I think I know a fair bit about coping with physical health problems. I was born with spina bifida and hydrocephalus, two nasty and related conditions which are less common than they used to be but which still mean paralysis and physical deformity for plenty of children born with them.
When I was born in the 1960s, they were often fatal and I count myself incredibly lucky that of all the children with spina bifida whom I knew when I was growing up, I was the only one to be able to walk unaided.
In my more morbid moments, then, I feel fortunate to be here at all, never mind to have reached an age when I am closer to retirement than university.
But once a month I’m reminded that my problems, which still raise their ugly heads and give me a nasty nip on occasions, are as nothing compared to those suffered by some.
Once a month, I am honoured to attend my local library’s Talking Book Group. Talking books, that is to say books read aloud and transferred on to CD, cassette, Kindle and an increasing variety of specialist machines, are not just for able-bodied people facing long train journeys or looking for something to listen to while our other half is engrossed in the soaps; no, they are an essential tool for those suffering from varying degrees of blindness and who wish to keep their brains as active as possible.
To say that some of the people I meet at this group are awe-inspiring is to do no justice to that word. There is the lady in her mid-80s who lost her sight over 30 years ago yet is determined to live life to its’ very fullest. She’s not too keen on ‘blood and guts’ murder stories but enjoys most other genres and will happily express the strongest of views during our monthly dissections of the books we’ve read since our last meeting.
Then, there’s the lady who has been suffering degenerative eye problems since her teens and now, as a grandmother, can see almost nothing other than shadows. Yet to hear this lady talk of her life is to realise that those of us who are relatively healthy should stand in awe of those who, every day, defy physical disability.
And there is the man who fights as hard as anyone against intransigent local authorities for the rights of the disabled. He loves ‘blood and guts’ novels and can listen to more of them in a month than most sighted people read in a year.
I joined this group several years ago, when I was working evening shifts and realised that there were only so many post-midnight radio phone-in programmes one could listen to on the journey home. I found that talking books kept the brain alive after a long shift and kept the mind alert for prowling police cars armed with breathalyser kits and mobile speed cameras.
There are others among our group who suffer from different forms of disability than blindness and to spend an hour once a month with them all is to be reminded of the indomitable nature of the human spirit.
Yet talking books are expensive, often costing up to £35 a copy; With local authority libraries always under pressure to cut costs, the range of books available is limited and becoming more so.
We aren’t yet at a point where Talking Book groups are being axed but local authorities across the country must surely have considered it. At a time when ‘proper’ literature seems to be fighting an ever-increasing battle to get noticed, surely we can’t allow that - especially when these groups are such a lifeline for people who desperately need them.
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