Jumping on the Grief Wagon

A few days ago Whitney Houston died in a bath, in a hotel room, probably due to a drugs overdose or binge drinking or both. What followed was a global Tsunami of grief and emotional outpouring from fans and the general public who had never met her, or were ever likely to meet her. There were photo-shopped Whitney headstones on facebook, endless You Tube recommendations and enough hearts and X’s to choke any Barbara Cartland devotee.

It made me wonder why it is that some people choose to heap all their sadness and grief upon celebrities such as Ms Houston when there’s so much more death and depravity to choose from? Do singers have the monopoly on collective bereavement? Perhaps it was the ‘Marilyn’ Factor' that set off a chain reaction? Who knows? I also think the majority prefers to follow the crowd, regardless of whether it’s the right thing to do. No one wants to be viewed as a callous, uncaring person who’s not that bothered about the death of someone who was famous 20 years ago.  To do that risks being labelled as unpopular and one of the ‘out crowd’.

It takes courage and a lot of gumption to buck the trend. Politicians must dread Q& A sessions if they spot someone in the audience who they know will ask the one question they don’t want to hear and cannot possibly answer. Certain people though,  like Sheep, are simply waiting to be herded. It doesn’t matter if the herder is a wolf or a shepherd; it’s all the same to them. They just need to be given the order to run down a hill as quickly as possible with the minimum amount of fuss.

There’s also a scary minority who try and out-grieve one another. These are individuals who are just waiting for the right celebrity to pop their clogs, so they can unleash their arsenal of sadness on the world, and sink their teeth into a great big juicy death.  They write eulogies, post pictures and organise groups solely devoted to ‘letting it all out’. They score each other’s efforts with smileys, hearts and X’s.  Thankfully, these 'compassionate fiends' only have a relatively short window of opportunity, so they need to maximise their efforts before the grief-wave recedes and everyone goes back to doing what they do best – bitching and moaning about nothing of any real significance.

If a loved and cherished family member or close friend passes away we don't shout about it on twitter or facebook (well I don't anyway!) Most of us conduct our grief privately, in separate rooms, and in some cases separate houses. Sometimes we consider sharing our grief  if we are among people who have also lost someone close to them. At other times we feel the need to unburden ourselves to perfect strangers.  

After all, grief is a process to be endured not a band-wagon to be ridden. 

LEADING BY EXAMPLE

(Written in November 2008, whilst working in a mental health setting)

This week, I drank far too much bad coffee, met a Dutch ex-wrestler called Bas and made a windbreak out of Lego. The budding Sherlock’s amongst you will have already deduced that these apparently disparate acts when added together can only mean one thing – a leadership and management course. Mine was run by an organisation called S.C.W.W.P. (pronounced SQUIP) – a government funded local council initiative, which means it will probably be shelved in a year’s time, to be replaced by some other bizarre acronym.

 During a recent appraisal interview, the centre manager informed me she’d put my name forward for the course. I smiled and replied “Oh, good”, while thinking, Oh Christ, what monumental fuck up have I perpetrated to deserve such punishment? So, with quiet resignation, plus the consolation prize of a week away from the unit I sat down in the Uber-smart University conference room, scribbled my name on a large bi-fold card and waited for my classmates to file in. Bare faced lies about reasons for attendance and perfunctory introductions were exchanged before Bas, the course tutor strode in with all the confidence and swagger of a royal bouncer.

He was at least six feet five in his wrestling boots, resembling a youthful muscle bound Clive James, sporting a Rolex Oyster and gun metal Bvlgari glasses. I could tell by his clipped phrasing and end of sentence ‘hmm, hmm's’ he was either a Serth African Boer or a Scandinavian natural. He confirmed the latter with a brief introductory speech about Antwerp and its nightlife. First days are a little like first dates. There’s so much information to digest that I only retain the stuff told to me during my own small caffeinated window in which I gabble and nod a lot.

