It’s been brought to my attention that unlike other newspapers The Times maybe doesn’t give a couple of free articles pre the paywall popup. So here is the article I linked to above. Apologies to those who evidently found it very frustrating not to be able to read it:
Those who judge Caroline March have no right. She lost too much
The talented horse rider died by assisted suicide, two years after being paralysed. I empathised with every word she wrote about her decision
Melanie Reid - The Times
I had followed Caroline March on Facebook since her accident, one of thousands silently willing the former professional event rider on after her life-changing fall two years ago. There were low moments, when her yearning for what she had lost was evident, but this lovely, young, go-getting woman seemed to be rising out of the ashes and rebuilding.
In the first year she went through stages that I recognised well: denial of the reality of paralysis, then a stubborn quest to defeat it, and finally — I’m not going to use the word acceptance, nor the hateful, trite “coming to terms with” — she seemed to have reached a place where she could whizz around in a fabulous wheelchair and forge a career as a photographer.
When I chanced across her final message online on Monday, a few hours after it was posted, it devastated me. Her words were searing, beautifully written, brutal and utterly honest. Liberated by the decision she had made to end her life, she said it as bluntly as anyone who is paralysed has ever publicly done: hers was an unbearable existence. She had lost too much. I understood and empathised with every single word. Fourteen years ago, playing around at the grass roots of the same sport, I fell off my horse and broke my neck. I spent a year in hospital and live in a wheelchair as a tetraplegic.
It’s vital to understand, I think, where Caroline came from. People who keep horses, especially professionals, lead a driven, immersive life, one of permanent labour. They are physically tough, resourceful and can-do. They work ridiculously long, hard days, often wet and dirty, always on the go, slaves to their pampered animals. For many it is a kind of addiction: to the smell of horses, the feel of their coats, the thrill of riding, training, winning.
For me, Caroline’s key paragraph was where she expressed this. It made me break down because I identified with it. It bears repeating in full: “I’ve always believed that you can’t change … what makes you tick as an individual. I’m feral, a complete rogue, someone that thrives on spontaneity. I’m feminine, masculine, strong, sexy, intelligent, loving, loyal, needy, with a heart of gold all in one. Quite simply put, everything that defined me is physically not possible to do in a way that I enjoy. I hate asking for help, not because I can’t, but because I love doing things for myself and it destroys me watching people do my jobs. I’m possibly the most independent, strong-minded, stubborn c*** going. I’m manual labour, I produce horses, I drive wagons and help on the farm. I’m a dirty bitch and a complete whore for sexy underwear. I’m crisp cold mornings taking my dogs for a walk, I kill things for fun, stupid miles on my bike. My idea of a holiday is off-grid huts exploring inaccessible landscape. I don’t just like the countryside, I need it. I need risk, that dopamine hit and the threat of danger … adrenaline hits are my addiction.”
And therein lies her eulogy and our lament, those of us who carry on after injury. No one healthy can understand what paralysis takes away from you. They can try, but if you break your spine you pass through a door that few others enter. And it ain’t into the rose garden. Hers was a dreadful multiple bereavement — career, freedom, her dream of a band of happy children free-ranging the farm. She says she would have been a great mother, but on her terms, not those decreed by paralysis. So she was angry.
Those who rush to judge this 31-year-old when they have no right to — and sadly there are many of them, devoid of empathy or motivated by their position on the politics of assisted dying — should respect Caroline’s choice and stay silent. Only she knew. After I broke my neck I learnt very quickly that only those who inhabit the body know what it means to endure that body.
The choice of whether to go on or to give up is a basic human right. I find her decision heartbreaking — it lies like lead on me as I write this — but I admire and respect her. She has let no one down. There are very few of us with spinal cord injuries who have not toyed with the same solution. Those who choose to go on do so for the sake of others, or because we find an alternative purpose. That’s not to say we do not continue to suffer, physically and mentally. Disability is rubbish, no matter the modern gloss put on it. Believe me, the knowledge that there’s a way out, even if it means leaving the country to exercise it, makes life more bearable.
There will be some in the spinal community who wish Caroline had waited, because two years is nothing in the spinal scheme of things, and her life might have improved. But that’s only their perspective. Frankly it’s not anyone’s business. She had no interest in being called an inspiration for keeping going, an accolade the rest of us must queasily accept, again and again.
Caroline sounded a unique, fiery, free spirit. Highly intelligent, rational, mentally aware, she had before her accident shaken off the depression she’d suffered. She simply didn’t want to live a life based on sacrifices and suffering, faced with “the entire impossibility to do anything and everything I love”. Such is her right.
“Please respect my decision, this is my life and my choice. I am an incredible person,” she wrote. And so she was. I am glad she has found peace, and I wish the same for her family.
