Wednesday 30 October 2024

How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary

Our friends — how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

As we shared in a recent blog post, Fran and I have been looking into end of life planning. I’m particularly interested in legacy work, which focuses on what we wish to leave behind. It can include physical items, but also writing, photographs, videos, and more. In the words of end of life doula Leona Oceania of Die Well Death Education, “legacy work is perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can provide to your friends, family, and loved ones.”

Fran and I were talking recently about her mother who is in her nineties. She commented that she knew her mom “maybe 10 percent.” This caught my attention. “Legacy work,” I ventured, “is so the people we leave behind will know more than 10 percent.” Fran asked how much I knew her. I thought a moment before answering. “It depends what kind of knowing you mean. If you mean all the events of your life, the things you’ve done and everything that’s happened to you, not so much. You’ve told me lots but I don’t remember the details. If you mean knowing how you think and feel, what’s important to you, how you react to what’s going on, I think I know you pretty well.”

I’ve thought a lot about that conversation and its relevance to legacy. What and how much do we want others to know of us, in the here-and-now and once we’re no longer around? What and how much do we want to know of those we love? I’ve never attached much importance to the historic details of life, my own included. I made many good friends at university, deep connections born of mutual respect and regard, and an ongoing commitment to one another. I’d say I had a decent idea what my friends were going through at the time — who they were, in other words. But I knew almost nothing of what they’d done, where they’d lived, or what had happened in their lives before we met. If they told me, it scarcely registered. If they didn’t, it never occurred to me to ask.

It’s not only friends from long ago. I know facts about Fran’s life before we met, including events, experiences, and situations that impacted her profoundly. I’d nevertheless struggle to say when they happened or even in what order they occurred. It’s a mutual situation. When I asked how much she knows me, Fran said she knows a lot about who I am as a person, but much less about the things I’ve done or have happened to me. For good and bad, our experiences shape who we are. They’re part of the you I want to know, the me I want you to know. But precisely when they happened, the timeline of your life or mine? That can be interesting to explore, but it’s not who we are now. For similar reasons, I’ve never been motivated to trace my family tree. My ancestors’ lives have no relevance to mine.

Such thoughts inform my end of life planning and legacy work. There’s a great deal to get my head around, decide, and put in place, but I’ve decided to start by writing my obituary. As a first step, I’m collecting the bare details of my life into a timeline. Birth, family, education, employment history, interests, achievements, activities. It will serve as a useful reference. It occurs to me that an obituary is no more or less than our final resume. Here I am (was) in two pages. A few hundred words. Everything you need to know. The best bits. The selling points. Give me a job. Employ me. Mourn me.

In many places I’m struggling to recall just what happened when and in what order. The timeline outlines the path that led me here, but it’s not me. It’s rich in facts, but light on the essence, value, or quality of those facts. Who cares about such details, anyway? Think of someone dear to you who has passed, or someone whose future death you can scarcely countenance. What do you wish you knew about them? What would help shape your memories of them, and your future without them? What schools they attended? Where they travelled or resided? Their employment history? Pay grade? Maybe such details are important to you. If so, that’s fine. But maybe you’d rather know what moved your loved one. What brought them to tears and to anger. The music they sang and danced to. The books, poetry, movies, loves unrequited and lost, photographs, treasured memories and dreams, interests, and passions that drenched their life with meaning. Who they were, rather than what they did. I think that’s what most of us want and would want to leave. It’s what I want to leave.

But how much do I want to share? Which bits are most important to me, speak most eloquently of who I am and have been and still yearn to be? What do I want to hide, for fear or dread or shame? And why does it matter at all when I won’t be around? These are questions I’m asking myself for the first time. I’ve not figured it all out yet. Hopefully, I have plenty of time to do so. But in making a start I’ve come to understand the responsibility such work entails.

I can leave YouTube links and playlists but no one will ever feel what I feel when listening to the music that’s threaded my life with meaning. My words will be an important part of my legacy but no one will ever feel what I feel reading my poetry, my short stories, our book, my blog posts. I can write of my people, past and present, but no one will ever ache the way I ache, love as I love and have loved. There’s sadness in realising that, but if it were otherwise, if we could capture the totality of a life for those left behind, it would cheapen the significance of death and the experience of losing those we love.

