The leaves have turned yellow, and some to brown, and wait in unequalled patience for the dust-to-dust moment.In that townhouse hall is his world; a steel bed hugging the wall closest to the front door, a tired, two-seat cushion sofa, an old colour TV set and a table upon which sit a laptop and an assortment of little things.
He says something, or at least, he tries. He appears to be straining every inch of muscle in his vocal cords. He is. Jack is 42. His sadness began a little over 10 years ago, when he was diagnosed with hereditary ataxia, a genetic disorder.Suffice it to say the body and mind suffer a divorce of sorts; what one wants, the other, by reason of withering weakness, cannot offer.
The truth is, he did not want to get tested. A sibling had died from the disease. He was fearful, even of its shadow. But a doctor’s kind words persuaded him it was the right thing to do. But it is a laborious task, for too little strength does he possess. Most times, his older brother sends him off, and receives him too.
I know not how much time Jack has. The United Kingdom’s National Health Service website says the “life expectancy is generally shorter than normal for people with hereditary ataxia”.
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