Crumbs In Our Wake

Crumbs in Our Wake

As we walk the quiet streets of our cities in the assumed isolation of our seemingly contented spaces, we so easily and unknowingly leave crumbs of who and what we are in our wake.

Others, like pigeons of the air, swoop down and peck away at those crumbs, a meal provided by the divine hand of providence, in whom we can scarcely believe cares enough for us, even when neither bird nor beast worries, for provision does indeed come.

These crumbs tell other stories, the ones we cannot let go of because unanswered questions remain. It is unlikely we would ever get the opportunity to satisfy the curiosity that one strange encounter brings into view, even as we try to mind our own business.

A Chance Encounter

Much earlier today, a lady was coming towards me, pushing a pram. I presumed she was a grandmother, and not a walking miracle of Sarah begetting Isaac after the incredulity of her laughter at the idea that she could still bear a child.

She was adjusting a paper windmill, or pinwheel, and for that alone the expectation was that a child, reclined in the pram, was being entertained or distracted with the novelty of a spinning attraction. Had small talk ensued, it would have been about seeing a pleasantly focused, smiling toddler, whilst commending the grandmother for keeping the child at peace.

The Doll in the Pram

As I walked past, I looked to see a grinning face, teeth showing with the gaiety of the widest smile possible, even legs being thrown up in the air in acknowledgement of the object positioned for their attention. Nothing of the sort; the passenger in the ornate perambulator was a doll, unmistakably the plastic rigidity of a lifeless presence that only a doll could muster.

There was no need for a double take, but one did vacillate between concern and sympathy. Concern that this story was one of mental illness brought into the public sphere; the wish for a child now given over to the taking of a doll for an outing, with all the presence of mind to furnish that doll with the trimmings that might accompany a child.

Sympathy and Grace

Then came sympathy for whatever the tragic story might be, such as the loss of a grandchild remembered daily in this sad display of grief that I had now uncomfortably witnessed. A daily upset for her, and a lingering one for me, for how do you ask the pertinent questions?

There might be another angle, though, beyond concern or sympathy, this being eccentricity, and we all have some of that in us in different measures. Whether this be suffering expressed so vividly, or an expression too quickly misunderstood, the reality of a person's private world is not that private when brought into the public sphere.

A Good Samaritan Nature

Yet even this might not begin to cover the spectrum of life experiences that became that momentary observation, for any person's story is barely told in a brief encounter. Rather, what we know in part might define them too narrowly in comparison to who they really are.

And if we were to ignore the things we see, we could, in that very mindset, miss the moment when someone in distress could do with our Good Samaritan nature and our help.

Yet, in the crumbs that the pigeons do get to feed on, is a complete meal not better than manna, without a care for what tomorrow brings? There, but for the grace of God, go we, so that whatever story we tell might be a blessing to another.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content.

When Change Borrows the Lexicon of Grief

A Week of Lethargy

I would hate to admit to being lethargic, but there could be no other word to explain it. Last week, when returning from London, I bought a piece of rump steak and a salad, with the view to having it for supper.

That never happened. Each day as I returned home thinking I might cook, I was simply too tired to be bothered, so in most cases, I went to bed on an empty stomach and only got up quite late to take my pills.

When it comes to food, I enjoy cooking, and there are times when I do crave something different, but I never immediately act to fulfil that craving. It sits on my mind for a while until it is either dismissed as exhausting or I am compelled to act.

Steak, Finally

After more than a week, I took the steak out of the fridge, marinated it, and rather than tossing it in oil in a frying pan, I left the cooking to the air fryer. Soon it was done, wrapped in foil for five minutes, before I put it on a plate and served it with the salad.

I probably did not recover the sense of satisfaction that had greeted my initial intention and purchase, but I am glad it did not end up in the bin through disuse and spoilage.

Shifting Ground

Then, as I navigated the issues that needlessly occupy the mind in uncomfortable ways, I attended an all-hands meeting that dwelt on the future of work. It was the kind of situation where you feel the ground shifting under you as if you were experiencing an earthquake.

I was able to link this to another experience where, as a sitting tenant, my apartment was sold to a provincial carpetbagger who probably should not have been speculating in my city. Considering not much had changed in my apartment for a decade, I was receiving demands to meet rates relative to the area without any corresponding changes to the commodity.

Loving where I live and my neighbours, I have made adjustments and accommodations, but there are limits to acquiescing before it becomes untenable. A recent posting in my village would suggest I am paying over the odds.

A Contract in Flux

The shifting sands metaphor also applies to work. The services contract between my employer and the client is changing such that the functions I perform will transfer to another service provider, whilst my employer assumes an overarching responsibility between the client and all the engaged service providers.

I think my employer is somewhat conflicted, because they would lose personnel engagement but acquire a broader first line support profile, along with that control and interface between the service providers and the client. The question is whether I am transferred to a new service provider or retained to function with other clients.

