When I came out of hospital, paralysed by a lymphoma on my spine (at T10), my temporary hosts nicknamed me "the teenager" because I didn't do much, had lots of telephone calls, and needed lifts. I was 52 at the time.
The teenager tag was reinforced when I slept a lot and spent mornings in bed. This provoked dinner table comments ("He's a growing lad") and typical shouts up the stairs ("It's time to get up. Do you want some lunch?").
During the next two years, as I slowly progressed from wheelchair to sticks, the health service did everything possible to help me to stand on my own two feet, while my hosts wondered if I would ever leave home. The nickname continued to haunt my recovery.
I went from one teenage crush to the next. I fell for every nurse who smiled at me, every physiotherapist who encouraged me, and even the business-like female doctor who miscommunicated with me. I wanted to write them little notes telling them how wonderful they were, mainly because I was too tongue tied in their company to say anything except, "Er I finkk I lerrrrrr, er, er, er."
My body had that teenage awkwardness. I was gangly and clumsy for over two years. Even when I neared independence, managing with only one stick, a friend said, "You've got a teenager's walk—that swaggering, staggering, couldn't-care-less sort of amble."
I was uncertain about my changing sexuality, and when I returned to the outside world I had forgotten how to behave in the company of strangers. During my recovery I relied almost totally on existing friends, who were wonderful with their love and support. They also helped me to improve my teenage gossip.
After a year spent mostly in the house ("You're always watching television"), I ventured outdoors more. Here were more teenage parallels: first you go into town with a friend, then on your own, and then you go on a trip and a friend meets you off the bus.
I shall never forget my first train trip—from Oxford to Bournemouth. My eyes took in every beautiful inch of the railway embankment's plants and plastic bags, I logged the exact shades of green and gazed at the hazy sun until it stared back. I was a teenager leaving home for the first time.
On my hospital bed I had vowed to make life count if I got through. Two years later, back on my feet, I faced an identity crisis because I didn't know what my new start should be. The questions were all too familiar: What am I going to do with my life? Should I be altruistic or hedonistic? Do I want to study? Maybe take a gap year? Or find a proper job in a call centre?
When wheelchair bound, I adapted my language to suit my condition. My terrible jokes included singing "You'll never wheel alone" and telling people that "I know where I stand—right next to a Zimmer frame." (Well, stand up comedy is never easy if you can't stand up.) Two years later, my jokes were politically incorrect. I sounded like an insensitive teenager.
The teenager theory of recovery may not make it into medical textbooks, but it has certainly stayed alive in our household and I have friends who still call me the teenager. It proves that you're never too old to have a happy childhood.
Wicked. What's for dinner?