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| Hanif Kureshi: ‘I began to feel I was both a helpless baby and a terrible tyrant.’ Photograph: Spencer Murphy/The Guardian. Grooming: Victoria Poland |
Hanif Kureishi on his accident: ‘I believed I was dying, that I had three breaths left. It seemed like a miserable and ignoble way to go’
An exclusive extract from the writer’s new memoir
By Hanif Kureshi
Saturday 12 October 2024
On Boxing Day, in Rome, after taking a walk to the Piazza del Popolo, followed by a stroll through the Villa Borghese, then back to the apartment, I had a fall.
Sitting at a table in Isabella’s living room with my iPad in front of me, I had just seen Mo Salah score against Aston Villa. I was sipping a beer when I began to feel dizzy. I leant forward and put my head between my legs; I woke up a few minutes later in a pool of blood, my neck in a grotesquely twisted position, Isabella on her knees beside me
I then experienced what can only be described as a scooped, semicircular object with talons scuttling towards me. Using what was left of my reason, I saw this was one of my hands, an uncanny thing over which I had no agency.
It occurred to me that there was no coordination between my mind and what remained of my body. I had become divorced from myself. I believed I was dying, that I had three breaths left. It seemed like a miserable and ignoble way to go.
People say when you’re about to die your life passes before your eyes, but for me it wasn’t the past but the future that I thought about – everything I was being robbed of, all the things I wanted to do.
Gemelli hospital, Rome
06/01/2023
Isabella and I live in London but we were staying in her apartment in Rome for Christmas, and it was there that I had my fall, sitting at the large round table, covered in books and papers, where she and I work together in the mornings.
From the bathroom, she heard my frantic shout, came in and called an ambulance. She saved my life and kept me calm, crouching down beside me. I told her I wanted to FaceTime my three sons and say goodbye, but Isabella said it wasn’t a good idea, it would frighten and appal them.
For a few days I was profoundly traumatised, altered and unrecognisable to myself.
Now I am in the Gemelli hospital, Rome. I cannot move my arms and legs. I cannot scratch my nose, make a phone call or feed myself. As you can imagine, this is both humiliating and degrading, making me a burden for others. According to my hospital report, my fall resulted in neck hyperextension and immediate tetraplegia. An MRI scan showed a severe stenosis of the vertebral canal with signs of spinal cord injury from C3 to C5. In layman’s terms, the vertebrae at the top of my spine suffered a kind of whiplash. I’ve had an operation on my neck to relieve compression on my spine where the injury is, and have shown minor motor improvements.
I have sensation and some movement in all my limbs, I did not have what they call a “complete break”. I will begin physio and rehabilitation as soon as possible.
At the moment, it is unclear whether I will be able to walk again, or if I’ll ever be able to hold a pen. I am speaking these words through Isabella, who is slowly typing them into her iPad. I am determined to keep writing, it has never mattered to me more.
07/01/2023
I wasn’t a happy child but I wasn’t an unhappy one either. Once I could read I was free. I could go to libraries every day, often accompanied by my mother, and I saw that books were a way out of my immediate surroundings.
Soon I learned to cycle. Alone, I could explore the streets and fields of the countrified semi-suburbs in which I grew up. It was a county called Kent, which had been bombed to hell not long before I was born.
In those days parents were less police-like. They gave you a penny at the beginning of the day and didn’t expect to see you until the evening. I cycled all day, stopped where I wanted and talked to anyone who had a story for me. I am still like that.
The third element in my liberation was the discovery of my father’s typing manual. My father himself had been a journalist and was writing fiction. His vigorous typing in his sexy shirtsleeves seemed impressive.
One day he bought a little portable typewriter in a blue case of which he was incredibly proud. I started to blindfold myself with my school tie and found I could type the correct words in order without looking. It was exhilarating.
I had been reading Crime and Punishment at the time, always a cheery go-to book for a young man, and as practice I began to copy out pages from this great novel.
At school I had been a disaster, but at last I had found something I could do. I never had the desire to write underwater stories, adventure stories or amazing tales involving giants, dwarfs, elves or mermaids.
I didn’t know much about those things, but I did know the people around me. And I guess that made me into something of a realist. One day, looking out of the window at school, I called myself a writer.