Grief Is Not a Career Change

For me, that meeting was rather depressing, and it was not helped by someone in a top managerial role trying to be a psychologist, addressing issues of fundamental change to career trajectories.

For someone who has studied and traversed the Five Stages of Grief with respect to two life-threatening episodes of cancer, the last thing I expected was to recognise those words adapted into a philosophy of change at work.

The intent was commendable, but I do not think due consideration was given to the effect such associations would have on the attendees. Changing jobs or having employment contracts change whilst retaining the same role can never equate to any stage of grief of the kind I had experienced.

It was almost as if she were having a laugh whilst trying to be empathetic and serious.

In the end, I was unimpressed and totally nonchalant, even as the burden of other concerns, including health challenges, became a lexicon of daily struggles seeking ascendancy over better stories and good living.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

From stage to stage

On a stage of pain

When I ended up in hospital on Tuesday, the 22^nd of September 2009, I was in so much pain, I found no facility to cry, and I was already on some of the strongest painkillers that could be given you without constant medical supervision.

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain (September 2009)

Indeed, the pain of cancer is so totally otherworldly, the fact that anyone can even sleep through the pain is a wonder of human nature probably not fully understood to be appreciated. Pain then comes in many ways, the physical can be visible, but the emotional is less so, you can put on a face and veil how you feel, even that façade can soon shatter.

I find myself accessing the Kübler-Ross model on the Five Stages of Grief which I came upon as I was writhing in unbearable pain when I could not tolerate the morphine as it was one or the other, throwing up food I needed for sustenance or managing the pain enough to have my faculties delivered from a madness that was bordering on delirium.

The five stages of the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle (ResearchGate)

Blog - Seeing hospital meals again (September 2009)

From stage to stage

For a long time, I was in denial, I was dying even as I was taking each day as it came, I was already aware that the presumably Athlete’s Foot was at least a type of cancer, but I was also bargaining for a miracle cure, my reality was seeking a supernal intervention that I had not convinced myself of. My denial was a reality I was not ready to accept as real.

In almost an instant, I woke up after my fifth night in the hospital with a sense of acceptance, I was speaking to myself in the first person, “Akin, you have cancer, what next?” That was when I began to see beyond the cancer and this was days before my consultant in his prognosis said, if I could not tolerate the treatment that included gruelling chemotherapy, I only had 5 weeks to live.

Blog - Getting off the pain train (September 2009)

In my spirit and in my mind, I was ahead of that kind of medical prognostication, I knew I was coming through, I just did not know what kind of life that future held. It took almost another 6 months for my body to catch up with my acceptance. The battle is always in the mind. I have used the model sometimes consciously but more unconsciously to understand many other aspects of adversity and infirmity that I have encountered and what stage I might be in.

Other words to stage

There might be synonymous feelings  and emotional responses that are not fully expressed in the starkness of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. I might not have been in shock, but I would have been winded or blind-sided, this is a perspective of the feeling of anger. Where I would not suggest that I am depressed, I might well be sad, lacking in motivation, or even indifferent, it is important not to boil down the emotion to fit a construct.

When I was told my baby sister had chronic kidney disease, that situation was immediately overwhelming for me, I was in grief and mourning, my acceptance of the situation was one of resignation. Sadly, I had no faith or hope for a future, I was preparing myself for the end, it came almost 3 and half years later. She had a life-long illness than medicine only seemed to ameliorate on occasion, other factors playing in adherence and discipline exacerbated matters. Her death was a release, difficult as it was.

Yet, I am not always at the point where I am seeing beyond the situation, acceptance is a process some never get to, just as denial is sometimes a defence mechanism. Why dwell in your reality when there is safety in avoidance? Some truths are difficult to assess; you would rather not be acquainted with it.

Stuck in a stage

I suppose unpredictability is one characteristic feature of our humanity, you cannot predetermine how you would react to an event. Much of your experience might equip you for what is ahead, and help you process the news you hear, but the effect is impossible to chart, it is on review that you might see how you have been affected.

As I filled my weekly pillbox yesterday, it seemed more like a chore than the routine it was, an indifference creeping in that I needed to counter because my stream of consciousness and expectation had been interrupted. I guess on the processing of this new grief, I am still in denial.

Thought Picnic: We are at peak mourning

Alright, here we are

The British expression of the veneration for the dead is quite fascinating to watch, for in the 8 days since the passing of Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth II, the pomp, pageantry, ceremony, and performance that has greeting this period of mourning before her funeral has plumbed excesses rarely seen anywhere.

If the Queen were a Roman Catholic, she would be well on her way to beatification long before she has been interred. We are suffocated with coverage that could abandon common sense for sheer mass hysteria and uncontrolled genuflection.

Indeed, there is more grief for the immediate family of the Queen, and for the nation, is the realisation that a lady who has defined a major part of our national life is no longer with us. For her service and duty, we gather to pay our respects and honour her.

What I well see

Having great influences of another culture in my upbringing, a death at 96 is not considered sorrowful, rather a celebration of first a long life and then congratulations to their survivors for outliving their parents. I find myself at confluence and conflict as both my British and Nigerian influences wrestle with the spectacle that greets me.

