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    The Fight
    The Fight
    The Fight
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    The Fight

    By A H FITZSIMONS

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Having been ill for over two years with what he thought was colitis, Anton FitzSimons was admitted to hospital in February 2003. He was diagnosed with advanced lymphoma. Despite a series of operations his condition steadily deteriorated. In isolation in a high dependency unit, and armed with a basic understanding of the placebo effect, he strove to believe that he would recover. By August, he was less than half his normal bodyweight, had lost two major organs, had suffered a massive stroke, and was the subject of a 'do not resuscitate' order. With treatment for the lymphoma failing completely the former soldier switched tactics. As opposed to striving to believe in recovery, he strove to accept recovery as a certainty.

    Reviews:
    “Brave and inspiring… as a reader I was willing him to defy the odds.”
    Julia Combellack, Penny Brohn Cancer Care

    “A triumphant story of love, resilience and survival.”
    Catherine Deveney, Scottish Journalist of the Year

    “Extraordinary and uplifting.”
    Andrew Anderson, Maggie’s Centres

    “An inspirational account of ‘fighting spirit’.”
    Professor David Peters, Chair British Holistic Medical Association

    “A work that should be made available to all students in studies related to health promotion, public health, psychology and in medical schools as well.”
    Professor Theodore H MacDonald, Former Head of Postgraduate Studies in Health Brunel University
    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereBookPartnership.com
    Release dateSep 19, 2014
    ISBN9781783015269
    The Fight

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      Book preview

      The Fight - A H FITZSIMONS

      them.

      Part 1 - Searching

      I

      The hall felt cold, damp and unfriendly as the man walked in. He noticed it had that familiar smell of bruised leather and stale sweat. It also had a familiar sound, emanating from the twenty-five or so youths, teenage boys mostly, who were either working on the bags, skipping or bandaging their hands. If youthful testosterone had a sound, then this was it. Clipped grunts of aggression fused into the jarring of limbs as leather pounded leather, as boys raced to become men in a high-ceilinged hall devoid of the niceties of a traditional gym – devoid of women, colour co-ordinated clothing, changing rooms, drinks machines, paper towel dispensers, air conditioning, any form of heating appliance but, most noticeably, a hall devoid of mirrors – for the youths that went to train there were not interested in how they looked. Narcissus would not be found in these halls.

      The trainer was in his late forties, heavy set, his massive bare arms displaying tattoos including Para wings and his blood group. He looked curiously at the newcomer, sizing him up, knowing that at his weight sparring was going to be a problem. At this time the vast majority of boxing gyms in Scotland comprised of a selection of fighters weighing up to middleweight but not beyond and this gym was no exception.

      The two talked for a while, then the man took off his jacket and hit the ropes, and his rhythm. He’d come to this gym in search of heavier opponents; the fact that there were none didn’t mean he couldn’t learn here. After thirty minutes or so the trainer called him over to work on the heavy bag. As the man bandaged his hands he glanced around at the testosterone sound system. It had quietened somewhat; there was apparently a growing interest in how he would fare against the heavy bag – an interest he shared himself because that would depend upon just how heavy it was.

      He started up with a few simple combinations, loosening off his shoulders, getting the feel of the bag, how it reacted. The bag began to dance, swinging to and fro as he waltzed around it. He was the male, he led... the very thought of you... and in learning how it reacted he could continue to lead... I forget to do... and finish the dance with both of them in glorious, harmonious rhythm.

      The sweat was running down the back of his neck now... how slow... in between his shoulder blades... the moments go... cascading off soaked eyebrows... ‘till I’m near to you... As he glided around the bag, he was oblivious to everything except the bag and the song that only he could hear.

      The trainer knew he was holding back. There were a number of telltale signs: a lack of snap, hip movement, aggression. He knew he was holding back, he just didn’t know how much.

      ‘Last minute’ the trainer shouted...

      The noise that reverberated round the hall had never been heard there before. It was as if the bag itself had cried out in pain. The testosterone sound system blew a fuse and fell silent. Everyone looked over at the heavy bag that was shaking violently in some kind of unearthly spasm.

      The man ripped out a second ferocious right hook into the lower section of the bag followed by a further three lefts, his left hip snapping forward with each one. Sweat flowed freely down his contorted face and with each punch he grunted out through his nose and clenched teeth, his sweat spraying over the bag. It wasn’t pretty – gone were the polished combinations, the sharp footwork, now he just lumbered forwards and unleashed his power, his fury, and the bag continued its death throes...

      In Hemingway’s The Old Man and The Sea the old man looked back to when he was young to gain confidence in his fight against the great fish. The problem when I looked back wasn’t just that I knew I was exaggerating but that I was beginning to wonder if it had actually been me. It was a memory from another lifetime.

      After all, I thought, as I looked at my stick-like arms and the tubes going into them, haven’t I always been like

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