I wanted to read this book because another book I'm reading at the moment, Up in the Old Hotel by Joseph Mitchell, mentions gypsies living in New York in the early 20th century. I was curious about gypsy culture in the UK and wanted to hear some stories about gypsy life and customs from their perspective. This book did give me that, but it was also a lot grimmer than I expected (featuring physical, emotional, and sexual abuse). It's an autobiography of Mikey Walsh's early years growing up in the 1980s and 90s, predominantly in West Sussex and Newark - but his family moved around a bit. His father, Frank, was a champion bare-knuckle fighter, and wanted a son who could emulate his reputation. Mikey was not that boy. Frank takes out his frustrations on him in the only way he knows how: with his fists. It was so bleak at times that I felt like giving up on it, but I'm glad I persisted until the end. The patience I needed to finish the book was nothing like the resilience Mikey needed just to survive into his teens. I won't spoil any other bits of the narrative (even the title of the sequel is a spoiler that impacted my reading of this book).
Saturday, 19 October 2024
Wednesday, 9 October 2024
"Revenge of the Tipping Point: Overstories, Superspreaders, and the Rise of Social Engineering" by Malcolm Gladwell - audiobook review
This was a really interesting follow-up to Malcolm Gladwell's first book, The Tipping Point (2000). Gladwell is a great storyteller. It's an argument in favour of diversity; against the biases of the admissions systems of elite US universities (particulary Harvard). It's full of fascinating angles on some familiar stories, such as the US opioid crisis and COVID-19. Although this book hasn't stayed with me, I really enjoyed it while I was reading it and raced through it.
Saturday, 5 October 2024
My 2023 10Q answers
Every year since 2010, I've taken part in 10Q, a Jewish-inspired process of self-reflection.
Here are my answers from 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022. These are my answers from 2023:
On the morning of Thursday 17 August, I received a WhatsApp message from my brother Richard, asking me to call him. He was Gregory's nominated next of kin, and so Richard was the first to be informed that Gregory had been out busking at 03:00 and either he or the people he was with had called an ambulance when we was struggling to breathe. He was being a bit difficult in the ambulance, refusing the wear the oxygen mask. They took him to Southmead Hospital, which was not the nearest hospital, because that's where he was receiving dialysis and they already knew him well. As they were transferring him from the ambulance to the hospital, he had a heart attack. A few weeks before, he'd had a vascular procedure on his lower left leg and they were worried about the possibility of a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot that travelled from his leg to his lungs) as the cause of the heart attack. They therefore gave him a drug that would take a while to kick in. This was why they persisted with CPR for an hour, which seems to be an abnormally long time. His brain would have been starved of oxygen during this time, so there was a risk that he would have brain damage. I called Laura and Moira and Sandy, trying to figure out if I should go to see him. After speaking to Laura, when we both cried, I realized that I had to go. I didn't want him to be alone in ICU.
The timings were weirdly perfect. Moira was due to fly down to Bristol to spend a few days with him. I drove to Bristol and sat with him in ICU. It was weirdly comforting watching his chest go up and down, controlled by the ventilator. He looked peaceful and asleep; rolled slightly over on his right side. The nurses were always at his side, checking and adjusting things every few minutes. I spoke to one of the doctors, who explained the above scenario to me. He even had his guitar with him, which was sitting in a corner with his black bag. I stayed with him for about 3-4 hours until Moira arrived after 18:00. When talking to Laura, we weren't sure if she wanted to be alone with him. Laura knew that a mother's instinct is to care for all her children, and if I was there, too, her attention wouldn't be fully on Greg. But she seemed relieved that I was there to give her a hug and update the family with the notes I'd taken from the doctors and nurses in the hours before.
At the end of visiting hours, I drove home again. Moira stayed with him over the weekend. The plan was to keep him sedated for another 48 hours and then gradually let him wake up and do some tests to see if he had brain damage. It became clear by Sunday evening that he was unresponsive. We had a painful family discussion on Zoom and we all agreed that we didn't want him to continue to live if it meant he'd need 24-hour care and would essentially be a zombie. We all knew what this meant. I asked how soon we could all get there. Richard and Sandy could get the train down first thing the next morning; Laura would fly to London Heathrow and I could pick her up and drive her to Bristol. It's amazing how quick and decisive we were.
