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David Sterling meets professional musician Clarence Adoo

Living, laughing proof!

MY first encounter with Newcastle-based Clarence Adoo is from my office desk in London. We meet on his website - http://www.clarence.org.uk/. I’m duly impressed. High-tech Clarence organises his life with a voice-activated computer and communicates with the world via email. And, as I later discover, it’s not merely a question of ‘toys for the boys’.

In August 1995 Clarence, a trumpet player with the Northern Sinfonia, was driving from Newcastle to Shoeburyness for his brother’s stag party when his car went out of control and turned over. Clarence was left paralysed from the neck down. Technology became a lifeline. No luxury, but the key to his independence. What’s more, he’s not to be beaten. He’s determined and making a go of life.

I’m intrigued. How might lesser mortals, myself included, manage in similar circumstances? I set up a face-to-face meeting. An effortless rail journey and an easy walk from the Jesmond metro station to Clarence’s Victorian terraced street precedes my arrival at his specially adapted house. A functional wheelchair ramp to the front door marks the spot. Sheila, one of Clarence’s carers, welcomes me into his front room with its polished, wooden strip floor. I wait for Clarence. I sense an orderly, restful atmosphere. There’s a minimum of furniture, no doubt to facilitate his movement around the house. The door swings wide and calmly he steers his way in.

When we settle down to talk, 39-year-old Clarence explains how his car accident marked the beginning of a journey of personal discovery he never imagined possible. ‘After the accident I’d assumed there was nothing left for me apart from my mind,’ he says. ‘But I found that technological advances enabled me to perform various tasks around the home I would never have dreamed possible and to achieve a remarkable degree of independence.’ Clarence blows into a tube and activates a menu screen attached to the end of his armrest. It lights up. Now, by infrared signals, he can operate the TV, play CDs, or open and shut the doors. And with the use of a voice-activated computer and telephone he can call his friends and colleagues. ‘Some of these little things we take for granted,’ he says. ‘But they are a huge plus for me.’

Clarence still needs 24-hour-a-day care and Sheila is one of a team who provide that. Most of his care costs are met by social services, but the Clarence Adoo Trust helps with his specially adapted vehicle and other essential extras. Clarence is quick to acknowledge the support of his sponsors and their generous donations in helping him get his life together again.

But I have a sneaky feeling that Clarence is making it all sound a touch too easy. What about the hard times, the pain, the emotional frustration? I don’t want to probe too deeply in case I touch him on the raw. But I pluck up courage and ask how he came to terms with his disability. ‘This is something I’ve had to face and spoken about many times,’ he says. ‘When I came round from my anaesthetic I had no word. No one told me: “You are now paralysed.” It was a slow dawning which took more than two or three weeks. It was the beginning of a year’s stay in hospital. Then I had a respiratory attack and lost consciousness. The doctors and nurses thought they would lose me. As I came round I remember thinking as I looked up at the ceiling tiles: God, you’ve brought me back for a purpose. I then heard a voice clearly say: First, your life is going to be more fulfilled; second, you don’t need to worry about anything. Well, I thought, this is going to be interesting seeing as how I can’t move a muscle! With half a smile I told God: OK, it’s up to you now. And from that point on, I sensed such a peace that I knew everything was going to be alright. I wanted to get back to as normal a life as possible. Lying in a hospital bed, I remember wondering what sort of life a paralysed person could have. I asked the nurses whether I could live on my own and what difficulties I might face. I soon realised this would involve some drastic changes.’

How, then, did fun-loving, globe-trotting Clarence face up to life in a wheelchair? ‘I’ve had to learn patience,’ he says. ‘And gain the inner strength to cope with my circumstances. OK, I can’t play tennis or five-a-side football any more, but I didn’t realise I could enjoy half of what I do so easily and freely - eating out in restaurants, going to concerts, listening to the Northern Sinfonia or attending Sunday services at The Salvation Army. But I think the greatest thing of all is knowing how powerful God can be in your life. Through this experience my Christian faith has grown and developed and I’ve come out a lot stronger. What’s more, it’s fantastic to know people are rooting for you.’

Rooting for you?

‘It’s when people are praying for you and supporting you. That can be a big boost - when you’re thinking life’s getting really tough. It can be incredibly encouraging when a letter arrives and someone says they’re rooting for you. The remarkable thing is that my disability hasn’t made me angry towards God or bitter. These feelings have not eaten away at me even though such feelings might be quite normal. I am amazed how positive I feel.’

