I have, of late, found myself searching for words. Living alone, in this emoji-ridden world, I feel my vocabulary diminishing. But every now and then, my neglected brain throws up a beautiful word, often from my childhood, that gives me pleasure. For instance, just when I think the human animal has sunk to depths of behaviour that give us no right to survive, I find myself clinging to the promise of that old fashioned word—valour.
I began thinking about valour recently when I attended a fundraising celebration held by a brain tumour treatment charity, which was set up by my daughter and other people whose lives have been blighted by this under-researched affliction. The ballroom was full of people int heir Sunday best, having fun. Many of the attendees had turned the unendurable tragedy of losing a loved one—in many cases a child—into a life dedicated to preventing others from suffering the same pain. One young woman told us how she had gone through gruelling treatment so that this evil illness would not take her away from her one-year-old child. I rejoiced that she had survived. It was only at the end of her speech that she revealed, in passing, that she had learned the previous week that the cancer had returned, and this time the doctors had run out of weapons. The word “valiant” was perfect to describe her flippant dismissal of this information, in her eagerness to see the fight continue. Valour implies strength ,dignity and determination.
Two other valorous people have moved and inspired me in the past few weeks.
The first is a vigorous man of 92. A few weeks ago he tripped and fell, shattering bones in his hip and leg. In one minute his life had changed from that of a walker and thinker bursting with energetic life to one of a chronic invalid. Many people in his situation would give up. But not him. He has defied all suggestion that he will not walk again, and is already flying round his convalescent home on crutches. With the help of fierce physiotherapy, administered daily, he can even teeter around his room without them. He is thrilled with a complicated contraption that he uses to put on his compression socks without help. His only concession to the 50 steps he has to climb to get into his flat is a rail he has installed to haul himself up.
Next week he is leaving the nursing home: “I am getting institutionalised,” he says. I would like to form a guard of hon-our and blow a bugle fanfare as he leaves, to celebrate his dogged valour. He will not be defeated.
My introduction to the second valorous individual has an element of the slapstick about it. I was at a Christmas party given by the king and queen when I inappropriately got into a furious political argument with someone important.T rying to keep the peace was a good-looking gentleman who stayed with me when my angry antagonist stalked off. Then, to my horror, I could see that Justin Welby, the recently resigned archbishop of Canterbury—who the day before had made an unforgivably light-hearted speech in the House of Commons about his crass inadequacy in dealing with abuse in the Church—was about to approach me.Fearful of irretrievably blotting my royal copy book with a second confrontation,I made my poor new friend block the way between me and the holy man. This he did superbly, and we agreed to continue our conversation at lunch another day.
Thus started a dramatic series of events that led me on a painful journey, in which I witnessed extraordinary endurance and love. My lunch partner, whom I scarcely knew, had a catastrophic heart failure in the restaurant, and I ended up accompanying him to hospital in an ambulance. I suddenly found myself responsible for assuaging his appalling pain and getting him the right medical care. Again, in one moment, a life of enjoyable productivity was taken away and replaced with induced comas, massive operations and a long and painful struggle to return to something like normality. With the help of his saintly daughter—whose incredible cooking prevented him dying from the inedible hospital food—and a keen sense of humour—“I’ve been on better lunch dates”—he has come through this nightmare with extraordinary resilience and, my goodness, valour
I only hope that, in my old age, I can find it in me to do as my two friends have managed: to cherish the other derivatives of the Latin verb valere—the validity, the value of what is left—and to face the fears of what is to come with their exemplary valour.