I’d like people to know more than 10 percent of Marty but there has to be room for what can only be mourned. What’s lost is as important as what’s preserved. I’m recognising that legacy work is a creative process. I get to be selective, to shine a light on this and that, leaving other parts in the shadows. I see it as curating my life as one might curate an art exhibition or anthology. Not everything will make the final cut. I’d settle for 40 percent. (Ah, but which 40 percent?)

 

If you’re interested in legacy work or would like more information about end of life planning, check out the Die Well Death Education website. (“You’re going to die. Why not die well?”)

 

Photo by Marina Shatskih at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 23 October 2024

Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed

But what counted was how you behaved while death let you live, and how you met death when life released you.

— Edith Pearlman

It’s hard to imagine anything more personal than our relationship to death, yet few of us give it more than a passing thought. I’ve mourned those I’ve lost, but until recently I’d scarcely considered what death itself means to me, how I wish to approach mine, or what legacy I’d like to leave.

I was eighteen years old when my father died. Everything was handled by my mother and other family members. I remember his cremation service, the coffin retreating behind the velour curtain, but my contribution was limited to choosing a few words to go on the order of service. (“How sad the song.”) My mother died in 2018 at the age of ninety-eight. I played no part in the funeral arrangements, the sale of her house, or the execution of her will despite being a named executor and beneficiary. I was content, relieved even, to leave it to others. It means, though, that I’ve reached my sixties with little experience of what it means to die, or how to handle the practical side of a loved one’s death.

I’m in decent health, physically and mentally. I don’t feel my end is approaching any time soon but it’s increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that my years, months, and days are not unnumbered. Fran is the same age as me. She has an advance directive (living will) and has given thought to what final arrangements she’d want for herself. The closest I’ve come to end of life planning is helping her navigate the legal side of trusts, wills, and powers of attorney on behalf of her parents, both of whom are still alive. It’s been fascinating, eye-opening — and overwhelming. I don’t have a will, an advance directive, or anything approaching an end of life plan. I’ve no idea what I want to happen to “all my stuff” once I’m no longer around to deal with it. I know I should make arrangements but there’s always seemed too much to think about, plan, and decide.

Death Education

All this changed a month or so ago during a call with Fran. She’d attended a Die Well event run by Leona Oceania of Die Well Death Education (DWDE). Fran was incredibly impressed by Leona’s knowledge and approach to the subject. As is clear from her bio, Leona is a passionate advocate for end of life education. She’s a certified home funeral guide, a death educator, an end of life doula, a hospice volunteer, and a member of the National End-of-Life Doula Alliance (NEDA).

As Fran and I talked, I realised how important a topic it is, not just generally but to me personally. I told Fran I wanted to explore it in a blog post, or even a series of posts. I’d thought of doing this in the past, but I’d always felt too overwhelmed to know where to start. I suddenly saw a way forward. If I felt overwhelmed and unsure, surely others did too. It was the perfect place to begin this journey. I didn’t have to figure it all out first. That realisation led me to write this piece you’re reading. Consider it an introduction or jumping off point. If you’ve thought about end of life planning but didn’t know where to start, this is for you.

There’s a great deal of information on the DWDE website, which I highly recommend checking out. Some topics and suggestions were familiar to me, others completely new. The content is intended for an American audience but the principles apply no matter where you live (and die). I need to work through it all, but one subject in particular caught my interest, legacy work.

Legacy Work

On the DWDE website, Leona describes legacy work as “perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can provide to your friends, family, and loved ones. To share your stories, advice, knowledge, thoughts, and feelings is something only you can provide, and it is an immeasurable gift.”

Whether or not we plan for it in advance, two things are certain. We will die, and we will be mourned by those who knew and loved us. Few of us give thought to directing and informing the conversation about us once we’ve passed. That’s what legacy work is about. It’s about helping our friends and loved ones ground their grief in something more tangible — more us — than their feelings and memories.

I’m reminded of artist Lizzie Rowe, whose stunning painting Dysphoria hangs in the Laing Art Gallery here in Newcastle. Researching for a blog post commemorating a visit earlier this year, I found a video by two of the late artist’s friends in which they discussed her life and work. It seems to me that visual artists have a head start in the legacy game. They leave behind tangible works which, one way or another, capture and evoke their life, interests, and nature. The same is arguably true of writers, in which case this blog and our books will form part of my legacy. My inner life is captured in personal diaries spanning more than five decades. What happens to them after my death is a different matter, and something I’ve yet to reach any decision about.

