26 April 2005

The Death Clock is ticking

Like others before me, I became fascinated with the Death Clock. So fascinated, in fact, that I cashed in some of my increasingly precious seconds in order to feed the clock various data and thus discover what differences would result.

As a non-smoking male, who is only a bit overweight, my life expectancy is about 73 years. Barring accident and major illness, I have 25 years of life left in me. Were I a woman, I would live longer. Were I to smoke or gain weight, I would die sooner.

I was disappointed that, according to the Death Clock, there is nothing I can do to lengthen my allotted three score years and thirteen, other than (I suppose) submit myself to a sex change operation. I should have thought that my strictly vegan diet, whilst not limited to rice and lentils, ought to count for something in time credits. That I have for the time being given up drinking alcohol (supposedly for a Lent detox: I have been dry now since the end of January 2005) would suggest I deserved the addition of an extra year or two to my quota, but I read somewhere (or more likely heard it on the radio) that people who drink no alcohol live shorter lives than people who drink in spinster-restrained moderation. According to the Death Clock, losing weight would make a difference only were I to weigh more than I currently weigh.

I guess that the Death Clock algorithm (calculation) is based on insurance tables. I wonder how country-specific it is. Does it include statistics from parts of the world that are economically under-developed, where life expectancy is shorter than in the west? Assuming that the Death Clock makes its calculations from data drawn from within and beyond the US, I guess that it averages out regional variations that led to shorter life-spans, say, in Karelia (Finland) and Glasgow (Scotland). The Death Clock takes no specific account of inherited illnesses and genetic legacies; diet and exercise (other than their impact on body weight - in Karelia, whilst the lumberjacks were very fit, their high-dairy diet was packed so full of saturated fats that they died young of heart attacks caused by clogged arteries); or of compromised heath and safety at work. Obviously I am taking the Death Clock more seriously than the purpose for which it was intended.

How, then, should I respond to the Death Clock? Several thoughts occur. First, regardless of its accuracy regarding my own lifespan, the Death Clock is ticking, and at some point in the future my pockets will be empty of coins with which to feed the meter. Game over. I should like to explore the meaning of 'game over' on another occasion. The consequence, however, is that, as the seconds of my life tick away, I have perpetual opportunity to determine how to live my life. This is not to suggest that I am 'free to do anything I like'. It is, however, to suggest that I can re-evaluate my priorities and do more of my choosing. I should like to explore this on another occasion.

Second, despite its apparent bluntness as a predictive tool, the Death Clock serves as a reminder that my health and well-being are my responsibility that I can choose to accept or deny as I wish. There is much that I know about my health, and I often choose to act on this knowledge (for instance, I eat lots of fruit and vegetables; I have intentionally reduced my body weight; I have, for the time being, cut out drinking alcohol). However, I also make choices that are based on ignorance (for instance, I have only just found out that Teflon-type coatings are carcinogenic) or self-deception (for instance, I know that I ought to exercise much more than I do; I know that fried food is significantly less healthy than raw or boiled food, and yet I tell myself that it is not too bad; I still eat far too much salt). I should like to explore this on another occasion.

Third, whilst it may appear self-evident in 21st century western society that I should wish to maximise the length of my life, my preference is for my quality of life to remain high. I am not keen on the prospect of years of terminal decline (physical, cognitive, emotional and spiritual) into a low-quality, meaningless existence serving neither myself nor anybody else. I should like to explore several issue around this on another occasion.

Game over
I recently watched a movie (Random Hearts, starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott-Thomas) in which an airliner flying from Washington to Miami crashes into the sea. The people on board are killed, their existence suddenly, unexpectedly, prematurely extinguished. Their game was over: no more moves to make, no more sights to drink in, no more food to savour, no more music to enjoy, no more hopes and expectations, no more love. (To be continued ...)

23 April 2005

Question Time, BBC TV (2)

19:00 Thursday 21 April 2005, Gala Theatre, Durham City, UK

Waiting here is like waiting in an airport departure lounge for the announcement that signals the start of boarding . The 150 or so passengers are crowded into the upper bar area of the theatre. We range in age from mid-teens to mid-sixties; dress, grooming and accent signal social status (working class and middle class); there are lots of students, as well as housewives and businessmen; but we are almost exclusively white. David Dimbleby said that there are more men than women, but I can't say that the disparity is particularly noticeable. Prior to his pep talk we were busy. People were busy greeting friends; busy writing proposed questions onto cards; busy munching (non-vegan) sandwiches; busy swigging glasses of orange juice as though the drink contained vodka. A distressingly high proportion standing out on the balcony polluting the wonderfully golden evening air with foul tobacco smoke. Alone and hungry, I felt isolated as I sipped my instant coffee and devised cunning questions.
While he was talking, holding us in rapt attention, I wondered how such an alert man coped with delivering, week after week, polished, efficient, competent warm-up lines to crowds of weakly or selectively informed people who know only how to grind axes and bang drums. I enjoy being in the presence of a person who is informed, or a person with insight. I recall workshops with the poet Jon Silkin that left me feeling as though fire were running through my arteries.
Now there is expectation and apprehension. It is time to enter the studio-cum-auditorium. Cables lie draped and strewn like vines in a jungle. Television cameras the size of velociraptors come to life.
Whose questions will be chosen? A name is read out, and the person asked to identify themselves. A quip. Another person. Another quip. Down the list. Surely there is still space for my question. And then my name. No-one’s bothered, except that it feels like a chasm has opened around me. I leave my jacket on the bench seat and climb self-consciously down the stairs, joining the others whose questions have been selected.
In fact, my question was never requested. I felt bitterly disappointed, because I really wanted the question to be asked, as well as being given the opportunity to ask it. The issue remains live for me even today. However, I did get to make an 'audience comment' that was gently derogatory towards the Tories regarding their cynical whipping up of suspicion about so-called 'bogus asylum seekers'.

