I've known Hannah since we were 11, and started at William Cowper school together, and have loved her almost as long. She was the little red-haired girl to my Charlie Brown, except that she returned my feelings. She was tall, slim, and sporty, playing netball for the school. I used to watch the games sometimes, admiring her lithe athleticism. One day, when we were 16, she seemed slower than usual, and tripped up twice in the first half, falling and bashing her head on the ground the second time. She didn't reappear for the second half, and afterwards, as I walked home with her, I asked her if she was ok. "Yeah. Well, no." she replied. "I don't know what went wrong - I kept tripping over my feet." I noticed, and mentioned, that she seemed to be walking a little awkwardly. "It's my ankles" she replied, "they seem to be weak."
Her parents took her to the Doctor after two days with no improvement. She assured them, and her, that it was probably nothing, and would clear up of its own accord, but if not, they should come back to see her again.
Six months later, her feet and ankles were completely paralysed, and her feet floppy, so that she had to lift them high to clear her toes of the ground. She couldn't balance when standing still, and had to hold on to something solid, or someone's arm, to avoid falling over. Various specialists and tests could not identify any known condition - she did not fit any of the muscular dystrophies, and anyway had shown the first symptoms too late in life, and it obviously wasn't MS. A virus similar to polio was briefly considered, but soon dismissed, as was motor neurone disease and psycho-somatic illness: the one thing that was clear was that this was physical. She was supposed to use two walking-sticks at school, but adolescent vanity prompted her sometimes to leave them behind in the cloakroom. She had plenty of friends to offer her an arm - and sometimes the arm was mine, as we had been an established boyfriend/girlfriend pair since well before that fateful Netball match. I realised, to my shame at the time, that I found her holding my arm and walking slowly and with difficulty, rather arousing.
A year later, by her 18th birthday, her knees were becoming unreliable, and she had to use crutches whether she liked it or not. One day, as we walked to school together, her holding my right arm with her left, and using one of her crutches on her right arm, me holding the other one in my left hand, she tearfully told me that if I wanted to break up, she'd understand. I stopped, turned to face her, gave her a long kiss, and told her I loved her, and wouldn't dream of it.
By the time she was 19, her knees had gone completely, and her hips were becoming weak. She had to use a wheelchair most of the time, but occasionally managed short distances with a walking-frame. Her lower legs were by now noticeably atrophied. Once, as we had a late-night snog on her parents' settee, she confessed that she had to wear an incontinence pad in case of accidents.
She turned 20 completely paralysed below the rib-cage, although she retained full feeling throughout her body. The paralysis being flaccid, her legs had become very thin and atrophied. One autumn day that year, I asked her to marry me. At first, she tearfully refused, but I persisted, and she soon agreed. My parents, fond though they were of Hannah, had understandable doubts about the wisdom of my marrying a paraplegic whose condition was likely to deteriorate further, but they could see that we were in earnest, as could her parents. As it happened, the disease then went into abeyance, and she remained a paraplegic with full use of her upper body. We were married the following Spring, shortly after our 21st birthdays, and moved into an adapted ground-floor flat.
Her condition remained stable until we were both nearly 23. Then, one day, she said to me in the evening
"I think the disease is back."
Her hands had become weak, so that she couldn't grip her wheelchair rims very well. She began using palm cuffs on her hands to help her grip them, but before long, she had to use a power-chair with a T-style joystick on the right arm-rest, and not long after that, she had to have a chin-control and padded body-stabilisers fitted, as, by her 25th birthday, she was completely paralysed below the neck, except, mercifully, that she could breathe unaided and support her head. We are now nearly 28, and the disease is once more in abeyance. We know that there is no possibility of any recovery, but hope that the disease makes no more advance for many years, or better still, not at all.
We headed for the taxi rank, all London black cabs being wheelchair-accessible nowadays, and were greeted by the driver of our black cab, which was maroon (they're called "black cabs" whatever the colour - daft, but there it is), an overweight, cheerful man of about 40, who got the ramp out for us, and chatted in broad cockney all the way to the London Eye. We were booked for a 12 noon ride, and had plenty of time to spare, so I bought us both "99" ice creams, and held Hannah's for her to lick while I licked mine, then took out her chocolate flake and held it for her to bite.
When our turn came, the operator stopped it briefly so that we could get on. We were followed by another couple, about the same age as us, she in a small-wheeled manual chair pushed by him, and apparently the survivor of a devastating right-sided stroke. She was rather fat, quite pretty, and had long, auburn hair. It soon became apparent that she was unable to speak, and from the way her husband talked to her, repeating things and keeping it simple, and the somewhat vacant look on her face and pointless fiddling with her clothes with her left hand, I got the impression that she was away with the fairies, poor woman.
At the very top of the ride, I photographed Hannah with all London spread out behind her, and the other man did the same with his wife. The four of us chatted as we descended - well, three of us did: the other woman smiled vacantly and made occasional meaningless sounds. They were called Susan and David, and were from Watford, it transpired: he was 31, and she was 30. They had been married six years previously, and she had had a stroke on the second day of their honeymoon. She emerged from a five- week coma in the condition we saw her in, and she spent most of her time being cared for in a special unit, where he visited her every day after work. On a good day, she knew who he was. He brought her home every weekend. Hannah and I told them our story.
