It’s my birthday today; or, at least, should be. Providing
this story gets published on the right day after being completed and submitted
in a timely manner, it ought to be July 3rd. If it is, then well
done all of us for coordinating everything to such sweet perfection. If not,
well, there’s always another year. At least we like to think so. Birthdays have
always been rather more significant than Christmas, for me, never having been a
lover of the melee surrounding such a communal festival. While we may share our
special day with several million other people around the world, we do not know
most of them and, unless we are one of a multiple birth, will probably be the
only person in the family celebrating their personal ageing process that day.
Do others tie global dates and events to things we can pin
to our personal experiences? Like remembering what we were doing when JFK was
shot? Bit before my time but you get the point. Where were you when you heard
about Elvis being found dead? And how did you first hear the news of Princess Diana’s terrible
car accident or the Twin Towers ‘tragedy’? What is it that makes me remember
November 14th, 1972 as the day Princess Anne married Captain Mark
Philips? Heaven’s sake. That their wedding day fell on Prince Charles’ birthday?
Why would anyone outside their immediate family remember that in the first place?
Maybe my brother had a point when he said I was always good at remembering
dates, which was astonishing news. How could I possibly be good at something I
forgot most of?
Days and dates and measurables are important, very often, to
people on the autistic spectrum and I am pretty typical in that aspect. This
year, on the day before the first anniversary of Connor’s death will no doubt
see it adding a lot of reflection on life, death and the passing of time. I
will be thinking back to how I spent the day on July 3rd last year.
What were you doing? I cannot remember. Some birthdays are more memorable than
others.
There is a Biblical proverb which says: For
to him that is joined to all the living there is hope; for a living dog is
better than a dead lion. (Ecclesiastes 9:4, JPS 1917 ed). None of us
wishes to be old, although many have longed for the wisdom acquired by years to
have been more evident in our youth.
As the 107 days has passed and we have, together, counted
them, a personal image has grown in my head, brought back from a dusty recess
of a childhood memory and a visit to old Mrs Abbot. It was almost forty years
ago and shortly after Christmas. Let me take you there.
There’s a clock standing in a dark wood panelled hall;
a grandfather clock, standing to the left, set there by Old Father Time
himself, surely. A dusty Persian runner stretches from one end of the polished
floor to the other. Behind each door lurks a terrifying secret; maybe a monster
ready to leap out and interrupt the sound of the languid tick (breathe) tick
(breathe) tick (breathe) as its pendulum ambles from one side of the clock’s
glass door to the other, hypnotising the dark Victorian house into submissive
torpor. Maybe the door to the right will slowly creak open to allow a bent old
hag to shuffle through on her slowly unwinding mortal coil? Perhaps the
incumbent ghost is about to roll in from underneath the cellar door, like a
sticky fog to rise up to the ceiling before stealing the souls of the petrified
child shivering with fear in the gloom? Words
from Shakespeare grow like creeping ivy across the memory.
Tomorrow and
tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
the clock ticks and breathes. Old Father Time stands
at the door.
To the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow,
(Macbeth, 5:5:19-25)
Terrified, the frozen child stands
like alabaster, hypnotised by the minute hand defying gravity to reach the top
of the hour and chime.
This year, I will spend much of my birthday thinking about a
remarkable young man I was never privileged to meet and whose family, no doubt,
be thinking back one year to the last time life had some kind of ‘normal’
attached to it. To his family, I extend a Jewish traditional greeting on the
death of a loved one and wish you all ‘long life’. May the memory of Connor,
your lion, your Laughing Boy, remain in your hearts forever with the certainty
the shadow of his life never leaves you.
Text taken from blog.
Connor Sparrowhawk was a fit and healthy young man, who loved buses, London, Eddie Stobart and speaking his mind. Known as LB online, short for Laughing Boy, he also happened to have autism and epilepsy. On the 19 March 2013, he was admitted to Slade House Assessment and Treatment Unit run by Southern Health NHS Foundation Trust.
Tragically, after #107days in the unit, he drowned in the bath on 4 July 2013.
Twelve months later #107days seeks to inspire, collate and share positive actions being taken to support #JusticeforLB and all young dudes. We want to harness the energy, support and outrage that has emerged in response to LB’s death and ensure that lasting changes and improvements are made.
The #107days of action will start on Day 0: Wednesday 19 March, and will continue until Day 107, the first anniversary of LB’s death, Friday 4 July 2014. This blog will be used to share information, ideas and evidence of the changes made, big and small. For more information, please go to:
http://107daysofaction.wordpress.com/about-107days/Text taken from blog.
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