Day -7

As dusk sets in the streetlights flicker to life, revealing our lawn as the unkempt and feral disaster it’s become. Boxes litter the grass while our motorcycles sit there, encumbered by skip run and storage unit cargo.

 Over the fence, I hear our neighbour moving cans of plum tomatoes into hiding holes reachable from a wheelchair. They were grateful for the food gifts offered earlier today but the way they lingered by their doorway and said goodbye.

Why do this, their expressions said.

Then, brrrmm-brrrmm, brrrmm-brrrmm— I hear my phone vibrating and rush through the house to answer.

“Hello.”

“Hello, am I speaking to Nester?” The voice broadcasting sounds polite but stern.

A spam call or maybe something to do with terminating this letting contract? I hold a moment of silence. 

“Yes, speaking,” I say, lowering the box I’m holding.

“Your partner, Wiggy, asked us to call you…”

___ 

Across town, there’s a blur of harsh light and muffled sound. 

“Wha, where am I?”

Wiggy is waking up. He tries to move, but there’s a dull ache in his head and his muscles are limp. The ceiling above trembles, the floor below rocks, and hurried shapes wiz past.

Wiggy is lying flat on his back on a squat and narrow bed, but this is not his bed – it’s far too short, too narrow and – his feet feel clammy, heavy, odd. 

He’s wearing his boots – in bed? Why the hell is he wearing his boots in bed?

He shifts, trying to sit up, the pain flares and his head goes light. This ain’t right, squinting, his large boots are hanging over the end of the crisp white bed sheets, earth and dirt clinging to them.

“Sir, please,” the voice is unfamiliar, “take it easy, you’ve hit your head.” A blurry man appears in his peripheral. 

Wiggy blinks, once, twice, and slowly the world comes into focus. There’s the rise and fall of his chest beneath a tangle of wires, the steady beep of a machine, the oxygen mask strapped to his face, and the flash of blue lights outside an ambulance.

___ 

This story begins in a tiny bungalow, not a fairytale cottage bungalow, but a council estate bungalow with bare walls, detritus that covers the floor and boxes laid hither-dither. Dust, disturbed from many years of rest, drifts through its disordered living room to resettle in slow motion on its rough asbestos floor. 

We were told to rip up the laminate that covered the rank asbestos flooring by the council, to leave the outdated tiles present from when Wiggy moved here all those many years ago. Back when he was crippled from a broken back, benumbed by prescription drugs, incapacitated and housebound. 

Wiggy is my fiancé and he passed out in a convenience store earlier this week. He may look strong and athletic, standing tall at 6’5” with his broad chest and shoulders, but the majority of his life has been riddled by pain and misfortune; severe nerve damage, a misaligned hip, a twisted spine and once upon a time his back breaking not once but twice somewhat sets the scene. 

Our home is now filled with half-formed piles of themed possessions; there’s the stuff for the lockup, stuff for the bin, the camping equipment pile, motorcycle armour, clothing for the four seasons, cosmetics, electronics, tools and medicine – there’s a lot of medicine…

___ 

At our local General Practitioner see close-up of aged doctor’s hands on desk. Folders, miscellaneous paperwork, a dusty titled name plaque, and a tea stained mug. Then mid shot panning across our shocked faces.

“I know it may be too late, but I strongly advise you not to go,” the doctor says. 

___

Cut scene to the pharmacy and what happens when you try to collect a 3 month supply of medication. 

“This is a big prescription, why do you need so much insulin? Sorry, we just don’t keep this much in stock,” she says. 

I pull out my phone and rescan the words: The NHS does accept responsibility for supplying ongoing medication for temporary periods abroad of up to 3 months. 

Despite my GP and this pharmacy trying to get out of their responsibility, legally they have to provide me with that 3 month supply, “when can you get some in stock?” I ask.

But what will happen after that 3 months?

I’ve been a type 1 diabetic for over twenty-five years. It’s essential for me to inject insulin, I do so between 6 and 8 times a day. That’s around about 60,000 injections in my lifetime so far. And without that artificial insulin, I cannot break down the energy contained in food. Instead, my body begins to breakdown – through diabetic ketoacidosis, which untreated leads to death.

Fortunately, due to rigorous blood tests and injections, my diabetes is currently well controlled with an A1c average blood sugar reading in a pre-diabetic range.

___

Back to the GP doctor’s office.

“I strongly advise you not to go,” the Doctor says. 

“I’ve already quit my job and we’ve both sold our houses,“ I say, with a twist of exhaustion, concern and amusement on my face. Amusement, because I’ve been waiting for almost a year to have this consultation. 

The Doctor looks confused, his question is – Why?

___ 

Firelight, silhouettes dancing against flames, long shadows swaying across dew-dappled grasses… and awakenings.

“For the first time in a long time, I feel lost. 

I wonder whether I’m doing what I want and should do, 

considering what I’m able to do. 

Things don’t seem to be going right and I feel I need to change my path.” 

The scene morphs and cuts to The Adventure Travel Film Festival camp. 2 years ago, I met Wiggy at this festival and discovered we had a shared dream – to circumnavigate the planet by motorcycle. As the revelry, partying and firelight dimmed, we sat by the smouldering ambers, watched the dawn rise and talked of dreams and nightmares until the breakfast volunteers stirred. 

It would have been nice to kick start our world tour from this festival, but unfortunately, we still have too much t—

___ 

Back to our bungalow and the never-ending continuum conveyor belt of packing boxes. A bead of sweat travels down my temple and tunnel vision begins to blur the edges of the room. My hands slow.

“Nester? Are you okay?” Wiggy says and moves closer. 

I do not reply but watch my fiancé, his long and athletic body encumbered by all those years of harsh luck and hardship. His unkempt dirty blond hair, the lines on his forehead, his patient blue-grey eyes, hazy, losing focus. 

The last few weeks have been challenging. We’ve erased our entire lives to make this dream come true. 

Including; Wiggy selling his share of his rental property, together refurbishing and selling my houseboat in London, refurbishing and selling my beautiful limited edition sports bike, refurbishing and selling my knackered old trails bike, then there was me struggling and failing to negotiate the lies, trickery and unfulfilled promises made by my ex, once upon a time I was far too generous and naive, then quitting my comfortable remote tech job, the mods for our motors, the dozens of inoculations, our bodies fighting to become immune, box after box, skip runs, giveaways, eBay, our 8×20 ft container unit filling up rapidly… 

So why do this? Make ourselves homeless and unemployed?

I watch the dust. Moments pass and Wiggy returns with some kendal mint cake. I appreciate the way the white cubes crumble in my mouth, how my saliva dissolves the life-giving sugar. My blood sugar rises, reason returns, so does strength and rational.

This is a round-the-world trip, overland by motorcycle for a type 1 diabetic and a man with nerve damage and a twisted spine. 

A little bit of chaos and a whole lot of change. A final push and we’ll be on the road, setting off on a voyage to change the way we live our lives. There are many complications and restrictions that come with our chronic disabilities. Our planned trip has been viewed with sensible scepticism. 

But who ever said they wished they’d travelled less while lying on their deathbed?