I found the title suited me like a good shirt. I was keen for others to apply the word to me even though I hadn’t yet written anything.
After all, at school many words had already been applied to me, words like “Brownie”, or “Paki”, or “Shit-face”, so I found my own word, I stuck to it, and never let it go. It is still my word.
Excuse me for a moment, I must have an enema now.
The last time a medical digit entered my backside was a few years ago. As the nurse flipped me over she asked, “How long did it take you to write Midnight’s Children ?” I replied, “If I had indeed written that, don’t you think I would have gone private?”
08/01/2023
My hands continue to feel like alien objects. They’re swollen, I cannot open or close them, and when they are under the sheets, I could not tell you where they are precisely. They may in fact be in another building altogether, having a drink with friends.
I have been moved from the ICU to a small grim side room. There is a picture of the Virgin Mary ahead of me, and the view outside the window, which I cannot see myself, is of a car park, motorway, and Roman pine trees, which look like parasols. I tell Isabella the place hasn’t been decorated since Hemingway left.
I was low yesterday. Trying to dictate these words to Isabella, I became impatient with the slowness of the process. She is Italian and English is her second language, so she doesn’t always get what I say. Carlo Kureishi, one of my twin sons, has now flown out to Italy, and is helping me with this dictation. He is in his late 20s and, like me, read philosophy at university. He enjoys movies and sport and is starting to make his way as a screenwriter. What I like about him is that he can type quickly. Normally, of course, I can write this stuff up myself. I can even spell.
Isabella and I have started to argue. She is in the hospital with me all day, and is looking tired and thin, as she would in the circumstance of this terrible strain. When she turned to me and asked, “Would you have ever done this for me?” I couldn’t answer. I don’t know.
Our relationship has taken a new turn, not one we could have anticipated, and we will have to find a new way of loving each other. At the moment, I have no idea how to do this.
In this somewhat desolate Roman hospital, in a suburb of Rome, I am writing these words to try to reach someone, and I am, at the same time, attempting to connect with Isabella, to make a new relationship out of an old one. You’d think I’d have enough on my plate.
I feel crumpled and uneven. I slump. I used to choose my shirts carefully, in colours I thought suited me. I moved lightly as I swung around my city. Now I can’t even do up my own buttons.
I feel crumpled and uneven. I slump. I used to choose my shirts carefully, in colours I thought suited me. I moved lightly as I swung around my city. Now I can’t even do up my own buttons.
Having not left this room for nine days I seem to be adjusting to my condition, unfortunately.
At six thirty in the morning, to the sound of crashing buckets and loud voices, the nurses came to wash and change me. They lift you up in a blanket, roll you around and scrub you. They wash your genitals and your arse, often while singing jolly Italian songs.
One of the male nurses is particularly fond of Bruce Springsteen and likes to sing along to Dancing in the Dark. I don’t mind so much, I enjoy the company.
Next up is breakfast, a bowl of dirty cold tea in which a sugary biscuit is dumped. They spoon it into my mouth.
It’s then my physios come. They are determined to get me upright. This involves strapping me into a blue sling with my feet on the floor and standing me up vertically. I have to say this is a horrible experience since I have not been upright for some time.
The world seems at the wrong angle, everything in the incorrect place and the colours flying around, unattached to specific objects, like hallucinations.
I couldn’t breathe and thought I might vomit. They laid me down again and said it would take some time to get used to standing up.
My next adventure involves being placed on a trolley and dragged on my back for miles around the hospital for various tests. I begin to figure out where I am from the position of the ceiling tiles.
Two weeks ago a bomb went off in my life which has also shattered the lives of those around me. My partner, my children, my friends. All my relationships are being renegotiated. It makes everybody a little crazy, it changes everything. There is guilt and rage, and people resent their dependence on one another.
Having not left this room for nine days I seem to be adjusting to my condition, unfortunately.
At six thirty in the morning, to the sound of crashing buckets and loud voices, the nurses came to wash and change me. They lift you up in a blanket, roll you around and scrub you. They wash your genitals and your arse, often while singing jolly Italian songs.
One of the male nurses is particularly fond of Bruce Springsteen and likes to sing along to Dancing in the Dark. I don’t mind so much, I enjoy the company.
