Meet My four-l

In a split-second Kerry Irving lost his career, his health and his reason for living. As he contemplated giving up for good, he caught sight of this friendly, furry face...

Are you ready, Max? If anyone’s going to help me do this, it’s you.’ The dog sitting at my side looks up and meets my gaze, his tail swishing back and forth. In the distance, looming high against the dawn sky, stands a rocky summit that I hope to conquer.

Hiking up Ben Nevis is a challenge that, until recently, I’d have considered impossible. It is, I believe, a chance for me to face my fears. If it wasn’t for Max, I wouldn’t be here at all.

★★★

I’d had it all: a loving wife, a challenging job in sales and an all-consuming hobby as a mountain bike trail rider around where we live in Keswick, The Lake District.

I was a ‘work hard, play hard’ type and I determined to live my life to the fullest – until the summer of 2006 when, at 41, I became a shell of my former self. I was sitting in a queue of rush-hour traffic when I saw a fast-approaching lorry fill my rear-view mirror. The impact that followed was so loud it sounded like a bomb had detonated. My car had been slammed from behind. A surge of adrenaline masked the shock so, at the time, it appeared that I had escaped serious injury. My father-in-law (a retired ambulance man) insisted on me going to hospital, where I was checked over then referred to my GP.

The next day I felt dizzy, sick and my upper back was increasingly uncomfortable. My doctor wrote me a prescription for painkillers and advised patience. But it only got worse. Sometimes the slightest movement could leave me feeling as though my spine had become electrified. I could only walk with a shuffle and my headaches mounted until they were completely blinding. I was sent from one back specialist to another, but each gave me a different opinion.

My poor wife Angela had to watch me sliding into helplessness. She did everything in her power to support me, but living with chronic pain and a medication regime that messed with my mind left me in a pit of despair. I became reluctant to go out at all. As the months ticked by, I even became fearful of doing so.

I saw no one. After the accident my friends visited often but, as time progressed, the knocks on the door became few and far between. I was unable to work, dropping a hard-earned salary. Now I relied on Angela and her hairdressing business to keep a roof over our heads. I couldn’t even help around the house: doing the dishes or changing a lightbulb left me writhing in agony.

We made numerous emergency trips to A&E for more painkillers. I became obsessive about the medication, worrying what would happen if I ran out or if I lost access to it. Eventually, I used it as a reason not to leave the house at all. Three years after the accident I had lost all hope that anyone could help me and had a series of impulsive urges to take my own life.

It had been months since I’d left the front door to do anything other than shuffle to the car, but one day Angela convinced me to pop to the shop to get milk. Neither of us realised how life-changing that short walk would be.

I felt horribly vulnerable and had to stop to calm myself or let people pass, braced for that whip crack of pain. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t even notice the dog watching me from behind the railings of his garden. It was only when I heard a whimper that I glanced over my shoulder.

A springer spaniel peered up. I found myself looking into two soulful brown eyes. I didn’t think my back would allow it but, carefully, I lowered myself so one knee touched the ground to see him properly. The dog responded by attempting to lick my face. ‘Max,’ I said, reading the name on his tag. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Kerry.’

Max was a handsome

Kerry with maxnear their home in the LaKe District