Here’s a link to a two minute recording of Robert Patterson and his wife Karen talking about his Alzheimers. I have played it over and over, it’s the most moving piece.
The conversation had me remembering the first Process Work workshop I attended. There was an exercise the participants did that stayed with me. It was a meditative exercise, a series of steps and reflections. Each of us had to imagine ourselves at the end of our happy lives and look back at what had been important to us.
Career was paramount for me back then. I was only at the workshop with a group I worked with because we hoped to bring to some new thinking to our workplace. Imagining myself at 90 and pondering on what had been important was revelatory. Work did not feature, just people, well Mottsu in particular. Important to me were relationships and people. It was obviously something I believed but I hadn’t ever quite realised, or let myself realise. The knowledge delighted me.
When I came home I talked Mottsu through the same exercise, only he wasn’t delighted, he was half-hearted at best. It was some time later after we visited a friend in hospital that Mottsu mentioned the exercise. The projection into the future had troubled him and he hadn’t been able to picture himself as old and content, only old and ailing.
Decrepit.
Seeing himself as ill and alone he had been unable to recall joy in his life.
Overwhelmed.
The conversation led us to explore the idea of who would die first. The topic scared me, I didn’t want to be left behind. I felt I would be irreconcilably alone if Mottsu were to die first, it was a shared fear. Karen Patterson re-frames our conversation in her conversation and it touched me deep down: “…the greatest thing you can do if you love somebody was hope that you would be the one that was left, and that you would be the one who could care for you lover…”
Mottsu was so alone in his depression, and I was there. I wasn’t there in an emergency worker or rescuer kind of way, I couldn’t keep him here, and even so I was there. As best I could I cared for him. I am the one who was left.
The French movie The Father of my Children follows a narrative anchored around a suicide. The film presents an authentic portrayal of family left to deal with an unexpected loss. There are tears, disbelief and regrets, the ubiquitous why questions are asked. Watching, I was grateful too for a story of loss scripted without dollops of unnecessary sentimentality.
I also appreciated the way the screening showed some aspects of grief, providing an empathetic depiction of times when emotions spiral. The on-screen portrayal of grief aligned well with my own experience, the disbelief, the numbed acceptance, wanting to put the world on hold but not pressing the pause button. Authentic.
Almost resolutely and despite overwhelming grief the world keeps turning, we continue.
What will be will be, and what is, is…even at the movies.
If you’ve ever held ideas about the sort of people who die by suicide, the death of Elspeth Thompson might dispel some stereotypes. She’s described as a successful and dynamic woman, she was a gardening writer and a mother, who is said to have cultivated blooms in the most unlikely places. The coroner has just found that her death was suicide.
Elspeth Thompson left a note: “I’ve fed the dogs and put the heating on so that you won’t be cold. I’m sorry. So very sorry. But I’ve gone to the lake with a bottle and pills. I love you. I love Mary.”
Frank Wilson, Elspeth Thompson’s husband, writes about coming to terms with her death accepting the incomprehensible and “the unbearable burden of loss“.
Depression doesn’t play favourites.
The Black Dog Institute is a not-for-profit, educational, research, clinical and community-oriented facility offering specialist expertise in depression and bipolar disorder.
The entries have been judged for Snapping the Black Dog: A Photographic Competition about Hope and Resilience in the Fight against Depression.
Wonderful poignant images that capture the essence of both hope and resilience. Apart from the photography competition the site provides information, explanations and links to support resources.
Its a fabulous resource where more can be learned about depression and bi-polar disorder, including fact and information sheets that can be downloaded.
When things start to happen to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.
Dr. Suess: Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
…and then there are times you are:
- bursting with happiness
- overcome with joy
You can be carried away by emotional forces less adversarial, less oppositional but just as controlling
Emotion is a force to reckon with, an adversary that irresponsibly that takes control of my very being. It’s true, just look at how we describe emotions and the power ascribed to emotional forces. For example I can be:
– Blinded by rage
– Consumed with grief
– Overcome with despair
– Crippled with anxiety
– Driven by longing
There’s oppositional force endowed on emotions. We’re overcome, dealing with emotions can be a battle, we can be rendered victims of our emotions and become as helpless as puppets. Picture yourself as the puppet burdened with emotions and the puppeteer pulling the strings, manipulating responses and actions.
I visualise emotions as being inside me, the presence of those emotions made known through physiological sensations, like crying, or not crying and all the while trying to keep it together, keep it together.
The challenge is not to conquer or hold back our emotions but to allow them to be expressed authentically and appropriately, even if that means not ‘keeping it together’ on occasion. I’d like to be informed by my emotions rather than overcome (or taken over) by them.
Trying…
Career was paramount for me back then. I was only at the workshop with a group I worked with because we hoped to bring to some new thinking to our workplace. Imagining myself at 90 and pondering on what had been important was revelatory. Work did not feature, just people, well Mottsu in particular. Important to me were relationships and people. It was obviously something I believed but I hadn’t ever quite realised, or let myself realise. The knowledge delighted me.