At one time, I did think of travelling down to London for the laying-in-state, but after reviewing the rules and the prospect of being in interminably long queues for the prospect of a fleeting moment of bowing before a laden catafalque, I advised myself of the better participation in witnessing the civil and religious royal proclamations, along with signing the book of condolence at Manchester Cathedral.

For the living to be

I never had the occasion to meet the Queen, not that it was ever an ambition or desire, except for others who might if the situation presented itself would celebrate it. If perchance, one did meet with royalty, maybe there would be some interaction and conversation that in this case is absent from the dead, except if one were to indulge in necromancy.

My counsel informs that this performative exercise in public grief is hardly a front seat row and more an acquiescence of the establishment to gauge the popularity of the institutions that undergird it, as there is an enumerator somewhere seeking to use the numbers to convey a point.

To king I vow

All this does not make me any less a monarchist, I am quite comfortable with the unimaginative consistency of a hereditary constitutional monarchy that puts the excesses of political chicanery in check as much as it can without interfering with the system, than to radically change the system to a republic. What we need is a reform of our voting system to be more representative of the electorate and the less use of patronage to pack the House of Lords full of chums, plutocrats, and influence peddlers.

The gift of television gives a wider view and where opinion is grating, I can mute the volume.  As for the new royal household, it is a work in progress and all the preparations for this event are still left to some cack-handed courtiers who by trying to maintain intrigue and mystique almost always leave the royals caught rather flatfooted. Before I put pen to paper to reveal character flaws that were once rumoured of.

#TheAIDSMemorial #WhatIsRememberedLives Chris Clark

 

Chris Clark (1973 - 2009)

The AIDS Memorial

I follow the Instagram page of TheAIDSMemorial where the theme of #WhatIsRememberedLives memorialises the many who lost their lives to HIV/AIDS, some many in the late 1980s into the 1990s and even after.

I lost many friends to the plague, and I also made many friends who live as witnesses to the wonders of medicine that now keeps many of us alive. Some were really close friends and their loss shook me to the core, then, one was a lover, for whom the unexpected and sudden realisation of his demise is quite difficult even as I was fighting for my own life on the diagnosis of AIDS and cancer.

Many of us in losing friends or partners of a sexual minority rarely had support or comfort for our losses and grief. Some were ostracised or excluded from the obsequies of people they loved in life out of secrecy, shame, animosity, stigma, or denial. In The AIDS Memorial page, we find an opportunity to remember and ensure those significant relationships are never forgotten.

Of loves lost

That lover was Chris Clark, and this is the only picture I have of Chris Clark (May 30, 1973 - c. October 14, 2009). We met online in late 2003 when he lived in London and I in Amsterdam, there was such an attractive quality about him, his story, his experiences, and his ambitions that drew me to him, I guess I was smitten by that personality.

We tried hard to build a relationship, but I was unsure of what it would entail, I guess I was once afraid and I was lazy about the prospect of a long-distance relationship, I should have been bolder, but I learnt hard lessons in the process. He came to stay with me in Amsterdam when I realised that my cooking was too spicy for him.

Other places we met up for snatches of affection and more were in Berlin and at Playa del Ingles, it didn't bother me footing the expense, I was never able to use my head when it came to Chris, I was all heart and no sense.

In pain and in forgiving

His mum threw him out of their home at the age of 15 when he declared his homosexuality and somehow, it fell to a stranger who took him off the streets of London and then to the United States of America where he finished school and tried a career in film and photography.

Later, he moved to Amsterdam with a partner who sadly committed suicide by drowning in a canal. Much as he had hardships and challenges in his life, the parents who rejected him as he was growing up could not trust any of his apparently responsible older siblings to care for them as they were dying, they called on the humanity of Chris to give them the send-off they desired, and he acquitted himself well in that regard.

He lost his mother in February 2007, she died in his arms and his father in December of the same year, he bore the full cost for the funeral arrangements whilst the siblings quibbled about the estate. His father left everything to him as for everything they did to him, he was the only one that could be trusted to do right. Chris had a large and forgiving heart. I tried to offer emotional support in the absence of family, we last met up greeting in the new year of 2008 in Playa del Ingles.

When he died

He became HIV+ probably a few years before I did, but there were times when he did not have enough to eat in support of his essential medication. I sometimes think he allowed his condition to deteriorate over time. We grew estranged though we maintained sporadic communication into 2009 when my health slowly descended into full-blown AIDS I was hospitalised in late September 2009.

He constantly asked after me sending me text messages I did not promptly respond to, I felt Chris was too deep in my life in some of the things he did that I needed to protect myself, my heart, my emotions, and my mental health even as I was besotted with him. He invited me to Facebook which I did not respond to until after his passing.

I left the hospital on the 9th of October 2009 and as I was settling down just over a week later, I sent a message to his mobile phone and got a shocking response from his flatmate, Chris had died at home of renal failure just around the 14th of October, a few days after my discharge from hospital.

