A Perspective

FOR LIFE

BY KAIN RAMSAY
 The Marie
Perspective
Money comes, money goes, things come, things go,
but once people go, they don't come back.
I guess that the one commonality we share is that as
soon as we’re born, we all start this journey called life,
which at some point will end.
For some people, life will stop suddenly, unexpectedly
or after years of declining ill health, but the end will
come, and like our birth, we don’t have a say in the
matter. We can ignore this fact or laugh at it, but
regardless, we cannot change its inevitability.
An unknown poet from the early 20th century once
wrote: 'Life comes to us in the same way as does
death, and when death comes, he takes us all as
equals.'
I appreciate how this seem a sobering thought.
However, it’s not my intention here to depress you
because what I’d like to focus on throughout this story
is the middle part, which incidentally, is where our life
happens.
The years between where we start and end is the
dash that's found on people's tombstones. Eg; John
Smith, 1933-97. For some people, their dash will be
brief, but for most of us, this dash can last for
anything up to 70, 80 or even 90 years. Not all
people appreciate this dash.
I once loved a girl who enjoyed her dash, more than
anyone I had previously met. I’d like to tell you a
story about Marie.
From 2006-2009, I lived and worked in both
Australia and New Zealand. Within weeks of
returning home to Scotland, I first met Marie at a
local restaurant after exchanging pleasantries for a
few weeks via an online dating website.
I was never one for virtual dating. The social stigma
that came attached to it throughout my time served
in the military was more than enough to scare
anyone off, from online dating for life.
Although I was born in Scotland, I was made in the
Army and having spent over 13 years travelling the
world both as part of the Army and also on my own,
I had no-one to call a friend in my nation of birth.
Upon initially meeting Marie; I failed to consider her,
her experience of life, her interests, successes, hurts
and challenges. I was more vested in my own
interests at the time. I selfishly just wanted someone
who would 'make' me feel less lonely.
I wasn't aware of Marie's backstory. I didn't know
that she had a terminal illness that was killing her. I
didn't know how she's suffered a lifetime with cystic
fibrosis. I didn't know how little time she had left to
live.
I’ve historically had a reputation for talking, but after
five to ten minutes of me thoroughly dominating the
conversation between us, I noticed how Marie still
hadn't her breath back from just walking in the door.
As this was our first date, I was nervous about
whether I would qualify for a second, which
provoked my tongue to talk more than I was willing
to listen.
When I eventually stopped myself from warbling on,
I asking her about the story of her life (as I'd just fully
disclosed mine), where she began to share with me
the journey she’d been on with cystic fibrosis. As I
found out, this had been quite an arduous one.
I quickly grew in awareness of the daily struggles
that she had, although I still wasn’t quite sure what
cystic fibrosis was (or even what this meant for her
future). I discovered that Cystic Fibrosis is an
inherited lifelong condition that mainly affects the
lungs and pancreas.
It's terminal, deadly, and limited her capacity to do
the everyday things which most people take for
granted; walks in the park, work, socialising,
relationships, being loved.
Marie’s had spent years with a persistent cough,
wheezing, constant chest infections and poor general
health. She explained how three years earlier she’d
been fortunate enough to have received a lung
transplant from a recently deceased organ donor.
Unfortunately, her new lungs failed her also.
She felt such discomfort from the inside out, knowing
that she had part of someone else's dead body inside
of her. I wasn't able to relate.
Other than offering Marie a constant flow of pain-
relieving medication there was nothing the doctors do
for my friend. I began to realise that Marie's life
expectancy was limited.
Until this point of my life, I had never met anyone
who valued life more than what Marie did. All that
she wanted to do was live.
She shared with me how upon visiting her specialists,
they would tell her to "stay in the house", "don't take
any risks", "don't push yourself and just take it easy."
The biggest problem that Marie had with all of this
professional advice was that she wanted to spend the
remainder of her days living, not dying.
She didn’t want to be stuck in her house, being
scared while 'waiting to die'. Marie wanted to
experience as much of life as possible. I could relate to
this, and that moment, I decided I wanted to help her.
A week before Christmas, 2009, having learned of
Marie’s passion for showbiz and theatre, I took her on
an outing to Dunfermline's local Christmas
pantomime, Snow White. Marie had difficulty
walking, so I pushed her around in a wheelchair (that