Next up is breakfast, a bowl of dirty cold tea in which a sugary biscuit is dumped. They spoon it into my mouth.
It’s then my physios come. They are determined to get me upright. This involves strapping me into a blue sling with my feet on the floor and standing me up vertically. I have to say this is a horrible experience since I have not been upright for some time.
The world seems at the wrong angle, everything in the incorrect place and the colours flying around, unattached to specific objects, like hallucinations.
I couldn’t breathe and thought I might vomit. They laid me down again and said it would take some time to get used to standing up.
My next adventure involves being placed on a trolley and dragged on my back for miles around the hospital for various tests. I begin to figure out where I am from the position of the ceiling tiles.
Two weeks ago a bomb went off in my life which has also shattered the lives of those around me. My partner, my children, my friends. All my relationships are being renegotiated. It makes everybody a little crazy, it changes everything. There is guilt and rage, and people resent their dependence on one another.
My accident was a physical tragedy, but the emotional outcomes for all of us are going to be significant. I’m proud to be dependent on others who love me. And so far they appear to want to come to my aid. I’ve had lots of kind offers from friends and strangers suggesting expensive and useful things to help me continue writing. It should go without saying that I am profoundly moved and grateful.
I’d like to add that I really enjoy writing these dispatches from my bed. At least I haven’t lost the one thing that was most valuable to me, which is my ability to express myself.
Last night things got tense in this little room; Isabella was tired, if not exhausted, and there were some nasty conflicts between us. The issue of the cleaning of my teeth brought things to a head. Isabella is not a dentist. Using a toothbrush, some floss and a cocktail stick, she tried to clean my mouth as I was trying to dictate. I began to feel I was both a helpless baby and a terrible tyrant; to be in a position like this is to have to endure vulnerability and frustration.
13/01/2023
Last night, Isabella set up a film for me on my iPad before she left. I felt relaxed and was enjoying the movie when the cleaner came in, moved some things around and knocked the iPad on its back. She turned the light off and shut the door behind her.
I was in almost complete darkness. I could still hear the film, however, and tried to work out what was happening from the silhouettes flickering on the ceiling, like a shadow puppet show.
Sometime later I drifted into sleep and started to dream of my hands, which were tied together with a silver cord so I was unable to move them. For some reason I can’t explain, I also had a memory of being on the jury of the Cannes film festival in 2009 when Isabelle Huppert was the president.
We jury members, who included Asia Argento and Robin Wright, used to sneak into films early in the morning to avoid the red-carpet exhibition in the evening. It also meant we could leave early if the films were unpleasant, which they often were.
But one film in particular stayed with me. It was Lars von Trier’s Antichrist, images from which pursued me last night. The best film from that year was Jacques Audiard’s A Prophet, which surely deserved to win first prize.
I woke up and started to cry. When you cry you must wipe away your tears, which is something I’m unable to do. So my eyes filled with bitter salty water and I got into a panic and thought I might lose my eyesight along with everything else. Finally, a kind nurse came into my room and downed me with a good dose of Lorazepam, then she touched me on my cheek and said, “It’s not so bad, at least you’re not in a coma.”
In the morning, feeling rather peckish, I was encouraged by the pleasant breakfast smells wafting in from the corridor. I was delighted to see, for the first time, an array of hot Italian pastries and cheeses, and some freshly squeezed orange juice.
The nurses have to feed me. This particular one didn’t speak English and was apparently unaware of my requirements. The food sat there on my table temptingly for an hour before the nurse returned, shrugged, picked up the tray and asked, “You did not like?” before leaving with my breakfast.
Tomorrow I will be leaving here. This is my last day in this little room, my temporary prison. I will be moved to a much larger six-floor facility where they say I will receive high-quality physiotherapy. It feels as if my body is turning into marshmallow, that I am deliquescing. I will also be able to meet others whose bodies are busted in different ways.
A strange thing happened to me: I went to Rome with Isabella for a few days at Christmas and now I will never go home again. I have no home now, no centre. I am a stranger to myself. I don’t know who I am any more. Someone new is emerging.
It is time for my second enema now. I am looking forward to it.
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