Mentioning our blog reminds me of another important aspect of legacy work. Digital legacy (or digital assets) is a broad term which encompasses everything a person owns and uses in the digital realm. It includes digital photos and videos, e-mail accounts, social media accounts and posts, blogs, websites, web hosting and domain names, and the technology and services required to maintain and access them. For someone like me who lives so much online, this is a big deal. It’s something I really do need to give thought to.

End of Life Planning and Mental Health

End of life planning is an important and healthy thing to do, but it’s not without potential issues. Talking with family and loved ones about what we want to happen when we die can be difficult for those we’ll leave behind. It’s a social taboo which deserves to be challenged — this is part of the reason Fran and I are so keen to address it publically — but it’s naive to pretend the taboo doesn’t exist or that everyone will be happy to enter the conversation with us.

It’s not simply that we’re unused to talking about end of life. In certain circumstances, it’s taken as a warning signal. Making preparations for death such as putting our affairs in order or gifting things to others is a red flag for suicidal thinking. It’s a valid concern and needs to be taken seriously, but that doesn’t mean someone living with mental health issues should be discouraged or prevented from end of life plannning. Every life is worthy of legacy. Nor is it something only to be set aside until old age, whatever that means. Death can find us at any age. I recently attended a one hundredth birthday. I’m unlikely to reach that milestone but can reasonably anticipate another two decades. Then again, I lost a dear friend to illness at the age of fourty-three. Another at fourty-seven. It’s never too soon to think about these things.

Legacy and mental health came to light in a recent conversation with my friend and fellow blogger Aimee Wilson. She mentioned a passage from High Tide Low Tide which discusses how stigma can be protective in certain circumstances.

The stigma surrounding mental illness is unhelpful and dangerous to the extent it makes people less likely to seek help, or speak to someone about what they are going through. Yet paradoxically, it can be protective to some degree. As Fran sees it, the taint of suicide would follow her even in death. She would be remembered not for her successes — her career, her books, her caring relationships, or the courage she has displayed through decades of illness — but as a failure. Whether or not she survived, she would always be “Fran Houston, that woman who tried to kill herself.” As much as she despises it, the shame of suicide helps to keep her away from the edge.

Aimee told me she’s found this insight personally helpful. It’s a reminder of how potent the wisdom we leave behind can be. Our book will be part of our legacy, and it’s something Fran and I want to preserve and protect.

First Steps and Next Steps

I’ve scarcely taken the first steps on this journey but I want to share a few of those steps, partly to hold myself accountable to following through on them.

My Wishes
One of the first things I did was to create an account at My Wishes. This is a free online service which guides you through creating and maintaining a number of key end of life documents including a will, funeral wishes, advance care plan, digital asset list, and bucket list. As I’ve previously discussed, bucket lists aren’t really my thing, but I can see they could be useful for others who are taking stock of their lives and what they still want to achieve.

Obituaries
Fran and I have discussed writing our own obituaries. This feels like a good place to start and might help inform other choices and decisions. There are a number of online resources to guide you through the process including exercises and templates.

Death Cafes
Fran recently attended a Death Cafe session led by Leona and intends to do so regularly. I hadn’t heard of death cafes but it’s a global movement with sessions held all over the world. According to the Death Cafe website, “at a Death Cafe people drink tea, eat cake and discuss death. Our aim is to increase awareness of death to help people make the most of their (finite) lives.” In Leona’s words:

A Death Cafe is a group-guided open conversation about death. (With cake!) There is no agenda, objectives, or themes. A facilitator is present to keep the conversation going (rarely necessary), answer questions, and correct misinformation. It is a discussion group rather than grief support or counseling.

Over 19,000 sessions have been held in ninety-two countries since they began in 2011. Fran found the session interesting and informative. So far I’ve not found any in person Death Cafes in my local area but virtual sessions exist so I may well give those a try.

Education
Aimee told me of a distance learning course she took a few years ago on end of life care including hospice care. I’d like to explore this and other courses to expand my knowledge and awareness.

Keeping the Conversation Going
I’ve started opening conversations about end of life planning with friends and family and will continue to do so.

Letting Go of the Balloon

I don’t usually discuss the titles or images I choose for my blog posts but this one warrants a mention. I didn’t want anything religious, trite, or obvious for such an important article. When I saw Roland Deason’s photograph at Unsplash I knew my search was over. Holding the string of my balloon is how Fran once described my role in her life and that of other trusted friends. The image and title express how it will feel at end of life — whichever of us lets go first.

