regard to raising a family or maintaining a relationship, ‘buggered’ financially, or ‘courted’ by the over-medicalised regime of the Perpetual Patient.
And I’m so lucky to live in a country that desperately clings to the idea of free (if slightly oversubscribed & tardy!) health care.
I am so fortunate to live at a time when medical & pharmaceutical developments are understanding how the immune and central nervous systems work, how individuals respond to therapies, and how pain can be managed.
And I dread to think what it would be like to live in a country or time where these things were not afforded me?
Or at least, I have HAD a great life. And don’t worry.
I’m not contemplating ending it all!
I support Assisted Dying, but I don’t qualify for what is currently being proposed in the UK.
If I wanted to finalise things it’s perfectly legal, and I’m more than capable of doing it myself. I have at least one or two mental faculties in my possession!
But I don’t want to.
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| My predecessor, the last Beccles Town Crier (Relics of Beccles) |
As I discovered in the early days of being diagnosed, I am VERY unreliable.
I don’t know when I may be fit enough to ‘do stuff’, or whether ‘doing stuff’ will knock me back again?
My cocktail of drugs that allow me to ‘live’ do have quite severe side-effects, and this can limit me in my endeavours.
Often people think I’m pissed, or a bit doolally, or that I’ve shit myself, or that I'm having a stroke.
It’s just the nature of the beast.
And some of the beasts are great at relieving pain, but not so good at making me look attractive!
So it is with much verbosity and completely unabridged, that I feel I need to publicly ‘resign’ from my duties.
No longer can I town-cry, compere at festivals, officiate or organise rural sporting events, or tour-manage celebrities.
I’m what you’d call a busted flush.
I made lots of great friends along the way.
I've had some mind-blowing experiences.
And I feel satisfied that I ‘gave back’ to the communities that supported me, and kept myself ‘economically active’ as long as I could.
(Full Disclosure: I receive a Company Disability Pension from a former employer, and the DWP give me £56 a month Universal Credit.
By all means call me a scrounger, but check your own privilege whilst doing so please). It does however make me sad to be constantly letting people down. The head is willing, but the body is weak.
And so........ OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!
Goodbye to Work & Play
Hello Proper Retirement And possibly Lawn Bowls! (But not today).
Yours Gratefully
Yanny Mac. x ***I hope to have one last hurrah at this year's Conker Tournament, health allowing.
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