Most of my fellow detainees were either council administrators or children’s nurses, bringing with them tales of pointless beaurocracy and embittered attitudes towards inept and power-crazed management. Luckily, Bas handled this disillusionment and bad feeling with aplomb, citing his own difficult passage through the business ranks with witty stories of sheer tenacity in the face of overwhelming ineptitude as well as decoding our own examples of trauma and frustration. He talked of personality traits, business models and performance targets, drawing from his varied background in pharmacological sales, middle management and teaching.  

On day three he split the group into two, gave each one a carrier bag filled with Lego and told us to build a tower in thirty minutes. Prior to this we had established our respective work types, with the aid of an ingenious ‘personality compass’ and rigorous Psychometric questionnaire. Bas was by his own admission an Operations Director or O.D, displaying directness, a no-nonsense attitude and strong desire to get the job done. I, on the other hand was due south of all things organised. I was quickly identified as a Liaison Officer or L.O by my limp agony aunt approach and “lets discuss and make sure everyone’s on board” mentality. Consequently, while we waffled on about roles and responsibilities our rivals were finishing floor thirty of Canary Wharf. In a ‘five minutes to go’ panic I hurled plastic bricks at my open-mouthed team members and screamed “just build a fucking wall!” Bas circled like a media savvy shark complete with Handy Cam and smug expression.

What will I take back to my cosy little work place? Will it be the lessons in assertiveness and calm unflappable discourse? Could it be the personality compass, body language pointers and time management charts - Possibly? What I won’t do is steamroll my way through and over some of my colleagues more questionable traits whilst at the same time collating all the necessary data for my own version of How to Lose Friends and get sacked. Leadership and management isn’t a quick fix solution. Bas made a short speech as we filed out of the classroom.

          “I don’t want you to rush back to your respective workplaces and start pissing people off. It’s far better to start off as cameraman, moving around observing and identifying some of the aspects of the course. When you’ve filled your camera with enough footage you can progress to editor, director and even producer if the mood takes you.”

I’m more of a second or third Directors assistant - full of great ideas but unconcerned with how to achieve them. 

“Lights, camera, inaction!”

Valentines Day PLC

For singletons or the recently separated, V Day can seem like a worrisome blot on their emotional landscape. For eleven months of the year Florists, Confectioners and Card Shops churn out fairly unremarkable blooms, sweets and messages – then something odd happens at the beginning of February. It’s as though they’ve missed out on Christmas and are determined to try and out-tack one another.

It begins like Chicken Pox, with the odd pink blemish or swirl of red ribbon. Then as each day passes more and more cerise, magenta and crimson appears. Window displays become chock full of silk veins and arteries plumbed into swelling satin organs. Jauntily angled cocktail glasses and champagne bottles vie for space in this sick bowl of gushing sentimentality.

When I pass my local Thornton’s I’m reminded of that scene from Chocolat , when Alfred Molina is unable to quell his repressed urges any longer and runs amok in the window of the local chocolatier, gorging himself on everything he can, before he falls into a sugary stupor. This would be relatively easy to reproduce in Thornton’s, but Interflora and Hallmark might prove slightly more challenging.

For a start, I suffer from hay fever which cancels out the florists. How does one run amok in a card shop window? I could tear off all the bows and ribbons and adorn my body like some camp pearly queen or better still tear of all my clothes and stick myself to the largest card - a statement of dissent, if ever there was one.

Then there’s the question of disabling all the alarms and cutting through the steel safety shutters. I could always buy out the entire stock of Valentines cards and drop them into a flaming brazier whilst shouting “Love is dead!” through a megaphone to passing shoppers, but that would just get me sectioned under the mental health act.

No, the best thing I can do is not get involved. On the 14^th February I’ll get up at 7am and slot into my well-worn routine. With my index finger hovering over the mute button I’ll sit and watch Bill and Sian being nice to each other and sip my instant coffee.

At approximately 9am I won’t rush to the front door and pore over the post, tearing open a certain beautifully hand -written white envelope with abandon, hoping for the subtle scent of Fleur by Floris. No, I won’t do any of that – I promise.