A memorial deserved

I had many fond memories of Chris, and I grieved his passing for many years. One Christmas, I did get the Christmas tree we argued about because I did not want one and he did. It was one way of memorialising him. In fact, I grieved alone sometimes leaving a message on his Facebook on birthdays and the supposed date of his death.

I thought I would never find love again until it took something so extraordinarily special that first reminded me of Chris and then informed me that I could move on from Chris, it took over 9 years for that to happen. He had that cheeky smile, a dry sense of humour, a way of pulling at your heartstrings and a wonderful personality.

I have wanted to write this for a long time, thank you Chris for sharing some time and love with me. Akin Akintayo

I wrote an AIDSMemorial page for Chris Clark in two parts, Part I and Part II, this blog fleshes out parts that I did not include for space constraints.

Thought Picnic: The private grief we've had

The private grief we've had,

As close friends passed away,
Our silent mourning souls,
Couldn't share what made us sad,
In closets, we all wept,
As kith and kin ignored,
The truth of who we were,
The secrets of our lives,
The burdens we still bore,
Of friends that mattered more.

The secrets of our grief

I wrote the poem above in a tweet just a week ago when a friend who I had just learnt had terminal cancer passed away. The realisation that I was sorrowful and yet without those with whom to share that feeling of loss just dawned on me.

It was not the first time that I had shared the demise of a friend, and within the compartmentalisation of my affairs, there are relationships that are as public as they can be and others that are private, discreet, secret and not open to scrutiny.

For those who knew every aspect of my life, to whom I have had the freedom to share my thoughts, feelings and secrets, much can be said about grief, not only of the loss but the fondness and memories that made the person significant, to others whose knowledge of my more private truths are not that obvious, you’re left second-guessing how they would react to being let into the privy of a life.

The love I lost

When I lost my lover just a few days after being discharged from the hospital, I was dealing with a major crisis in my health and other issues that got compounded with the death of a partner. The continuous badgering to get married, which could easily have been met with the great disapproval of my choices in life, meant announcing my grief, and the depth of it would not be understood.

There are many I have met in my social circle, which is varied, diverse, alternative and different that have been of some great significance in my life, friends, lovers, acquaintances, buddies of all kinds that would put the faces of polite society to full blush, we all have our kind of company and those who various kinds of fulfilment to the joy of living and the pursuit of happiness.

For them, there was always a tear, a sense of loss, the heartbroken feeling of the end, with all that is left is memories, thoughts, reminiscences and dreams. They occupy a portion of life that cannot be denied or taken away, whether or not they are acknowledged by others.

We all have our normal

Maybe, it would have been easier to lose someone that fits some norm, the fact is we all lose many that do not fit any easy norm without the need for extraneous explanation that would leave the listener more confused and open you to the negatives of disavowal, disapproval, disdain, disgust and consequent distress or disgrace, all of which is unnecessary in the scheme of things.

You can be a man and lose your boyfriend or husband, be a woman and lose your girlfriend or wife, none of which is insignificant to the heteronormative. We would not be denied the feelings we have for the living and the grief we have when they are departed, even if we are denied the opportunity to pay our last respects to them.

We are always the truth of who we are, even in the secrets of our exciting and sometimes turbulent lives, for we bear the burdens of those dear and loving friends over the times we had the pleasure and privilege of knowing them, to the truth that they did matter more than anyone else would ever know.

Thinking of Feyike - My sister, my daughter

My sister, my daughter

When I bought my apartment in November 2001, my youngest sister was the sole beneficiary, her name appeared on all the forms even though she was never aware of that fact.

She was for me not only my youngest sister but as there was a 17-year gap between us, there are ways in which I considered her my daughter too. Yet, I was like an absent father to a daughter I knew I had but never bonded with.

When she was born, she arrived home on the day I was leaving for school, I did not attend her naming ceremony and for that my father and I got into a physical where he head-butted me out of rage because I did not rise to expected familial responsibilities.

Away and unaware

I had left home at 10 for boarding school and the time I spent at home after that was for holidays apart from the 16^th year when I was a student at the Lagos State Polytechnic before I moved to Yaba College of Technology in late 1982.

In many ways, I was unaware of what was going on at home, siblings fell seriously ill, some were admitted to hospital, another had an operation, I was oblivious of everything and only heard after the event whenever either of my parents deployed an accusatory put down to gain some leverage, I was a problem teenager who got them annoyed about most of what I did.

In hurt and blame

After I left Nigeria, in snippets of conversation I would hear of my sister’s condition, her undulating health status and the complaint that she was not giving enough consideration to her health. That was confirmed when I was able to obtain a full diagnosis from the doctors after her health deteriorated rapidly in mid-2015.

I had begun to mourn my sister and my daughter from that point, not out of resignation but in understanding the gravity of the diagnosis and the prognosis. I still hold the view that in a way my mother bears some responsibility for the way things turned out. We have not spoken and we probably would never speak because of this.

