Anger is an energy

Today I’m distracted by repeated thoughts of a woman I worked with, when I move into thinking of her I well with emotion and I’m overcome, I have to stop thinking about her, but then my mind creeps stealthily back to her as if to test the water of my thoughts. There’s a tentative tread towards recalling her, towards allowing my mind to remember her, to picture her as she was when I visited the family home. She was the mother of a man who was dying, she was caring for him, he was only young and she has stayed in my thoughts long after my involvement with the family ended. I think of her whenever I work with carers who are deeply distressed by the suffering of their loved ones and I think about her when I encounter strong, fearless women, woman who have passed the stage of life where they care what the world thinks about them and so are free to be authentic and free to voice their rage and to process it in a way that works for them.

Distress is manifest in a variety of ways but for this woman it was expressed in honest, direct, visceral ways. Her rage was expressed in her physicality, the way she moved and gestured when she spoke, the way she grimaced and contorted her face as she retold incidents, the way she re-enacted conversations as she moved around the room pushing furniture out of the way or sitting at the dining table writhing and convulsing with her hands trembling in fists held just in front of her in a way that reminded me of someone experiencing a seizure, the way she cried and shouted in the course of every conversation I had with her. She was a terrifying presence when she was in this flow and I was in awe of her. She unsettled me, she left me feeling rattled, she filled the entire room and I found no reason to speak or to try to explore what was happening because she was a raging force of nature and she was centre stage and I was overwhelmed as her audience of one. She was incensed but her anger was purposeful, it wasn’t indiscriminate, her fury was about the situation, the disease and the injustice of it, she was angry about the economic system and its injustices, she was enraged about the inequities in funding and access to care and in her anger she was eloquent, hypnotic, persuasive and passionate and so I didn’t want to do anything other than allow it, to observe it and often to slip into it in order to fully experience it. When she was angry she was absolutely alive, the inner emotional fight she was experiencing every day watching her son die was manifest on the outside through her rage. She hid her rage from her son and so it needed an outlet. Her anger made people who witnessed it uncomfortable, it made people turn away and in some cases walk away. She wasn’t stoic, she wasn’t dignified or reserved she was f**king raging and why not, her son was dying, his life was barely underway and he hadn’t done many of the things we see as landmarks on the road of an adult life, how could she convey in words the anger and injustice she felt, it was impossible. Far better to show me, to make me see and feel it, to provide me with the experience of apprehension, uncertainty, dread, loss of security, of wanting to run away, of wanting it to stop, of wanting to be rescued of wanting it to change.

When I reflected on her anger after each visit I could process it in a logical way and relate it to research in death and dying, I could see the resonance with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ 5 stage model of grief, anger is in there as a stage but I never said this to her at the subsequent visits, I never spoke of it, how could I tell a mother who was grieving for the impending death of her son that there was a model which could provide comfort and reassurance about the fact that this is an understandable part of the grief process. I understood that some of her anger was projected onto issues outside of the illness but she was subject to the system and experienced first hand the inadequacies of it and the impact of this on her son and his situation and so I couldn’t disabuse her of this or deny the reality of hers and her sons experience.

Rather than try to comfort or sooth her I wanted to join her, it was contagious, I wanted to give vent to my rage about all manner of things, the injustice of her sons illness was on my list, her pain was on there too but I had a long list, a list of “things which make me angry”, some of them my own personal rages and some of them bigger societal rages. I never gave into it, I remained professional, I was her witness, I didn’t try to stop her raging, I didn’t hush her or offer solace because there was no place for these at that stage in her grief, I didn’t want to try to curb her anger because it was likely to be the thing that kept her going after her sons death, it was going to be her survival tool, she was going to be a campaigner and an activist in the world in memory of her son and in support of others so I had no desire to dissuade her from her anger, as Johnny Rotten said, “anger is an energy” and she was bouncing with it. At the end of each visit I would climb into my car and drive back to the office but on the journey I would ensure my music was loud and angry to give voice to my own rage because sometimes its important to have the anger.

 

The grief of leaving everyone and everything

In Felicity Warner’s The Soul Midwives Handbook she describes an exercise used by spiritual care trainer and author Christine Longaker which is designed to try to show how it feels to be in the position of leaving life behind, of being on the threshold of death and trying to make the psychological and emotional adjustment necessary. The exercise looks at the enormity of leaving everyone and everything. We have all experienced loss and can recall the emotions and thought processes which accompany a loss whether it be loss of things or people but the amplification of leaving everything and everyone is so intense that we seldom think about it for fear it will overwhelm us. Just saying the words “leaving everyone and everything” has an intensity to it, when I say it the words slow down, theres an emphasis on the final syllable and I feel something in me, some part of me recoils when I say it, its not just a thought, its a feeling and its a feeling I don’t like. In saying it my mind flits across names of people I love and the things Im surrounded by here in this room and I can only go so far into the thought and I retreat again, it feels a little like falling, like the image of Lewis Carroll’s Alice falling down the rabbit hole with cupboards and tables floating past on the way down only Im falling past the faces of people I care about and the kitsch clutter I’ve surrounded myself with and freeze-frame style shots of scenes from my life, I want to grab onto something to stop the fall because I suspect at the end theres just nothing…just nothing at all but I cant picture “just nothing”, I can’t picture the absence of everything.

I worked with a woman several years ago who fought against her death, she raged against it and her sense of injustice about her impending death was contagious, I would find myself being outraged about the unfairness of a world in which a mother, still relatively young could die. I was angry and appalled on her behalf but I didn’t know who to direct my anger at, I just had a sense of it not being “fair”, of it not being “right”. She didn’t want to leave everyone and everything, to leave hope, to leave the future, to leave the sounds and smells and taste and touch of things and of people but there was no way to convey the enormity of that, sometimes it can only be conveyed by sounds, by screams and by moans which aren’t recognisably human but at the same time the audience recognises the depth of the anguish transmitted.

Leonardo da Vinci said “While I thought I was learning how to live I have been learning how to die“, we are all moving towards death everyday, we forget that, we push it out of our minds, we are all learning how to die without most of us actually acknowledging it and our lamentations will not hold death back.

 

We are all trapped by a singular fate.

Alone with Everybody 

Charles Bukowski

The flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there’s no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.