Eulogy

Not everyone grows up to be an astronaut,
Not everyone was born to be a king,
Not everyone can be Freddie Mercu-ry,
But everyone can raise their glass and sing.
Well I haven’t always been a perfect person,
I haven’t done what mum and dad had dreamed,
But on the day I die, I’ll say at least I fucking tried.
That’s the only eulogy I need,
Thats the only eulogy I need.

 

Frank Turner

From the 2011 album “England Keep my Bones”

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.

 

Death and Dying in the North of England

 

No one here gets out alive – Jim Morrison

 

I am employed in end of life work in the North of England and this blog is an outlet for my reflections on my experiences and encounters with people who are in the final months, weeks and days of life. I certainly don’t claim to be an expert in end of life work and every day I learn something new from people I work with so I am not aiming to teach anyone anything about death and dying but I do understand that the subject of death is still off limits for day to day discussion for most people and I’ve seen from my work that this isn’t always beneficial, not only for the person who is dying but for the friends and family who remain.

I’m not on a crusade to harangue people into talking about death but I do believe we ought to have the freedom to discuss these issues should we chose to do so. So much of our experience of life is spent denying or running from death, whilst there is no benefit to repeatedly focusing on the morbid aspects of our existence there is benefit to remembering that we will all die eventually.

I can only talk about death and dying in the North of England because that’s where I live and work, the North of England is a beautiful and inspiring place to be and my work brings me into contact with some wonderful people but I also work with people who are living in terrible circumstances whether due to financial poverty or social, emotional and psychological poverty, in the course of a week I often experience the best and worst of human relationships. I don’t have any answers or “how to” lists, I just have a very genuine commitment to supporting people at the end of life and supporting people who might want to ponder life and death…I’m generally banned from talking about this stuff in polite company because it can be a bit of a buzz crusher on a night out and so this blog is the electronic equivalent of therapy.