They also remind me of a gathering I attended some years ago for a beloved friend who died way too young (whatever that means). We shared precious memories, planted a tree, and blew bubbles into the air. It was a simple and beautiful act of collective tribute and remembrance.

 

Wednesday 16 October 2024

How Would You Be Feeling? Exploring Social Anxiety and Adventure

This post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. It happened a few days before she set off on a weekend trip with folk from MOAC (Maine Outdoor Adventure Club). Fran had attended several of their events in the past but this was to be her first trip away with the group. She was feeling a little anxious. I reminded her it's natural to have some anxiety when you're about to do something different. How the anxiety is a strategy your mind and body employ to protect you, perhaps as a result of past dissapointments. If you worry about something in advance and what you are worried about happens, you're prepared. You get to say, "See — I knew it." If what you were worried about doesn't happen, you get to feel relieved and pleasantly surprised. It's not a particularly healthy way of approaching things and it burns a lot of emotional energy, but it's understandable and far more common than we imagine. I reassured her that it was okay to feel what she was feeling, but she didn't have to dwell there. She could acknowledge it and then let it go. It was the kind of conversation we have all the time. Not only about Fran's situation, thoughts, and feelings. Mine too. I think we both felt on familiar ground. Then, Fran asked something that turned things on their head for me.

"How would you be feeling if it was you going away for the weekend with forty people, most of whom you don't know?"

On one level, the question was straightforward. How would I feel if I was a few days away from a long weekend in the woods with a group of people I scarcely knew? The fact that I can't imagine doing something like that says a lot. I can challenge myself to do things I've never done before, like a zipwire from the Tyne Bridge for charity (twice), a live radio interview, being a podcast guest, or reading from our book in front of an audience. Those were scary, but manageable. Social events of any kind are different. I'm much more comfortable one-on-one or in very small groups. I'd be well-prepared for the weekend on a practical level. I'd have everything laid out ready to go, the route mapped, and timings confirmed. Inside, I'd be a wreck, seriously looking for ways to back out. As Fran put it, I'd be shaking like a leaf. (I was literally shaking the first time we met in person after two years as transatlantic best friends, at the QEII Cruise Terminal in Southampton back in 2013.)

But there's more to Fran's question than that. By asking me to consider how I'd feel, she invited me to appreciate the reality of her situation. It helped me connect with her more deeply than just responding to her uncertainties and fears. It connected me with how it's been for me in the past when I'd felt scared or daunted by what I was about to do. Situations and scenarios I can imagine myself handling, and those which would unnerve me to the point where I would freeze up inside.

The question also reminded me of the differences and similarities between us. Fran's social anxiety is real but she'll find ways to work with it in the name of adventure. She's told me in the past she's better at getting along with "new people" than folk she's known a long time. I think she's a little unfair to herself regarding established friendships, but she's certainly better around people she doesn't know than I am. It's part of the reason she loves traveling so much. As I write this, she's away on her MOAC weekend. I'm confident she'll return with a few new friends and some great stories. I'd come back having spent most of the time by myself at the edge of things, observing what was going on, more or less content but failing to engage meaningfully with anyone. Neither approach is necessarily right or wrong, but despite similar anxieties we handle social situations very differently.

There's one more dimension to what Fran did. By asking me how I would be feeling, she reversed our roles. She gave herself the opportunity to have someone share their anxieties and uncertainties with her. Regarding her trip my feelings were hypothetical, but she nevertheless got to see things from someone else's perspective. It might seem a small thing, but for me that was the most significant aspect of our exchange. We've come up with various tools and approaches over the years. They help us explore how we're feeling and navigate through uncertain times to firmer ground. This was a new one. It's valuable in itself, and a great reminder that there's always something new to learn from and with each other. The photo I chose for this post is particularly appropriate because I bought Fran a mug just like the one depicted for her weekend away. The simple message — The Adventure Begins — reminds me that there's adventure to be found in our lives whatever we choose to do with our time, be that hiking the woods of Maine with people we don't know or sitting in a coffee shop in Kingston Park writing about it.

 

The Maine Outdoor Adventure Club (MOAC) is an all-volunteer member organization in the state of Maine, USA. Outdoor activities range from peaceful and relaxing to challenging and full of excitement. For details, check their website.