Respecting her choices

From the moment I was acquainted with the situation, I did communicate with my sister through other means apart from speech. It appeared some decisions were being made on her behalf that she was not happy to follow, she did not want a kidney transplant even though that would have given her respite and there was a time she suggested moving abroad to continue her education, giving her the opportunity to have better medical treatment.

At a time when she appeared despondent, I shared my own story about how I lost everything after cancer and invariably that included what she would have been a beneficiary of. I respected her being adamant about the choices she wanted for herself. Then when I was told that she was beginning to think of dying, I resigned myself to honouring that decision and so a few weeks after that she died.

For a memorial beyond the memories

My brother and third sister made the burial arrangements and she was committed to earth that same day somewhere far from home and unmarked. Tradition dictates difficult accommodations for grief, for she was survived by her parents and many older siblings.

A few days ago, I asked if a tombstone was being put over her grave, the response I received broke my heart, and at the point, I knew I had not even begun to grieve the passing of my sister. I do not think I understand or appreciate the gravity of the loss and this is from a distance in all ramifications compared to people saw her everyday, as her health declined and life slowly ebbed out of her tormented body.

I took the day off work and returned the next day pre-occupying myself back into work to weather the loss without pausing to emote and reflect. I busied myself to take my thoughts off it and have not given myself the time to consider until I started writing this blog.

I think of my mortality too, times when I wonder if I would be discovered before the maggots have had their wicked feast on my remains. Yet, even if there is nothing after death that I could either do or feel, I would like something to exist as a token of remembrance that I passed through this world noticed for more than a day. I would like that for my sister too because we never said goodbye and after she had gone, I did die a little.

Erratum:

My first sister and her church members made the burial arrangements, I did read that my third sister bathed her body and they all were pall-bearers at the end. As the blog read, I only so much about what is going on in my family.

Thought Picnic: Alone and thoughtful of the week passing

Collecting my thoughts

Alone at home with the opportunity to collect my thoughts at the end of a terrible week of sorrowful news, my therapy begins here.

Entrenched in our bunkers of grief at the passing of a sister survived by aging parents and much older siblings everyone is ensconced somewhere on the spectrum of the Kübler-Ross model of the five stages of grief.

I cannot speak in any clarity of the reaction of others, but on receiving the news on Tuesday, I was quite shocked but not surprised. I understood to some extent the graveness of the diagnosis having had some doctor friends of mine independently assess the situation and offer a general prognosis.

In miracles of medicine

In view of that, I was already preparing myself for an eventuality against the hopes and anticipations of others who’s only fading desire was for a miracle. I do believe in miracles, miracles of human ingenuity that has come through amazing advances in knowledge and technology.

Human physiology, however, reacts in different ways to thought processing and medicine, the outcomes then determine by reason of speed and progress whether something miraculous has happened or not.

Respite and relapse are not miracles, remission might look miraculous, but we do have to look elsewhere for the underpinning elements of our unresearched assumptions of the miraculous. I have read of miracles, but I have seen no evidence of any from a conclusively scientific point of view.

Believing in human ingenuity

When I faced the prospect of a terminal prognosis from cancer some 7 years ago, I know when I stopped hoping for a miracle and went for the understanding and knowledge of medicine. They knew what the ailment was, knew how to treat it, but had a simple caveat, it all depended on how I could withstand the treatment, failing which, I would be dead in 5 weeks.

I survived and there is no doubt that medicine played a major part in that, but my ability to withstand the onslaught of chemotherapy was strengthened by my Christian faith. The end of the matter was that it took a considerably lesser time for the cancer lesions to heal and my doctors and nurses termed that miraculous. I accept that with much gratitude and thankfulness.

Failings of Nigerian healthcare systems

We had no such choices in the medical institutions in Nigeria, the sometime foremost teaching hospital could not conclusively determine the ailment and as they charged inordinate sums of money never did have the means or equipment to start any of the ameliorating treatments necessary whilst we sought a better medical opinion of the real situation.

On knowing what the situation was, there were different forces at play, from the desperate and imposing to the rational and pragmatic, within that dynamic more confusion took hold over the need to coalesce and communicate. Browbeaten by a system that demanded trust without question, there were splits in decision-making and consequently, division leading to rancour.

On choices, outcomes, and reactions

The principal in the matter rarely had a say in whatever outcomes were proposed even though she had in no uncertain terms clearly indicated what her choices were. I probably was too understanding about what she was adamant of and accepting of that viewpoint that she was no more fighting and so I did not press an alternative or find the need to persuade otherwise.

Beneath the whole thing, I was very angry and very sad, angry that so much could have been better managed long before it became critical, angrier that the more primitive of passions ruled over the rational mind in the many syncretic rituals that were supposed to have put this whole matter at bay decades ago.