Clarence’s positive outlook prompts his desire to push back personal boun daries. Referring to his disabilities he says, ‘I can accept something if I get a proper answer - such as a medical reason, but there are times when people say: “No, you can’t, because that’s how it is for most wheelchair users.” So if they tell me I can’t do something, I ask: “Why not?”

‘Six weeks after my accident I was told my limited head movement, recovery-wise, was all I could expect. But I refused to believe this. I worked hard at physiotherapy classes, both physically and mentally, and since then I’ve got some feeling back in the top of my back and chest. And a little bit of movement is returning to the top part of my left arm. I am forever an optimist - despite the crazy fact that my physio is another one of those things I’m not entitled to and has to be paid for privately.’

As far as the law is concerned, I suggest, the 1995 Disability Discrimination Act could improve access for people with disabilities. Clarence agrees. He admits to feeling frustrated when he’s denied access to a building just because he’s in a wheelchair. At one concert held in aid of his trust, his church sponsors overlooked the fact he couldn’t mount the steps to the front door. ‘It’s a bit frustrating when something’s going on and you can’t get in,’ he says. Does he experience any other problems or difficulties? ‘I sometimes smile to myself when people speak louder and don’t take you seriously just because you’re in a wheelchair. But when I open my mouth they soon back off a bit!’

In a lecture he gave to students training to be access consultants at Northumbria University, Clarence illustrated just what can be achieved. He took along some of his gadgets (or ‘toys’, as he calls them) to demonstrate their use. ‘I set up a lamp on the desk and told them, “When I blow through this tube the lamp will come on.” They gave me a look of disbelief but when the lamp did come on everybody clapped and cheered. “Great,” I said, “that’s exactly how I felt when I did things like that myself for the first time.” This is what empowerment can mean!’

But what about the things he can’t do? How does Clarence feel about losing the ability to play the trumpet and to follow his music career? There’s a pause. ‘There are many, many things that I have in my wardrobes and cupboards that still belong to the old Clarence,’ he says. ‘Deep down I still don’t believe I will never use them again, including my trumpets, so I’m not getting rid of the old Clarence yet. Obviously I miss a great, great deal sitting alongside my colleagues, playing the trumpet and using my skills. I have such a love for music and I still teach from home.’

Clarence is sometimes featured in press or radio. One thing he finds extremely fulfilling is devising projects on behalf of the Northern Sinfonia, taking musicians out into the community - continuing something he did before his accident. ‘As a Salvationist and former bandsman it’s a real joy still to share something which is so precious to me - especially among an audience of children. Music has many different dimensions and I feel that perhaps I am giving them something which is very special to me.

‘On one occasion some of my colleagues in the Northern Sinfonia were coaching the youth orchestra from another town, with different musicians working with each section. Someone asked, “Clarence, can you conduct the brass group?” Conduct, did they say? Well I looked around the group and nobody seemed to bat an eyelid. So I said, “Yes, sure.” If I was one of the lads I expect I would have pulled a bit of a face and thought: Well, this is going to be interesting! But the problem was mine, not theirs. I said to my carer, “Right, when I give you the nod, can you turn the pages of the score? I’ll count, and off we go.” The young players just got on with their music and nobody thought it was a problem. What a lesson to remember! I was truly empowered by someone saying: “Hey! You can do this!”’

Steve Down, director of music for Durham County Wind Ensemble, has seen Clarence at work first-hand. ‘Clarence has become an inspiration to many people in difficult circumstances,’ he says. ‘His strength and determination know no bounds.’

Humour is a tonic and keeps Clarence going when he feels down. He recalls an earlier episode when he was wired up to monitors in intensive care. ‘I was assured a personal nurse would be with me night and day,’ he says. ‘One evening the nurse wanted to show off her holiday snaps and dis appeared. I was absolutely gasping for a drink at the time and couldn’t speak as I had this tube down my throat. But I remembered I was wired up to a breathing monitor. So I thought to myself, “Well, being a brass player, if I hold my breath for six bars this alarm might go off.” Lo and behold it did! Then they all came running and I got the attention I needed.’ The laughter rings in my ears as I head home.

Next day there’s an email from Clarence - a series of gaffes collected by his church friends: ‘Thursday night Potluck Supper. Prayer and medication to follow.’ Not such a bad idea. Prayer and healing belong close together. In the words of the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson: ‘More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.’ And Clarence Adoo is all the living and laughing proof I need.