M y brother was a sculptor. A vibrant, formidable force. Physically strong and intellectually clear-minded, with a wonderful capacity to express his love of art.
The autumn before he was diagnosed with motor neurone disease, my wife noticed he looked a bit frail. He had trouble swallowing his food. He had just completed a sculpture of Coleridge for a churchyard in Devon and was otherwise fit and well.
But then he fell over, on to a child while in London. Nick had been mortified, so he visited the GP. In February 2023 I received the call: “Joth, I’ve got some bad news.
” The diagnosis came brutally. It horrified Nick to adjust to a life in which he would not be able to use his hands or voice. “I’m not going to allow myself to be a trussed-up chicken carcass,” he said.
“I’m going to bring an end to it before that.” The process of deterioration was sharp. This once active man was needing help to get out of a wheelchair.
He could still use his hands but the disease went to his throat and he became almost impossible to understand. Then he lost control of his bodily functions. Suddenly he was impotent; vegetablised physically.
He had distressing choking fits that became more intense, even if doses of morphine helped him to relax. While he indicated he wanted to die, he so loved being where he was; he didn’t want to leave us all. In February this year, in the early hours of the morning, the carer got the family together to say goodbye before he died.
We held a mem.