I was apoplectic with rage at the absence of the support for the discipline necessary to help the infirm. There is no doubt that I was both cross and angry with the matriarch, her influence over many issues made it literally impossible to pursue a rational line of thinking and ideas. I was sad, that the end was nigh.

For her honour and memory

Yet, in the aftermath of all this, I am supposed to let bygones be bygones and seek some sort of resolution towards reconciliation. It is going to be difficult, yet, we must hope that something good would come out of this, in honour of the dearly departed and hopefully as a sign of respect and tribute to her short but eventful life.

It is still very raw, and whilst I am well past denial, I am still deep in anger and feeling somewhat depressed, I cannot yet see the light at the end of the tunnel called acceptance. The dead never need worry about these things anymore, the living, however, have a duty to ensure that the dead are not forgotten in the swirl of our petty differences.

Thought Picnic: A dreamy page of a family saga

On watchful note

There is a picture seared in our minds of domination, terror, and servitude, demonstrated in their control and discipline of others that filled us with fear and trembling.

Those images came into my slumber that ran like a film cast into my childhood ready to replay with a horror that had exemplified what we had become in relation to how we were reared.

An offence there, and error here and they as prosecutor, judge and jury had passed judgement to carry out a nondescript and arbitrary sentence with the whetted appetite of an executioner in his prime.

From the recesses

In the other room, the altercation had begun with some I thought were mine, a pummelling with the rod, to inflict and to humiliate, consuming us with a feeling that our turn would soon come.

It did come to the first three of us, as we were stirred from slumber by the typical monologue of the patriarchy as he like a director of a filmset began to sketch out his thoughts and his intentions, a louvered contraption was constructed before our eyes before suddenly two rods were extracted, the rods that looked wickedly brutal beyond the ones that were once not spared in their quest not to spoil the child.

We were offered choices, hands, backs or any other place, and we were to expect the very minimum of 10 each. Was I going to allow this unjust collective punishment to happen?

My eyes saved

Ten each, so we were to moderate our squeals of pain so that she who was already dealing with the others will not think she was being outplayed in the sadomasochistic stakes that they had perfected in a double-act on me many years before where all he said when he ceded control to her was, “Mind his eyes.” That was how I remembered their depth of love, in the care of my eyes, but maybe in another story, the needed care for my eyes was never given.

My mind in flux, about to plead innocence and extricate myself from the terror to be unleashed on an undecided part of my anatomy, the third laid out her hand and received a violent lash, the piercing sound of agony jolted me back into the present.

Not tonight

There was not going to be a struggle when he headbutted me that I fell backwards, I calmly told him, “Not tonight, you can go to your room now.” I took his accoutrements of torture off him and he went away.

That was where it ended and where it should end. Sadly, our meetings are still of monologues and entitlements, the inability to impose upon as before has seethed into grudges engendering estrangement. Amid our grief, we have ensconced ourselves in our bunkers whilst everyone wonders if we’ve gone bonkers. The unspoken truth is no one does dysfunction the way we do it, without class, without care, without concern and almost without consequence.

Let’s flip another page in this saga called family.

Opinion: Media feeding a culpable indifference to the human experience

No soul in the news

If there is any evidence of how the news or rather the media industrial machine consumes everything in its wake in the pursuit of ratings borne of the need for advertisement and ingratiating itself with the sensational without empathy, it has to be with regards to the reportage in the aftermath of the sudden death of the 6^th Duke of Westminster.

The Duke suddenly took ill on the 8^th of August and unfortunately unexpectedly died on the 9^th of August. The focus of the news has been on the vast fortune of almost £9 billion that he leaves to his survivors and the transfer of the hereditary title to his only son, a 25-year old.

Maybe, but not now

There is probably a lot of news and stories to share about wealth, fortune, and eligibility in due course, but at this juncture, there is a family which includes a widow, four children, extended relations, friends, colleagues, partners, beneficiaries and a wider public grieving the untimely death of a husband, father, uncle, friend, colleague, benefactor, philanthropist and much else.

Despite all that man can attain and have access to, we are not by providence or circumstance isolated from the vicissitudes of the cycle of life and death, happiness and sorrow, good fortune and bad luck. Basically, even if we have grown up in a bubble of privilege, it does not exclude us from the harsh realities of human emotion, personal grief, struggles with confidence or depression and many other things in the broad spectrum of our shared humanity.

Firstly, there are people affected

That is why I am saddened by the overarching narrative that seems to have put the personal grief of the new 7^th Duke of Westminster in the shade, whilst the headlines have concentrated on his youthful looks, his being a very eligible bachelor, the amazing inheritance of wealth and the family seat of Eaton Hall amongst all other tabloid fodder. His father has hardly been dead two days.

It seems we have forgotten that these are people, flesh and blood, like you and I, that in spite of and despite their stupendous wealth, they are not immune to the human experience. I wonder if anyone would like their grief subsumed to sensationalism.

Maybe it is too much to ask; a decent obituary has probably yet to be written of the 6^th Duke, and though life goes on, it is too much to try a little tenderness and sympathy, if empathy were too much a requirement to allow this family to grieve without the klieg lights of the grist of reality television being shone into their most vulnerable moment?

