Exchanging a walk on part in the war for the lead role in a cage

Whilst I am desperately missing my family, I am also desperately missing my work.

Practising as a litigation lawyer is our version of macho. It's intense, combative and tactical. Your opposing lawyers are very much your opponents and each side strives to outwit, outmanoeuvre and outlast the other. Alliances are formed and broken. Compliant witnesses turn hostile. The rules of the game change as new laws are made and new precedents are set. Hearings are listed before good judges and bad judges. The enemy briefs good barristers and sometimes bad barristers. Important victories are won and lost over pleadings and disclosure of documents. Temporary injunctions are sought and either obtained or repelled. Clients run out of stamina and money. It's heady stuff. Litigation is war. It's both demanding and exhilarating.

Adding an insolvency angle to my practice creates a challenging new dimension to the dynamic. For each new file there will be, generally speaking, a new problem containing a limited amount of wealth and numerous competing stakeholders all of whom want to maximise their share of it. There are secured creditors and unsecured creditors. Receivers and liquidators. Landlords, suppliers and employees. On every given matter, I will be asked to act for one of these players with the role of advising how to advance his, her or its interests in the game.

Like most litigators, I have always worked long and hard. I have never had time for hobbies or sport. Spending time with family and spending time at work will completely consume the waking hours. There is little time for much else.

I've played the game for a while now, and like most things you enjoy it more once you know what you are doing. Golf is more fun when you shoot in the low eighties, rather than trying to scrape below a hundred.

I  have never regretted my chosen career. The majority of my friends are lawyers, many of them litigators. It plays a large part in defining who I am. It earns me a decent living and enables my family to live in a nice home in a nice suburb. I drive a nice car, as does my wife, and my daughter attends a nice school. My son attends a very nice autism centre and is making more than nice progress. We holiday in nice places, eat nice food in nice restaurants and drink nice wine.

We are never going to be fabulously wealthy and our money is earned through working hard and smart. Yet we will never be destitute and our children will never be denied opportunities. Every year I pay enough tax to support a largish mini-bus load of pensioners. We donate to charities.

All in all, I have led a good, busy and productive life, centred around family and work, as an independent and intelligent man.

My world was completely demolished the day I was admitted to hospital. For over seven months now, I have been institutionalised. There is no privacy, no independence and no dignity. The day revolves around medication, dressings, consultations with doctors, observations, scans and physiotherapy. I eat slop brought around on a trolley. I have long stretches of leisure time. I have no staff to manage and no clients to advise. I inhabit a small room where life is centred on a bed. I call for assistance with basic tasks. It is a major expedition to mobilise anywhere.

Somehow, I have kept patient and sane. This is, I believe, because I have always maintained a tenuous grip on the old world. I see my wife every day and we try to have lunch together every day. I see my children at home every weekend. I maintain contact with work to provide advice and assistance. I interact with friends and extended family. I read online newspapers every day and watch documentaries and current affairs programs.

In the movies, prisoners say that you only serve two days of your sentence - the day you go in and the day you get out. This is a romantic notion, but not an accurate one. I have felt every one of 170 odd conscious days of my confinement. Periodically throughout each day I have counted the remaining hours until I hope to fall asleep.

My days in hospital will come to an end, but there is no way of knowing when. That is frustrating. It precludes any planning. The return to the world remains a vague and nebulous concept.

In the interim, I must simply channel my inner Rick Parfitt and maintain the Status Quo. Each day endured is a day closer to transplant and a day closer to discharge.



Until next time,