Switch on, switch off

Possibly shouldn't be writing when something is so fresh, but within the last thirty seconds I finished watching a one-off BBC documentary, Between Life and Death, which was originally screened a few weeks ago. As the title suggests, the producers of Harry Hill's TV Burp don't need to be overly concerned about losing viewers - this was an hour-long film following three families as they dealt with their critically-ill loved ones, deciding whether or not to switch off the ventilator.

It was a fantastic programme, sensitively filmed, giving detailed yet somehow unobtrusive insights into terribly difficult conversations and heartbreaking decisions. The families were all admirably candid - brave, emotional and pragmatic. And, in under sixty minutes, my attitude to artificial respiration - whether or not I'd like to be kept alive while, for example, completely paralysed - changed utterly. It wasn't a 180 degree turn from one certainty to another: previously, I'd been firmly in the DNR camp and I am not now totally against it. But, having seen the happiness in one man's eyes as he watched his daughters, despite his total inability to move or speak, despite his complete conviction, pre-accident, that he would never want to be kept alive in such a state - well, it made me realise that, until it happens, you don't know. So I've gone from total certainty to total uncertainty. As far as impact goes, that's a pretty massive shift for one clear-thinker to make in a short space of time.

My friend, Marina, was heavily involved in the making of the programme, and thus in my volte-face. She spent weeks and weeks at a hospital specialising in neurology near Cambridge, meeting and interviewing many of the film's participants. Weekends, late nights, you name it, she was there. Through my near-constant tears, I was bursting with pride that she was involved in such an exceptional piece of television - her career is not the best-paid, it is unstable, unpredictable, insecure and frequently requires a time commitment that I would consider in breach of my human rights. But after months of effort, she is a key part of producing something that is profoundly important and influential. I am weakly envious - weakly, as I know I couldn't stick at what she does, envious because I see the satisfaction she gets from her work.

But then, I suppose one could - if one were supremely over-confident - one could argue that, on a smaller scale obviously, but maybe this blog is valuable too - at least, to my parents. It certainly gives me a pathetic amount of satisfaction and I'd feel bereft if it were taken from me. I get to mouth off about pretty much anything that tickles my fancy, I'm told that I make people laugh every now and then - and actually, hang on - I also have a reasonably well-paid job that allows me to surf the internet pretty much without cessation. Hmmm. Suddenly my set-up seems like quite a winning combination. Well whaddyaknow? Envy has gone. Pride remains. Everyone's a winner, baby. Well done, Marina. High five.