she despised).
On the night of the pantomime, within minutes of its
commencement, I was already bored witless. Marie
wasn't, she loved it and watched in eager anticipation
of whatever was coming next.
We sat there for over two hours; I ate a lot of
chocolate, a full tube of pringles, and Marie took sips
from her bottle of water with a huge smile plastered
all over her face.
Upon the show’s close, I stood up, fumbled around in
the darkness to find our coats, when a noticed a tear
rolling down Marie's cheek. She told me that she
hadn't expected ever to see a pantomime again. She
thanked me profusely.
To me, this outing had seemed so insignificant, which
turned out to more significant to Marie than I ever
could have imagined. This night sparked the
beginning of our adventure together, and the start of
a remarkable friendship.
Having spent most of my adult life behaving
childishly, immaturely, selfishly and stubbornly, I had
never considered how much the smallest of giving
gestures might impact another human being. My
eyes had been opened to the truth that I wasn't the
centre of the universe.
Marie and her family asked me to spend Christmas
day with them that year; she bought me my 'first
ever' snowman jumper, and I was unconditionally
accepted into her family.
On Hogmanay (New Year's Eve), we drove to
Broughty Ferry, a small coastal town on the East
Coast of Scotland, where we ate fish 'n' chips and
drank Irn-Bru, before watching the midnight
fireworks from the comfort of inside the car.
As 2010 begun, we started spending more time
together. We quickly became great friends, and also
grew to love each other.
Marie found it difficult to walk long distances, so
anytime we went out, I would push her in her
wheelchair, sometimes around our local shopping
centre or even on visits to restaurants, the seaside or
the cinema.
She hated her wheelchair and often got frustrated
with her physical limitations, but she always remained
quirky, as she knew this was the only way that we
could get around together.
Marie told me a story, about how two years before
we met, her health had taken a turn for the worse,
and the doctors had told her that she might only
have weeks left to live.
Out of the blue, in what her Mum believed to be a
miracle, Marie was offered a double lung transplant
which she didn't even think twice about receiving.
Although the operation had initially been a great
success, within the year that followed, Marie’s body
rejected these new lungs, and her health began
declining rapidly once again.
Despite wanting to do all the things that other girls
her age do, her body was in a war against her spirit.
In Marie's younger years, she’d won awards for
dancing, and she’d compare how she was back then,
to her present physical condition. As she compared
her ambitions to her limitations, she couldn't help but
be saddened.
A spring day in early 2010, I took Marie to Pittencrief
Park, a local park near to where we lived. As I
pushed her around the park in her wheelchair, she
noticed numerous other couples freely walking around
and 'doing the usual kind of things' that most couples
do.
Marie commented how if she had only one wish, she
would wish for the ability to walk around the park
like what 'ordinary people' do. I felt some self-pity
beginning to creep it's way in.
I immediately suggested that she get up from her
wheelchair and attempt to walk. I told her that I
wouldn't leave her side and that I'd have the
wheelchair right behind her in case she wasn't able to
do it and needed to sit back down.
Upon suggesting she do this, I was faced with her
immediate panic, doubts, insecurities and fears. But
she wanted to try at least!
Eventually, after about 10 to 15 minutes of
procrastination and concern, she got up, she stood up,
gained her focus, put one foot in front of the other,
and done what she wanted to do. She walked.
We only walked about 100yds before she signalled to
me that she was struggling. I immediately moved the
wheelchair behind her; she sat down, I covered her
with a blanket and wheeled her to the local Starbucks
for a marshmallow hot chocolate reward.
Marie soon realised that she had done what the
doctors had told her not to do. She also understood
that this effort hadn't killed her. Yes, she was
physically exhausted from our walk in the park, but
she didn't seem to care, for the first time in years
Marie felt fully alive.
From this short journey, our other adventures began.
Within weeks, Marie had even built up the
confidence to start leaving her wheelchair at home.
What I found most inspiring was that Marie wasn't
taking these risks for the purpose of pleasing me, she
took these risks to discover for herself what she was
capable of.
In the months that followed, there were days we
went to the shopping mall, where we’d walk from
shop to shop. Marie would often walk into a store,
clinging onto clothes rails until she got her breath back
(while pretending to look at clothes), and as soon as
she was ready to move on again, we’d venture
towards the next shop.