Invisible

Sometimes, when I venture out for a newspaper or a carton of milk I feel as though another tiny part of me has disappeared. This GBD (gradual body depletion) is difficult to quantify as I know I’m still virtually the same person as I was yesterday, with the possible exception of an extra grey hair or new found wrinkle. It’s as though the more routine and predictable my journeys are the more insignificant I become. Perhaps I should attempt to halt or even reverse my slow disappearing act with a naked one man band impersonation in the dead of night?

It also seems as though the less I interact with my surroundings the more this invisibility is accelerated.  A hearty ‘good morning’ or ‘lovely weather today’ with any complete stranger tells me I’m still here. It’s when I refuse to engage with my fellow humans or choose to hide myself under hats, and behind sunglasses that the situation is exacerbated.

Certain senior citizens can slip through our observational nets without even trying. Their body language, gait, and dress all conspire to render them a kind of walking background noise.  A particular brand of adolescent filters out these urban ghosts because they refuse to accept or believe that one day they too will be shuffling towards Tesco’s with a beige and orange shopping trolley wondering if they remembered to lock the front door. Either that or they see no personal advantage from elderly interaction.

If I stopped going out would anyone miss me?  I could always don a disguise such as a false beard or wig and discover for myself. I’d frequent my usual haunts and say something like:

                “Whatever happened to that middle aged guy that used to come in here day after day for his paper and carton of milk? The newsagent might scratch their head or frown and say:

                “Oh you mean that quiet fella who wore the same drab clothes? Dunno, praps he moved away or died?”  Not exactly a heartfelt eulogy is it? I could always stick up for the mute fashion disaster with some heartfelt anecdote or even unmask myself with a jubilant “Fooled Ya!”

To be honest, I think some days we feel more anonymous than others, wearing our transience or disconnection like a heavy overcoat.  I also think we prefer to make a conscious decision to emerge from our prospective dwellings ‘camouflaged and unremarkable’ or not at all, because we don’t wish to stand out and be noticed. We can’t all be in the limelight at the same time and sometimes it’s infinitely more preferable to watch a firework display than to try and be the firework itself.

I wrote a poem once about an elderly man who was released from a mental health establishment to fend for himself in the community. Sure, he was told he had the backup of a CPN (Community Psychiatric Nurse) twenty four seven, but this man had fallen into a daily routine so entrenched that no one was ever going to alter it. Unlike me he was extremely visible until one day he completely disappeared. Below is my tribute to him.

Noel Coward lives in our street.

Each day at nine he promenades

wearing his best Oxfam smoking jacket,

recently died fawn slacks

and slippers

First he pats his pockets, 

before taking out an imaginary cigarillo

clamping one hand to his forehead,

mouthing “ooh silly me” and,

realising fags are normally filter first

removes it, bows and re-inserts.

Once lit, he stands at the pedestrian crossing

on Prospect Road parodying an old prostitute,

soliciting winks from passers’ by,

taking great sucks at his pincer’ed butt

like a reverse breathalyser

and blows pseudo-smoke rings at traffic cops

His gait is something to behold.

Not quite John Cleese from the ministry 

more a speed skater in slow-mo

who trips over an imaginary toe

and slews to a teetering stop

I heard he feigned death

in Granton Park,

doing a very convincing heart attack.

Trouble was, the pretend Paramedic

Arrived too late

As did the imaginary undertaker, leaving

an eight-year-old girl feeding swans

to mark the body

face down in the lake

with two soggy rounds of bread

and a mouldy bap

Lost in Shropshire

Agency work is useful for nurses in between jobs, or carers who need to supplement their meagre incomes. A few years ago I decided to try it for a few weeks while I waited to hear about an upcoming position at my local hospital. Sadly, the job never materialised and I ended up staying with the Agency for five years.

Agencies don’t suit everyone. To survive for any length of time, you need the hide of a Rhino, the resourcefulness of MacGyver and the communication skills of a hostage negotiator. Sure, you can earn a lot of money, if you’re prepared to go anywhere and work any shift with very little notice. Many’s the time I was out shopping when I received ‘the call’ from some harried office worker pleading me to drive forty or fifty miles to fill a last minute shift at some care home. I always carried a spare uniform in the car and performed many quick changes in public toilets and car parks. My ex-wife gave me the nickname Super Nurse and used to whistle the theme tune from Superman while I struggled into black trousers and a white tunic.