Are we culpable?

The question is whether we by our feasting on this media frenzy have not tacitly given legitimacy to this intrusive and uncaring kind of journalism that tends to dehumanise in the quest for entertainment, sensational gossip and controversy.

May God grant the survivors of Gerald Cavendish Grosvenor, the 6^th Duke of Westminster, the strength and fortitude to bear their loss in the face of the intrusive interest in their affairs which for all intents and purposes is not in the public interest, but just put upon tittle-tattle.

Thought Picnic: The Love I Lost

My relationships

At my last therapy session we continued on the topic of relationships, something I thought we should discuss beyond the many other sessions we had covered in the previous four meetings.

I would cover the other issues we talked about in another blog, but in this case, we had gone over a list of long term lovers, the beauty of each relationship, the uniqueness each lover brought into my life and the things I still cherish of each of them.

Three significant relationships, I have had, the beginning and end of each left different scars. Many scars I brandish with the honour and good fortune of having been allowed to be part of their lives and yet feeling loved for their willingness to share mine with the seriousness and levity that I bring to the pursuit of happiness.

Free to be with me

One can live in regret of what might or might not have been or recognise that some relationships run their course, some long before we are ready to pack it up and others just have outlived their usefulness.

Most critical to me in every relationship has been the need that my partner not feel imprisoned in our partnership, I cherish willingness and freedom. I am comfortable with the times we spent together and the space needed to spend apart. That is my disposition.

I have remained close friends with one, another I cannot only grieve for what might have been but now is a memory and the third simply vanished, such is life.

Saw and liked

Recently, I have been exploring the possibility of a new relationship and one caught my eye. That is it, attraction is the first thing, then exploration into possibility.

This person appeared to tick all my boxes but I was disadvantaged in that we could not meet as frequent enough to consolidate what started off as a spark of interest about to ignite the kindling of love.

I retained some hope that something might happen but before that opportunity came, my love interest that I had left without the essentially nurturing the interest to keep it going and growing strong has found a new love interest and what was I supposed to do?

The pursuit of happiness remains

I read of it on Facebook, I was slightly saddened that for the second time now, as happened to the one I grieve, I failed in my pursuit of happiness with all the vigour and ability I could muster, in the process I lost out to the fact that others do have to get on with their lives in the pursuit of their own happiness.

The love I lost was a sweet love, yet, I wish them the very best and the quest for love continues.

Thought Picnic: Loving Beyond Pain

Revealing plain humanity

I am moved by the reaction of grieving parents to the loss of their daughter and the expression of acceptance not bordering on resignation but on forging even stronger family ties.

We learnt that Eva Rausing, wife of Hans Kristian Rausing, the heir to the Tetrapak fortune had been found dead at her home just over a week ago, a death that remains unexplained but at the same time is not thought to involve any foul play.

I am saddened by this news on many levels from that fact that this couple literally had everything in the world in terms of means, they were very generous and in all that, they had their demons; drug addiction.

Love above all

Despite this, they met whilst they were on rehab, had a marriage that lasted 21 years from which four offspring were produced and they all with their near and extended relations must be utterly devastated by this loss.

It would appear from what has been gleaned from the many stories that Eva might have died for some time and her husband either through grief or some other unexplained situation had not reported her death and by reason of that he is being charged with preventing the lawful and decent burial of his wife’s body.

The law can be an ass in the midst of serious human tragedy, not having the means to appreciate to any extent the reasons and the actions of human-beings in circumstances that defy common-sense or reason.

Life without secrets

I appreciate how the family has acknowledged the problems they had and worked to handle them with grace even though none of the problems will have done much to maintain the mystique of great riches and means that they had access to if they needed to convey a veneer of perfection and gloss over those problems.

This has not in any way affected the expression of love, concern and adulation Eva’s parents have for her husband that they addressed Hans Kristian as their beloved son rather than the more legal son-in-law.

More lessons than one

In a time when every event has victims, the hurt and the waiting to be offended seeking revenge, expressing bitterness and running to the courts for criminal and civil redress for real or imagined harm, this example is one of those who might not obtain elusive closure others seemed to pretend to obtain in the satisfaction of vengeance but the positive and warm feelings with which they have accepted this harrowing tragedy will no doubt be a healing balm to all affected.

It is in this spirit that I am moved to express my sincere condolences to the parents of Eva Rausing for the loss of their daughter, to her children, her husband and all relations that they might find the strength and fortitude to bear this loss and that the wonderful memories they have recalled of her will be an enduring legacy of a woman who despite her foibles and her riches was genuinely loved and will be sadly missed.

Source

Rausing charged after wife's death - Channel 4 News

Thought Picnic: I am Perfect for my Role

Knowing me well

It is beginning to sink in and I need to grab this and run with this like a man with a mission who just realised that his train is about the leave the platform doing everything I can to get on that train.