Photo by Freddy Kearney at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 9 October 2024

Do More of What You're Good at and Keep Good People Close: What I've Learned about Prioritising Mental Health in the Workplace

Organised by the World Federation for Mental Health, World Mental Health Day is celebrated each year on October 10. The theme for 2024 is “It is time to prioritize mental health in the workplace.” Rather than writing generically about the topic, I’d like to share some experiences from my working life over the past four decades.

A few weeks ago on social media I came across a New Yorker cartoon by Kendra Allenby. The cartoon shows a boss talking to an employee about a promotion. “At this point in your career,” he says, “your only possible promotion is to management, where you will stop doing the work you love and use a skill set you don’t have and we don’t teach.”

It hit hard and I shared it on, with the status “Been feeling this one a lot lately.” A friend and colleague replied that he’d felt the same, and had to take a leap “into the great unknown.” That’s a really positive response to career stagnation and I wish him well. It’s not one I’m motivated to take, however. At the age of sixty-three, I don’t have many years left in my current employ. As I told my friend, “I’m just waiting my time out now, to be honest.”

It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way. I’ve rarely felt I was in the right place or role, and the only way to progress involved moving further away from using my skills and knowledge effectively. I’ll return to my present situation, but I want to start by sharing what was going on for me back in 1985 when I was seriously considering giving up on the work I was doing at the time. I was as frustrated and despondent as I can remember being at any point in my life, before or since. Not all the reasons were work related, but most were.

I was twenty-four years old, roughly halfway through a three-year post-graduate research post in London. I enjoyed living in London but it didn’t take long to realise I wasn’t cut out for a career in research. I wasn’t the only one to notice. A colleague I respected enormously informed me she didn’t think I was a proper scientist and should be doing something more creative instead. Another colleague who became my unofficial mentor and a dear friend, told me I was a better engineer than a scientist. I couldn’t disagree. I found it hard to engage with the work, and lost any belief I’d held concerning its value beyond securing the department a research grant and the publication of a few scientific papers.

What frustrated and upset me most, however, was the interminable bickering, game-playing, and pettiness that had taken hold. I often found myself stressed, irritable, judgmental, and prone to verbal outbursts. Looking back, I can see how toxic it was. One colleague put in a formal complaint about how the department was being run. My mentor friend was treated so poorly it threatened her career. Others confided in me that working there was seriously affecting their mental health.

Things came to a head for me in the autumn of 1985. Several colleagues I knew, liked, and felt able to confide in were leaving for new roles elsewhere. With a year still to complete, I would be left almost alone and unsupported to face the office politics and factionism. I knew I couldn’t remain if things didn’t improve, and was seriously considering resigning. I raised my concerns with the head of department and was told: “If you don’t like it, we don’t want you.” Needless to say, this didn’t help much.

The next day, I played truant and spent the afternoon walking on the beach with a long-time friend. The day itself will be the subject of another blog post, but somewhere on the shore and in the words I shared with my friend something changed for me. I wrote to her afterwards.

Eloping with you gave me the opportunity to find some calm, and to remember that there are more important things than whether or not I’m 100% happy in work. Like people.

A few days later as I was packing to move from my bedsit to the flat vacated by two friends who were “abandoning” me for a new life elsewhere, I had the revelation that kept me in London for the remainder of my contract. The following is from my diary.

In the midst of it all I was struck with the following almost instantaneous sequence of thoughts:

idon’twanttohavetodoallthisagainifileave : idon’twanttoleave

I stood, utterly convinced of my conclusion yet also utterly unsure of why, or what it meant. I have not irretrievably decided to stick it out in the Department, but I think I will.

I’d lost or was about to lose most of the people who’d made life in the department bearable, but I had other friends in and around London. Resigning might mean having to relocate and I didn’t want to lose them too. As I wrote to my beach walking friend, “If I stay, it will not be just because of you [...] but I think if I did leave, I would be turning my back on a lot.”

It wasn’t enough to simply decide to stay. I had to figure out how to do that in a different way, one that protected me from the chaos. Taking a leaf out of my mentor’s book, I focused on the work and withdrew as far as possible from engaging on a personal level with the people around me. I wrote in my diary, “Part of my pact with myself is that if I stay, I do not become entangled in the lives of the others in the department.”