As a verdant recruit I used to refuse nothing and operate on the principle that the work could dry up at any moment. Consequently, I quickly became known as the ‘go to nurse’, for assignments that no one else would take. I endured this brutal baptism for the first few months, until a friend gave me the lowdown on how to beat the system. She would bypass the office and book her shifts directly with the care home or nursing client. This meant she developed a good rapport with five or six of her favourite homes who in turn placed her at the top of their emergency contact list. She also advised me to check with her before accepting a new job. The office staff were masters of understatement and spin, accentuating the positive aspects of a position, but leaving out crucial information. I soon learnt to decipher their coded language.

“He’s occasionally a bit naughty” – He may bite or throw furniture around if you don’t give him his special medicine bang on time.

“He can get a bit jealous if his wife’s around” – If I were you I’d go disguised as a woman, because if you don’t he may chase you around the garden brandishing his navy cutlass.

“The care staff are a bit thin on the ground’’ – If there aren’t any cars in the car park, when you arrive, turn round and drive off.

I quite liked been given home care assignments.  One-to-one nursing seemed purer somehow. It also gave me the chance to scratch beneath the veneer of ill-health and disability.

            “D’you fancy a bit of a road trip?” said Alison, as she sucked on a fresh cigarette.

            “Depends.”

            “Well, it’s in Shropshire. Now I know it’s a bit of a drive, but the client says you can do a long weekend if you like?” Pound sign butterflies hovered in front of my eyes, and I said yes.

The drive over was relatively straightforward.  I guided my old canary yellow Mark 1 Ford Capri through Shrewsbury town centre and past the majestic Long Mynde, laid out like a sleeping dragon. Back then, Sat Nav’s were only available as expensive options in  luxury cars, so every few minutes I glanced at the scribbled directions on my pink Post it.  The milometer said 67 miles and there was still no sign of my destination – Bishops Castle.

Convinced I’d overshot Boswell Hall, I got directions from a wild-eyed farmer who insisted on tapping his nether regions every few seconds like a dodgy pocket watch. I was also pretty sure vocal chords were located in the throat and not the scrotum.  Anyway, after a great deal of poking and gesticulating I wound up the window and drove away, completely befuddled.

I almost missed the turning. The cream coloured Georgian edifice was all but hidden by a stranglehold of knicker- pink azaleas and crimson rhododendrons. As I picked my way around deep potholes in the overgrown shingle driveway there were signs of neglect everywhere. A huge rust-encrusted sun dial minus its Gnomon teetered precariously on the large oval field that used to be a lawn. The remnants of a tennis court net hung in tatters as small shrubs vied for growing space along the faded tramlines. I picked up the scrap of paper from the passenger seat and half expected to see the name Mrs Haversham in big bold letters at the top.

The client’s ancient wife, Mrs Deborah Boswell was waiting for me under the crumbling front portico.  She gave me a well-practised smile as I backed my car underneath a large oak tree.

            “Simon isn’t it? “ she enquired in a deep Thatcherite voice, leaning heavily on a black scuffed walking stick.

            “Hello. Please to meet you Mrs Boswell.” I fought the urge to bow, proffering a soggy palm instead.

            “Deborah, please.” She shook my hand so lightly it almost floated away. Mrs Boswell bade me follow her inside where her husband, Colonel Boswell was waiting in the study. The place was dimly lit and smelled like an old shed.  Two enormous Grandfather clocks batted ticks and tocks between them like veteran table tennis players.  Threadbare Persian rugs barely muffled the sound of our footsteps as we walked - the tap-tap of Deborah's silver-tipped stick echoed throughout the house.

The Colonel was sitting in a faded green chesterfield, swathed in enough blankets to induce a fever. As I approached him he produced the broadest grin I’ve ever seen. The sort of grin used by someone who’s about to tell the best joke in the world.

             adding that her husband’s body language was much easier to understand. While she did her best to condense the last three years into half an hour, Colonel Boswell yes’d and nodded like a high court judge.

