A faux pas in Lourdes

One of the things that worries me now that my MS is out in the open is people pussy footing round me, afraid of saying something tactless or inappropriate, dropping bricks, making faux pas, watching what they say. I don't want that. I want jokes to be made, the piss to be taken. No egg shells. No offence intended, none taken. If I want to take the mickey out of the drab, naff image of disability and old age (cheap adverts for walk in showers, hideous shoes, bizarre folding chairs, unflattering garments) and drag glamour into it, then I will. In fact, I'm thinking of starting up my own group for the disabled to militate against regulated mealy mouthed political correctness. It could be Disabled Against Correctness. DAPs. Cripples Hating Interfering Politics. CHIPs.
When I was sixteen I went for the first time to Lourdes as a volunteer with a group of fellow Catholic school kids. It was a very hot July and I had a very small pink suitcase which got lost at the airport and wasn't returned until the day we left. I had nothing but the clothes I stood up in. No toothbrush, no tee shirt, no shampoo, no knickers. Zip.
And what do you think I said as I climbed grumpily onto the coach , which had been waiting for hours to take us in to Lourdes while I filled in forms? Bear in mind that we were a bunch of self satisfied private school kids but in the bus with us were a group of people suffering from various forms of disability and illness, from some adorable Maltese boys with Down's and other problems, arthritic old ladies, one woman terrifyingly close to death from cancer, and, yes, some younger malades in varying stages of MS.
Livid that I had no anti-perspirant, no hair brush, no spare lipstick, I stood at the front of the bus, and groaned loudly to my friend: 'God, I'm going to be crippled without my suitcase.'
And what do you think those sick people did. Purse their lips? Tick me off? Complain to some minorities board for compensation? No. They shook their heads in sympathy, those that could shake their heads. Murmured platitudes for my plight, those who could speak. And then laughed. All of them could laugh. We bumped through the mountain roads and into the strange holy, totally misunderstood world that is Lourdes, with its constant prayers and processions, its crocodiles of wheelchairs, its gharish shops selling illuminating, flashing Our Ladies, its limitless hope and inspiration, and its miraculous waters and this lovely collection of malades spent the journey offering me stubs of lipstick, spare toothpaste, moth-eaten flannels and a lot of useless advice.
My week in Lourdes humbled me in every way. We worked like dogs pushing wheelchairs, sitting up all night, learning how to change catheter bags, attending endless masses and dunking desperately sick adults and children in the holy waters. But we had a ball. We learned to appreciate how fortunate we were, able bodied, young, independent, free and so on, but far more signficantly how fantastic these sick people were, who loved every minute they spent with us, our youth, our liveliness. Our 'favourites' would wake up each morning and ask us all about our drunken antics in the 'Brancardiers' bar the night before (named after the braces that certain special helpers wear with special loops to hold stretchers), and told us that they there weren't hoping for a cure. Just for a week away from their lonely, limited lives at home and for some social and spiritual nourishment.
On a subsequent visit, we all witnessed our own minor miracle, when my sister, who had a weak leg not ironically from MS back then but from a hideous motor bike accident she'd suffered a few years previously, was struggling to push a wheelchair up a mountain road. The lady in the chair, who had been doubled up with arthritis, said calmly to my sister, 'Here, darling, you're exhausted. It's my turn. Let me get out and push you up this hill for a while. ' My sister was so tired she said,' Ta' and collapsed into the chair, let the lady push her for a while, and then couldn't undersand why, when they reached the inevitable bar where the others were gathered, everyone was staring, open mouthed. As far as I know that lady's health continued to improve and I hope 30 odd years later, that she's going strong...
There's no easy way to describe it without sounding corny, but spiritual is the word to use abuot Lourdes. Spiritual, and an absolute blast. We all went home changed, if not cured. Not only had I acquired three boyfriends but had learned all about hard work, hope, and holiness. I also learned just what MS looks like from the outside, in its varying stages including end stages. That's why I have no illusions about how things could be for me in the future.
Would I want to go back to Lourdes now? Well, I don't think I'd cut it as a helper, at least not for the heavy work. And to be honest, right now, I'm not prepared to think of myself as a malade. I'm not strong enough to make that shift from able bodied to not able bodied, and I am quite honestly shrinking away from joining the ranks of the desperately ill people in wheelchairs or voitures or even stretchers.
Incidentally one of the dear friends I made while working in Lourdes was John Monckton, who sadly made the papers a couple of years ago because he was the banker murdered in his front hall by two bastards who were not being supervised properly by the Probation Service. I'll never forget a tipsy discussion we were all having about various holy things, and I asked what was the odour of sanctity. 'Easy,' John said, with his shy, snuffling laugh, 'it's Chanel No. 5.'