Each of our outings would end with a visit to
Starbucks where we'd review the progress that we'd
made and make plans for what we were going to
attempt next. As the weeks went on, Marie became
stronger and stronger, and her confidence continued
to evolve.
I’d never felt this way about another human being
before. Marie inspired me, she appreciated me and
showed a degree of strength of character that I'd
never previously found in any other.
As I considered my past relationships, I could
recognise how much of a self-consumed arsehole I'd
been. I had never put anyone else first.
The only people whom I'd ever committed to were
those whom I believed I could selfishly benefit from in
some way. For the first time in my life, I had met
someone who I genuinely loved, who I cared for and
who I honestly wanted to compliment.
Through our future outings, we build up momentum,
which led to further trips to the cinema amongst other
places, without the use of her wheelchair.
We even travelled around Scotland, going to Church
healing meetings, various Reiki events or anything
that offered Marie hope that she may be able to
lengthen her life.
As Autumn time came later that year, so did a series
of chest infections that landed Marie in a hospital for
almost a month. She saw this as a huge setback,
removing from all the progress that we'd made in the
first half of the year.
Upon getting out of the hospital, Marie got involved
with a local crafts group where she began creating
gift cards and artwork for other cystic fibrosis
sufferers. Her confidence had taken a hit, and her self-
esteem had plummetted.
One afternoon in late summer 2010, when Marie’s
breathing was relatively stable, I suggested that we
get out of her house, and go for a drive to the coast.
So we drove down to the promenade in Kirkcaldy, a
place where she had spent much time as a child, and
I suggested that we go for a short walk - just to 'test
the water'.
To set things straight here, Marie's doctors and
specialists had warned her that all physical exercise
was out of the question and that she shouldn't even
leave the restraints of her house. While the
professionals were motivated by playing it safe and
covering their backs, Marie still wanted to live, and all
I wanted to do was help her.
To cut the story short, we went for a drive to the
beach that day, and Marie ended up walking over a
mile in a pair of ridiculously high heeled boots.
Although I did hold her hand, I didn't carry her, I
didn't provoke her, and I didn't make her do anything
that she didn't fundamentally already want to do.
We eventually made it back to the car. Despite her
doctors and nurses saying that walking distance like
this was impossible for her, Marie walked just over a
mile, without her wheelchair, because she wanted to.
Upon getting her home this day, Marie was out of
breath, in the same way as she would have been if
only having walked ten or twenty yds.
Over the next hour or so once she’d calmed herself
down and got her breathing back to normal, Marie
realised the extent of what she’d just accomplished.
The impossible. A dying girl with cystic fibrosis, whose
lungs were failing, walked the length of a Scotland
beach on her own.
Over the months that followed, my perspective and
priorities changed. We started to see each other less
as I began a new job in car sales and allowing the job
to consume my life entirely. My efforts became
focussed on making money, buying a house, getting a
new car and establishing myself financially (after
recovering from bankruptcy & homelessness)
The time that I gave to this new sales role came at
the cost of the time that I had previously spent with
Marie. Where I had previously seen Marie 2 or 3
times each week, I was now unable to do this due to
working long demanding hours, to meet my targets
and make a wealthy car dealership owner richer.
From September through to December 2010, I only
saw Marie a handful of times each month. My
excuse was that the end justified the means of my
actions. I assumed that if I was to just 'work harder' in
the short-term, we could both benefit in the long-term.
Financially that is.
Two weeks before Christmas 2010, I stopped in to
visit more after finishing work late one evening. We
discussed Christmas day, and Marie asked if I would
like to join her and her family once again. It goes
without saying that I accepted her offer.
Due to the nature of the car industry, December and
January are historically busy months, so I wasn't to
have time off during this period, and if I wanted to
take holidays, I would need to wait until February
time. As I wanted to keep my job, I succumbed to
these conditions.
One morning in mid-December 2010, I was working
up in Perth, doing a double-car deal (a double
commission sale), when I received a phone call from
Marie’s dad. He asked if I could make my way to
their house with urgency.
On checking my iPhone, I noticed 23 missed calls from
Marie, and a text message that read, 'Kain, please
come, I want to live.'
My heart sank. I got in my car and broke all legal