Before suffering a massive stroke he loved to go for long walks, was passionate about trees and couldn’t abide bad drivers. Well, at least we had one thing in common. I too loved to walk and suggested we explore the walled garden. Deborah promptly fetched some rickety old bath chair with solid rubber tyres and no brakes. She said it was a family heirloom, and I believed her. The problems began when I tried transferring him from comfy chair to wheelchair. He stood six feet eight inches in his cashmere socks, and weighed as much as a small car. It was no use asking his wife for assistance, as she could hardly support her own weight. Eventually, after six failed attempts I hauled him up like a recently felled tree and let him topple into the wheelchair. I half expected him to crash straight through the canvas seat, but he didn’t, and we were off. The going was slow to very slow inside the house, but deteriorated into ‘nigh on impossible’ as soon as tyres hit gravel.

            “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Shouted Mr Boswell, like someone beating out the stroke in a slave ship. The only way I could move him at all was backwards. He didn’t like this one bit and beat his huge fists on the arms of the wheelchair. I managed to drag him across the width of the drive producing two deep furrows as though a train had just been derailed at the front door.

Once on the slabbed footpath leading to the garden it was a lot easier. I asked him if we were going the right way and he pointed to a small opening in the high wall. Even though we’d only travelled about fifty feet I sweated and gasped like an overweight asthmatic. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back to the house and wondered if Deborah would object if we both slept in the greenhouse.

The walled garden followed the contours of a very steep hill, leading to a small copse at the top, so, in the absence of any ski lift or escalator, I made some feeble excuse about imminent rain and wheeled him back inside. After lunch, his wife said he always went for a drive in the countryside – to put him in a good mood.  Apparently he loved to show off his various pine forests that still provided pit props for the welsh mines. She explained his pit props were the only wooden ones left in the country.

I backed the Ford Sierra, complete with personalised number plate - AM 12 out of the semi-collapsed garage and repeated the effective but risky ‘felled tree manoeuvre’ to get him into the front seat. While I questioned my sanity for accepting this weekend treat the Colonel began pointing the way. Turn left was a loud bang on his window and turn right, almost knocked me out. A tap on the windscreen meant straight on. I could see by the greasy hand prints all over the windows that the Colonel liked to navigate a lot.

Once I explained I had no local knowledge of the roads whatsoever his face began to flush and tears welled up in his big blue eyes. Then the laughter started. Little coughs and splutters at first accompanied with much head shaking and gleeful yes’s. After a few minutes he dropped several octaves and did the best Booming Brian Blessed impression I’ve ever heard. The noise was deafening. Only when I screamed “Which bloody way!” at a T-Junction did he stop for a few seconds to catch his breath.

An hour later, after negotiating impossibly narrow lanes and countless sudden changes in direction we arrived at a roughly hewn three bar gate at the entrance to a large forest. The Colonel looked at me with an expression that said “Well, get out and open the gate then!” I soon discovered the gate in question was chained and padlocked so I did my best ‘unlocking a door’ mime from about twenty feet away. The colonel shrugged his shoulders at me and started laughing again.  My own sense of humour had gone AWOL about three hours ago, so I got back into the car and watched as the volume increased.

            “Where are we? I shouted. Don’t you have a key?” He answered with yet more shrugs and a few high pitched yes’s. I repeated the question.

            “Where are we?” After another intense bout of belly laughing he turned to me with tears streaming down his cheeks and said very slowly and clearly…

            “I have no idea.”

In 1995 I received a letter from Deborah Boswell saying that the Colonel had died peacefully in his sleep, aged 93. She was now aged 98yrs and wanted to see me again. Unfortunately she passed away before I could visit. Almost five years had elapsed since my last long weekend at Boswell Hall and yet she said I had made quite an impression on her husband. She also said many carers came and went, but no-one made him laugh or talk quite as much as me. 




(c) Simon Daniels