I started going in early and at weekends, when there were fewer people around. I planned my work diligently, often weeks ahead, and consulted with my mentor to keep me on track. The change didn’t go unnoticed. Asked several times what had caused such a transformation in my attitude, I replied it was easier to survive in the department if I removed myself as much as possible from the politics and people, even though that might lead to me being considered antisocial. It wasn’t plain sailing and not everything went to plan. Nevertheless, at the end of the year, I could look back with some satisfaction, recognising the support and care shown to me by my friend and mentor.

I am not and never will be in her eyes a scientist, but I have won her respect, friendship, and confidence. I am perhaps more grateful to her than anyone else for this past year. She was not instrumental in my decision to stay, but without her it would have been easy to renege on that commitment.

That final year was hard. I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do, I wasn’t good at it, and I had little in the way of support. I was unhappy, but one way or another I held things together and completed my programme of work. I’d spent many months on my thesis but ultimately — and against the advice of my mentor — decided not to complete it. I don’t regret staying, but I’m not sure it was the best decision I ever made. I lost an opportunity to change direction and address the real problem, the mismatch between my skills, aptitude, and interests, and my working environment.

I left London at the end of 1986 and moved north to Newcastle upon Tyne to take up another research post. The nature of the research was quite different, but I was no more suited to it than before. I was frustrated and unfulfilled, but didn’t know what to do about it. I completed my contract, then found myself out of work. It took several more years, a retraining course in business computing, and a spell working for a screen print firm, to land the IT job I’ve had ever since. There have been many ups and downs. More than once, I despaired and felt close to throwing it all in and leaving. For one reason or another — not least the care and support extended to me by my colleagues and managers — I’m still here. Last year I completed thirty years of service, which I explored in Getting a Living, Forgetting to Live. It was hard to feel much sense of achievement

[T]he experience left me feeling demotivated. Demoralised. More than anything else, I felt sad. Thirty years working for essentially the same employer — and in essentially the same role — doesn’t feel much of an achievement to me. It feels like what happens when you never pushed yourself to find something better.

Another year on, and not much has changed. I’m sixty-three. I don’t have an exit plan but retirement won’t be too far off. I’ve no ambition to go further up the ladder. To do so I’d have to pretend to be someone and something I’m not and have no interest in becoming. It would mean more money — a not insignificant consideration — but it wouldn’t make me happier. I can’t claim to be poorly paid and there are more important things than job roles and grades. That’s what my time in London taught me. I’m fortunate to work in a great team where I feel able to contribute. There’s no hint of the politics and petty squabbles I knew all those years ago in London. I may be “waiting my time out” but it’s not a bad situation in which to spend my final years of employment.

Fran said something to me recently which struck me as important. I was talking about some of the side projects I’ve been working on lately, developing scripts and utilities to streamline tasks the team performs on a daily basis. She said it was good that I’ve been able to carve out a role for myself. I’d not thought of it like that, but she’s right. Programming isn’t really part of my role. I’m not a developer. I work in application support. The team’s responsibility is keeping live service running and managing incidents, problems, and changes to make sure it stays that way. Nevertheless, my boss welcomes my ideas and encourages me to find ways to make our team’s tasks easier and more straightforward to perform. I’m learning new things in the process, mostly self-taught as and when I need it. It’s creative. It’s fun. It’s good for my job satisfaction, mental health, and wellbeing.

The title of this blog post — Do More of What You’re Good at and Keep Good People Close — captures what I’ve learned about navigating the workplace safely and enjoyably. Figure out what’s important to you. What you’re good at. Do more of that. Do more of what brings satisfaction to your working day. Don’t keep frustrations to yourself. Ask for help when you need it. I would never have made it through my final year in London without my mentor friend. Over the past thirty years I’ve been blessed to have a number of managers, colleagues, and friends who’ve encouraged and supported me. I’m bound to miss some names (sorry) but Judith, Loveday, Lois, Debbie, Tony, and Lisa, I’m thinking of you.

It’s also important to figure out what you’ll tolerate, because things will rarely be exactly to your liking. Where are your red lines in terms of pressure, workload, or behaviour? What are you not prepared to accept? Are you able to recognise when you’re becoming stressed, anxious, or overwhelmed? Do you know what to do about it? Can you discuss things with your boss, colleagues, or union representative? If your workplace has Mental Health First Aiders as mine does, consider reaching out to them. Seek your doctor’s advice if things are affecting your mental or physical health.