speed limits driving from Perth to Kirkcaldy where
Marie lived. I knew in my heart that something was
wrong and could barely see the road through my
tears and the glares of the winter sun on the car
windscreen.
As I arrived at Marie house, her family was all there,
red-eyed and subdued, with the doctor and the local
pastor just about to leave the vicinity. I was confused.
It was just over a week ago that I'd seen Marie, and
everything seemed fine. Today, though, something
was very much out of place.
As I walked into the house, I passed by the doctor
and Marie called out to me with what seemed to be
the very last of her energy; she called out a big,
'Heeeeyyyyyyaaaaaa Mr R.'
Marie had taken a steep downward spiral, and within
moments, I realised that my friend, who I was now
barely even able to recognise, was getting ready to
leave me. Marie's life was coming to an end.
For the eight hours that followed, I sat with Marie
asleep in my arms, with her family. We watched on
as she drifted in and out of consciousness, refusing to
take any painkillers as she didn’t want to feel sedated
in the final hours of her life. She wanted to live.
The minutes that passed felt like hours until early
evening, when Marie wrestled with her last breath,
spoke out her final words, looked me in the eye,
smiled at her Mum, Dad and Sister, then let her spirit
go.
Marie’s life ended in my arms in the company of the
people that she loved and cared about the most. I
was lost for words, heartbroken and emotionally
crushed.
I was sickened with myself. Disgusted even. I had
spent the last few months of Marie’s life selfishly
sacrificing our friendship for selling cars and making
money for myself and a money-grabbing car dealer. I
had misplaced my priorities and made the greatest
miscalculation of my life.
With the long hours I had worked and the money I
had saved, I'd just lost the only person who I wanted
to spend my money on. I had been blinded by money
and had just made the worst judgement call that a
human being can make.
Even until Marie's dying hours, I loved someone who
loved me back unconditionally. Regardless of my
selfish misplaced priorities, Marie refused to think any
less of me; she valued every minute that I spent with
her. Where I had selfishly come to value money,
Marie, more than anything else, appreciated only
time.
For the last three months of my best friends life, I
prioritised making money for myself, over spending
time with my dying friend. Even though I had been
completely inconsistent for her, her love for me didn’t
falter for a moment.
When Marie died in my arms, in December 2010, my
perspective on life changed forever. The materialistic
things of the world that I had once placed so much
value upon, no longer maintained the depths of
significance that I previously put upon them.
This was the first time in my life that I fully
understood the value of life and the joy that can be
found in love based relationships.
I spent Christmas day 2010 on my own; I got drunk
and wallowed in what I had lost. I chose that day
never again to put making money as a greater
priority over spending time with people I love.
Since Marie's death, I've grown to recognise how
most people don't allow themselves the chance to step
out of their daily routine for long enough to reflect on
the life journey they’re taking. Most people refuse to
consider what's most important in life. I did, and I
learned this lesson the hard way.
I’d spent years asking the big questions such as:
'what’s the purpose of life?' and 'how do we go about
fulfilling this purpose?', but it wasn’t until Marie’s
death that I began to realise these answers.
I believe that no matter where you’re at, who you are
or what road you’ve been travelling on in life so far,
absolutely everything can be different, and you’re only
going to get one shot at this journey so why not make
the most of it. Don't put money nor stuff before
people.
Money comes, money goes. Stuff comes, stuff goes.
Careers come, careers go. Most people spend the best
hours of their lives pursuing these meaningless things.
Once people go, they stay gone, so appreciate who
you have for however long you have them. I didn't,
and will forever carry this regret.

I made a mistake; I spent the final months of Marie’s

life pursuing money, and when she died, I was
crushed. I loved her. I still miss her.

What crushed me more than losing someone I loved

was the guilt and shame that accompanied the
knowing that I spent the last three months of Marie's
life pursuing something that bore so much of a lesser
value than the short amount of time we had left.

On that day, the 21st December 2010, before Marie

died in my arms, she appreciated life more than all
other things. On that day in December 2010 when
Marie died in my arms, I lost what I unknowingly
valued the most. Someone who unconditionally loved
me.

Life is a gift and the time we're each given is also a

gift.

Make the most of the time that you have.

You'll never know when your dash is up.