I have done so many things under my strength, by my ability because of my eligibility and my capability, a self-made man who has an amazing history, a depressing present and from a mere man’s perspective a very unclear future.

In the midst of this, I have come to the realisation that I am perfect for my role if I allow the call upon my life to be exhibited not in the boasts I can give about what I have done but by allowing certain truths that underpin the basis of my Christian faith to shine out of my imperfections.

My imperfections prepare me

O yes, I am an imperfect man, with unmatched tools and unworthy causes set out for a job that I am unqualified for, that has me weak in strength, stuttering in incoherence and lacking in all confidence but it is what makes me perfect for my role.

Why will the weak say I am strong? Why is it that it is those that become like children that have the greatest chance of entering heaven? Why is it that it is the foolish things of the world that have been chosen to confound the wise?

All because God does not want us to rely on our strengths, our abilities, our magnificence and the many things that allow us to boast about what we have been able to do such that God is grudgingly given the glory for where we have arrived at. Until we begin to realise that all things are for the excellency of the God’s purpose and power to be revealed through us that if we might be tempted to boast all we can boast of is in the Lord, we are still doing things under our strength.

The Act of Letting

Where we are not doing things under our strength, we accentuate our weaknesses using those as excuses not to be step forward and be counted because as men we are schooled to use heaven as a augmentation to what we have rather than let heaven’s grace radiate from within us in all our imperfections for men to see the power of God expressed in the weak such that God might be glorified in us.

I am perfect for my role, having lost everything, with chronic health issues, lots of experience brought to nothingness by perceived unviability, almost without a name and struggling with too many things to mention, else this will become an endless read – at that point where acceptance is the beginning of radical change – letting go and letting God – in the most clichéd of evangelical phrases to perfect His will in me.

The Power of Acceptance

I remember not so long ago as I navigated the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief, only then the grief was dealing with disease, the moment I accepted I had cancer I was ready to look at the next stage of my life, winning the battle and putting it into remission – it happened and by medical assessment, my consultants thought the speed of my recovery was both marvellous and miraculous.

Now, the grief is catastrophe manifested in misfortune and I think I have reached the stage of acceptance where what now lays before me is a future that will stretch my imagination.

The path to realisation

I am no doubt a work in progress, ready for what is ahead of me by reason of what I could not have anticipated. The moment I began to realise that people are blessing me not so much because I am so liked but because they themselves are just amazingly and innately good anyhow, I have begun to get some perspective of the level of gratitude I should have for the too many wonderful things that have become the story of my sometimes ordinary and sometimes extraordinary life.

This story is just about to take off.

For those who might be so inclined to elicit why I have come to this realisation, I have been listening to Pastor Steven Furtick of Elevation Church who preached a number of sermons titled – Living a Better Story – there might be some truth in it for you too.

Useful links

These links point directly to the MP3 files

Living A Better Story, 4 Reasons Our Stories Struggle (Part 1)

Living A Better Story, Suspension of Disbelief (Part 2)

Living A Better Story, Cancel the Audition (Part 3)

Living A Better Story, Turning Point (Part 4)

The Elevation Church HomePage.

The Elevation Church Podcast portal for audio, video and HD video archived podcasts, all free to access.

Thought Picnic: Thoughts in grief

Get the thoughts

The thoughts that crowd my mind continuously as events and activities of the days past occupy one to the absence of intimate or social contact.

It is an unhealthy existence in some ways, my big apartment protects me from the elements but does not protect me from my thoughts – I sit like a hermit rolling the thoughts around without pause or stillness – it is no meditation but that is what it seems like.

I think I am a private man; I come alive at work, in gatherings I could be quite reserved, whereas with strangers a conversation can begin and it could go on for hours if time allows it.

One needs to get out more for this kind of interaction because I am noticing that it is seriously energy sapping having to deal with things alone.

Person to person

In grief, one needs to talk, maybe one needs a hug, a sense of caring outside oneself can go a long way – many calls need to be made but how can one give comfort when you are self-comforted and how can one give succour from just being a loner of sorts?

Indeed, my dad has a point, companionship has its uses and benefits but I have grown up to eschew such communal essentials that the thoughts of those are too alien to contemplate for any length of time.

Even when I was very ill, I was the most vulnerable in need in such great help and even I employed that help quite sparingly – the comfort of being in my own home for days on end seemed to have a tonic effect for my recovery.

My neighbours and friends did a lot for which one is grateful but introversion and introspection in this very private person is most externalised in the writing and the expressions in words.

Mine for me

That surely is not enough, but change is probably going to be hardest thing to entertain; the relationships I desire are far from the norm, the companionships I crave are different, the love that fulfils is strange but the happiness it would bring is universally understood.

A hand to hold, a hug so bold, a kiss so brazen and a love that dare not speak its name – a dare for life and dear to live for – it is time to find and keep, no more unrequited love, no more fear to approach – Gosh! I write better than I would do, but the notice is out, there are things to do, this man must no more live alone.