The Grieving Jester

Hello, it’s me again, Jester, my author’s grief. I seemed to get such a positive reception last time (an unusual thing for me!) that I thought I would show my face again.  At the moment, I am messing with my author's head and she doesn't really know whether she is coming or going. I am now making the majority of her days roll by in, what seems like, a film of greyness. A lot of the time she doesn't feel too bad (or too good) and she's reconciled to the fact that this is just how it is. I think this means that she's getting used to me as her companion, although underneath it all I still make sure that there's that deep undercurrent of sorrow. I'm just there, in the fabric of everyday life and she is finding it hard to get her head around the change from the roller coaster she was on before. Don't misunderstand me, though, I still give her days where she hits rock bottom, and that more often than she would like! It's so easy, I just have to set her bra...

There are thirteen stairs between my living room and kitchen, and this is how my thinking went yesterday evening... Top step: “I feel happy... it's been a good day.” Eleventh step: “It's a relief to get the front door sorted at last...” Ninth step: “…and I enjoyed the exhibition.” Seventh step: “It was good to chat with my friend over tea...” Fifth step: “...I hope she felt the same.” Third step: “I must tell B about the door... no, not again! You can't, he's dead.  Anyway, if he was here, he'd know about the door.  You stupid woman!” Bottom step: “Why does my brain do this?” Into the kitchen: Anger – “Why didn't he tell me about these things to do with the house, the stopcock, fuse boxes, etc? Why am I even thinking this, I know about the stop cock and fuse boxes, he didn't need to tell me! You're so stupid...” At the kettle: “I miss him so much!” -  tears (again!)   I know it's stupid, I know it's not logical... it's mad... but still it hap...

These past ten days or so have been strange. And as I write that, I realise that I use this phrase a lot. This is, for me, what grief is like. This week I posted one of my collages on Facebook. I didn’t think much about it, except now I notice the words on it – ‘embrace the journey’, ‘be open to whatever comes next’, and ‘a stranger in a strange land. A foreigner in a country unfamiliar to him’. I am a stranger in a strange land! Why have these last days been strange? Well, because: It was my sister’s and my birthdays – we had two lovely days, but overall they were a strain. At the back of it all, I just kept thinking, ‘B should be here’ and ‘I miss him so much’. Fortunately, after that it felt easier. I left my phone behind when my sister & went out for a walk. When I realised, almost my first thought was ‘B won’t be able to get hold of me’. Another evening, I thought, 'I'll just ring B and tell him what we've been doing'. It’s over six months now, and yet thoughts...

I have been thinking about how I look! Recently, several people have said to me, “you’re looking well”, “you’ve lost weight”, “you’re looking trim”, “ you're looking very svelte”, “you look tanned”, etc. Don’t get me wrong, it’s always nice to get compliments, but at the moment it’s rather a double-edged sword. If someone tells me I look well, and many people have, the dialogue that goes on in my brain is something like this: “they’re right, I know I look well, but how can I possibly look well when I feel so shattered on the inside; when my world has fallen apart; when I’m getting so little sleep, etc.” or “perhaps, I’m not doing this grief thing right, how can I look so well when B is dead” (it feels like I’m betraying him). I’m pleased I’ve lost weight, it’s a good thing, but again it’s a double-edged sword. In the past it has been a struggle to lose weight, but this time I didn’t even have to try, so how should I reply? Usually, I just say ‘thank you’, but sometimes I do say “it...

There are many definitions of pain, but I have been a nurse long enough to know that pain is a response to some sort of wound, injury or assault, and that it is a warning sign to tell us that something is wrong. There is a great amount of science as to the why and how of pain, but then there is also the experience of pain, which is a different entity. Pain is subjective. B never had an anaesthetic before having a tooth filled, he thought the pain was less troublesome than the side-effects of the anaesthetic, whereas I would never contemplate having a filling without having the injection first. When I used to teach about pain control, I liked to use the definition by McCaffery (1968) 1 , that says pain is "whatever the experiencing person says it is, existing whenever and wherever the person says it does". In palliative care, we may not be able to get rid of the cause of the pain, but we can relieve the suffering it causes. It hadn’t occurred to me, though (duh!), until I read...

 Music has always played a fairly significant part in my life but, strangely, I have played very little since B died. As I’ve said previously, I think it’s because it is just so emotive. I am slowly getting over the hurdle of not playing cheerful music because it seemed wrong when grieving, but I still avoid sad music, and sometimes what I hadn’t deemed sad previously now seems to be. When I have felt like having some music on, I’ve tried to look for neutral music – I’m aware as I write it that that sounds idiotic, how can music be neutral? – and, of course, it hasn’t worked! For some reason I find it easier to play music in the car, classical or pop, it just seems more natural, although I have no reason why!  Music in church is the same, it can make me feel joyful or throw me into deep sadness. I know I am not alone in this. It reaches the guts, the heart… Anyway, a few days ago a video of chap called Dr K appeared on my Facebook page. I don’t usually have the sound switched ...

I am The Jester, otherwise known as the grief of my author. That part of her that she needs but doesn’t want. You won’t know me, although you will probably know some of my family, I have millions of siblings, cousins, and distant cousins. We are the biggest tribe in the world, although none of us are quite alike. We are each as unique as the person we live with. So, let me tell you about myself. I am now 6 months old, although I don’t feel like a young thing, I feel as though I am old and grey and heavy. It’s quite funny really, initially, my author thought I would just sit on her shoulders, admittedly at times more heavily than others, but she has now cottoned-on to the fact that I am actually a part of her, and at the moment a substantial part of her, and that I’ll probably be with her for the rest of her life (she doesn’t know it yet, but I will become easier to live with over time, but possibly not as quickly as everyone else thinks it should be).  My job is to help her experie...