... to be continued...

21 April 2005

Question Time, BBC TV

I am typing this in Durham's Clayport Library, the first time that I have posted my weblog from anywhere other than home, and a small aspect of the strength of a weblog. Although there are many topics about which I am currently writing on which the digital sun is not yet shining, I feel gravitationally pulled towards recording these moments in close-to-real-time. This evening, for only the second time, Question Time, the prime current affairs vox pop television programme is being recorded in Durham, UK. Hosted by David Dimbleby, one of the foremost presenters in BBC television, the panel of politicians who will be responding to questions put by the audience will include Baronness Shirley Williams, an inspirational Liberal Democrat grandee; Robin Cook (MP), now a maverick, but former Foreign Secretary in Tony Blair's Labour government; Jean Lambert (MEP), one of the most widely known spokespeople for the Green Party; and William Hague (MP), a former leader of the Conservative Party. I feel very excited by such a heavyweight line-up. I almost always watch Question Time, and feel involved with both the issues addressed and the format of the programme (I note my reluctance to term it a 'show', the term used by David Dimbleby). The UK is entering the final fortnight of political campaigning for the forthcoming general election - the second defence of the Blair government. (The Labour Party has never won a third consecutive term.) Over the past few days questions that I might ask have been screaming, Le Mans style, around in my head. I would love to ask Shirley Williams to hold up a banner for regional democracy. I would love to hear some defence of negative political campaigning. I should enjoy making William Hague squirm regarding the racist rhetoric of the Conservative Party concerning immigration and asylum-seekers. However, the question that I am burning to ask is about the high court decision to grant doctors permission to allow Charlotte Wyatt to die - against the wishes of her parents. I have tried out different angles, and the one that both appeals to me and has the emotional poignancy to make it less boring is: "In the 1960s, the UK legal system finally turned its back on the judicial killing of adults. Is it right that a judge can now permit doctors, against the clearly expressed wishes of the child's parents, to allow Charlotte Wyatt to die when the child could live? Surely it is a child's parents, not doctors, who are best able to determine quality of life? What has happened to the principle of informed consent?" I feel intensely passionate about this because, under the same principle, Jemima, my daughter, who endured similar circumstances, could have been left to die, and is alive today only because of extended intensive interventions, including rescuscitation. Despite her multiple disabilities, the quality of life of my daughter has been nurtured and grown by her parents. In my morality, neither medical nor legal people should ever remove responsibility from a person (or their guardians) about when that person dies. What I have written applies equally to Terry Schiavo.

15 April 2005

Doing stuff in the night

15 April 2005: Doing stuff in the night

It is about four in the dark well of the night. The world around me is asleep. Being April, the sky will be lightless, and the ground will remain in darkness, for some hours. I can hear rain slapping against the windows. A wintery wind is whipping the newly-budded trees in the garden. I feel unsettled and restless. I need paid work. I am also uneasy about being awake. I have been up, doing stuff (tidying, cleaning, housekeeping my e-mail) for the past couple of hours. I get anxiety attacks, adrenaline rushes, but not panic attacks - that is a path important for me to avoid. I wish I could cope more easily with change. Gizzajob. My services are no longer required at the place where I have been working for the past four years. I am being let go, made redundant, sacked. I was doing okay, but am now surplus to requirements. As a consequence I feel demoralised and depressed. Go on, gizzajob. The date on which my counselling work was to have ended passed a fortnight ago. The new people have been selected, appointed, and are currently being negotiated with. I have been allowed to stay on until the new people start work. I feel rather pathetic. Gizzajob. I have no firm plans, no leads, no irons in the fire, nothing in the pipeline. My chess pieces are not in a fighting formation, and I have been racking my brain to calculate how to move my king out of check. Do I look for a similar kind of job to the one that I have had for the past four years, or should I try to build up a portfolio of part-time contracts? At what stage do I decide that I have no option but to apply to work the telephone lines in a call centre or stack shelves in a supermarket? I have been scouring the job advertisements for some indication that I am employable, but the words in the advertisements seem not to register, as though written in some foreign script. Kind souls have recruited themselves to support me in my job quest, keeping their eyes peeled for job vacancies. In the meantime, I am sliding inexorably towards the lip of an abyss. However, despite my obvious awareness of the situation, along with being awake half the night, I also appear to be in denial, and cannot take in the horrific reality that the ground is just about to give way to empty space.