‘No Man Is An Island’ – part 2

Andy McKillop

 Part 2 of Andy’s story – in his own words.

But how can a publisher who has lost his language get back to work? The short answer is that he can’t. I didn’t know it at the time – I thought I could return to my old job and take up where I had left off as if nothing had changed. How wrong I was. Family and friends were fantastically supportive and helped me to regain some of my old linguistic abilities but it wasn’t enough for the requirements of my old work. I finally had to admit defeat in my efforts and ‘retired’ from my publishing work in June 2004.

How could I cope with the idea that I had been cast aside, that I was ‘damaged goods’, that I was somehow an embarrassment to my work colleagues and bosses, that, however useful and effective I had been for so many years, I no longer fitted? What about the role and identity (publisher, editor, director of a big company) that I had and that somehow defined my own idea of myself? Suddenly I felt a strong sense of loss, of grief for the life I had had and that had died with my stroke. It was as if I was isolated – not just because of the continuing aphasia that affected me but because I hadn’t yet found a new role, a new definition of myself. It was as if one of the writings of one of my favourite English poets, John Donne, just didn’t apply to me. He wrote, in the early part of the 17^th century ‘No man is an island’ – and yet that was the way it felt to me at the time. Recovering from the immediate effects of the stroke was the easy part; the difficult part would be moving forward and creating a new way of life that would be fulfilling and full of interest just as my old life had been. It took some time, but I began to get there…

Readingwas still very difficult for me, so I began to look at things much more closely – paintings, photographs, plants. I continued to listen to lots of music, all sorts of music (but to my dismay, I had ‘lost’ most of the lyrics of the songs I used to love singing). Other things began to become more important to me and now, with hindsight, this enforced change in my life also enriched my life.

I was still anxious to find an active role in my new life. I wasn’t ready to retire into a life of nothing but leisure and regret. I had trained as a teacher: maybe I could go back to teaching. But when I began to think about what teaching would really entail, I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to do it properly for the students or healthily for myself: there was too much noise, too much stress, too much rush, too many deadlines. My stroke and those ‘deficits’ meant that I wouldn’t – couldn’t – be an effective, good teacher, and meant that I would be putting myself under too  much strain.

When my wife and I bought our first flat, it felt quite natural to us that we created our first garden. Full of enthusiasm, but short of knowledge. We moved to a bigger suburban house with a much bigger garden where we grew vegetables. It was my wife who said ‘You love your garden and love working in it. Why don’t you try to do something with that?’ Well, it was a moment of revelation. Yes! I wouldn’t have to read too much; I wouldn’t have to go to meetings or answer the phone, or to late-night dinners. ‘Easy,’ I thought. Not quite… I had to go back to college to do some qualifications before I could launch myself on the world as a gardener. I did the Royal Horticultural Society General Certificate – and passed the exams. But it was hard work – I still couldn’t read very quickly; and although my speech had recovered well, I was still quite aphasic at times; I had difficulties understanding new names (all of those botanical names!) and found it hard to concentrate for long stretches of time. But I was elated when I passed (and passed well!) and was able to start working as a gardener.

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