I’ll close with a piece of advice I was offered, a few years into my present employment. I’d been offered a promotion to team lead twice but had declined each time. I didn’t feel I was up to the additional responsibilities and pressure. A more senior colleague told me he’d felt the same when he was offered the opportunity. He told himself that those above him clearly thought he could fill the role, so he took the money and gave it his best shot. His words gave me the confidence to say yes when promotion was offered one final time. I never felt confident in the team leader role, but I was perhaps not the worst manager my team ever had. If I helped to make their working days more bearable, even rewarding, and encouraged them to find themselves in their role, I’m content. They certainly helped me. That’s what it’s about for me. Oh, and don’t tell co-workers to fuck off, as I once did in London. (Sorry, Mary!) That’s not good.

 

Photo by Carl Heyerdahl at Unsplash.

 

Wednesday 2 October 2024

At the Going Down of the Sun: Attending Twilight in the Park With My Best Friend

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

— Laurence Binyon. “For the Fallen.”

Fran and I have shared a great many adventures, trips, and experiences in our thirteen years as friends. Few have been as moving as accompanying her to the recent Twilight in the Park event in Fran’s home city of Portland, Maine. Organised by the Hospice of Southern Maine, Twilight in the Park is a community event to remember and celebrate loved ones who have died, and their families, friends, and caregivers. This year’s event was held on Saturday September 29 in Deering Oaks Park. Fran was keen to attend, and took me with her virtually by video call. The following details are from the hospice website.

Imagine thousands of luminarias glowing warmly at dusk, each light representing someone who has brought love and light into our lives. At Twilight, thousands of luminarias are lit, each one bearing the name of a loved one being remembered, or a special person being honored. Many find this evening to be a profound and transformative experience in the process of healing. Twilight is open to everyone, regardless of whether you’ve had a loved one in our care.

The event was very well attended. People were standing, sitting, or walking slowly around the empty splash pool which was lined with lanterns. We bumped into a lady Fran knew who was there with her friend. Fran introduced me as her best friend from England, and I got to say hello. I’m always surprised at how effortlessly people accept my virtual presence when I’m out with Fran. We found a vantage point on the bridge overlooking the pool. The event began with the song Somewhere Over the Rainbow, followed by a welcome by Mark Jones, Board Chair of the Hospice of Southern Maine. There were further songs, including The Beatles’ Let it Be, and words of remembrance and tribute by HSM Chaplain Larry Greer. The words weren’t always perfectly audible to me over our video call but I recognised Laurence Binyon’s “For the Fallen.”

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Fran found the rendition of Taps by Sgt Bryan Noyes especially moving. The twenty-four note melody was used as call for lights out during the American Civil War. Today it’s best known as the nation’s official Song of Remembrance and is played to remember those who have given their lives in the service of the United States.There was also a reading of the poem “Four Candles.” This was new to me but I found it very evocative.

The first candle represents our grief. The pain of losing you is intense. It reminds us of the depth of our love for you.

The second candle represents our courage. The courage to confront our sorrow, to comfort each other, to change our lives.

The third candle we light in your memory. For the times we laughed, the times we cried, the times we were angry with each other, the funny things you did, the caring and joy you gave us.

The fourth candle we light for our love. We light this candle that your light will always shine. We think of you each day and share your memory with our family and friends.

We cherish the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved for you. We thank you for the gift your living brought to each of us. We love you. We remember you.

— Anon

As the event played out below us, my thoughts were with people I’ve known over the years who are no longer here. My dear friend PJ. My beautiful friend Julieta from Mexico, a talented artist and devoted mother. The lady on whose Facebook page Fran and I first met. The sister of a mutual friend, whose life was being celebrated elsewhere by her family and friends that same day.

I thought too about the end of life and legacy work Fran and I have been doing recently. The blog posts I’ve written (to be published later this month) about end of life planning in general, and how I want to be remembered by those I’ll leave behind when the time comes. It came to me that remembrance needn’t be limited to a single event shortly after someone dies. Lives can be commemorated and celebrated time after time, in different ways and by different people, individually or together. That’s helpful because it alleviates the pressure on those responsible for arranging things once we’ve departed. It‘s not necessary to get everything right and complete in one go.

It was dark by the time the chaplain gave his closing remarks. I walked Fran back to her apartment, each of us lost in our individual thoughts, memories, and feelings. I’m grateful to Fran for taking me with her, and to the Hospice of Southern Maine for putting on the event. If you’d like more details of their work, check out their website.

 

Video call screenshot by Martin Baker.