When I saw Greg again on Monday evening, it was upsetting. His eyes were open but blank. He was convulsing and jerking around. His chest looked like a wobbly waterbed. I joked that he would have relished being undead like this. We had arrived after visiting hours, but the kind ICU staff let us in to spend a few precious but painful minutes with him - perhaps an hour.
All the restaurants had closed or had stopped serving by then, so we had a Sainsbo's picnic in our hotel rooms. For some reason, Moira and Sandy had only booked two extra rooms. Richard and I were expected to share, which would have been fine with a twin room, but it was a double bed! I mentioned to Richard that I'd be happy to pay for my own room and word got back to M&S, who arranged for another room.
I didn't sleep that well, what with lift noise and all of THIS, but I took care of myself with Balance meditations and yoga, trying to stick to my normal routines.
The next day was the last day of Gregory's life. We took it in turns to spend time with him in pairs. I went in with Laura. I'd had the idea to wash his feet - having noticed on Thursday that they were brown and dirty. I'd taken in some nail clippers, shower gel, and the Miami Dolphins towel that I'd got at the NFL game I'd gone to with Gregory in 2007 against the New York Giants, the first NFL regular season game in the UK. Laura cut his toenails. We both bathed his feet and massaged them with coconut hand cream. It was a beautiful ritual, and helped me to overcome my revulsion with his dying body.
We were then asked to leave the room by the nurses, who were presumably going to do some sort of procedure or maintenance. There seemed to be some miscommunication. I expected that they would let us know in 20 minutes or so that we could go back in. But I think it was over an hour before I asked if we could return. One of the doctors spoke to Moira and Sandy when they eventually went back in. They were going to extubate him: remove life-preserving care and let his body die naturally. One of the other factors in making this decision as a family is that, because he wouldn't have had a good quality of life, he would no longer qualify for dialysis, which is only given to patients to whom it would be beneficial.
It was a weird feeling going in as a family to be with Gregory when he died. I was trembling slightly and felt wobbly. Having read the ICU page on the hospital website, I'd seen that they encouraged families to play music in the room, so I had my Tronsmart Bluetooth speaker with me. After about half an hour of us all holding Gregory as his strong body struggled on, I asked if anyone wanted me to play some music. I put the speaker on his left hip, next to his left hand, so that he could feel the vibrations. We listened to a number of songs together, starting with "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen, which Moira requested because that's what they used to listen to with Gregory when they were holding him as a baby. I wasn't sure how many songs we'd get through, but him being a stubborn bugger, he lasted for about 45 minutes! We were willing him to die but he kept holding on. The last piece of music we heard together was "The End" by the Beatles, the end of the medley on Abbey Road that includes "Golden Slumbers" and "Carry That Weight". The last line is: "And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make."
I'm sure I'll write more about this throughout this year's 10Q. But to answer the immediate question: this has made me profoundly sad and melancholy. I feel like I'm now making space for grief in my life - a grief that will always be with me. And Gregory lives on through us: in our thoughts and memories and conversations about him. He has left his body and is living in ours, which is a comforting and beautiful thought. We all also felt a huge sense of relief. We no longer have to worry about him anymore! Even though the worst has now happened. I wonder if his recent trips to Edinburgh to visit his girlfriend Mel, and to Bath to visit his friend Henry, were in some ways a swansong. Did he know what he was doing? Did he want to go out this way? I know he was scared of the prospect of losing his leg to amputation if the post-op infection didn't clear up.
This experience has consumed my life for the past four weeks, including a week and a bit on holiday in Berlin, which was a blessed relief and a chance to feel and experience something else for a while, which none of the rest of my family were able to do. It has brought us all closer together, going through this as a family, which I'm immensely grateful for - especially the three of us siblings, which we are now calling the Brains. I've also learned so much about Gregory and his life that I didn't know when he was alive. I'm sure I'll write more on that in due course.
On that Zoom call on the Sunday after his heart attack and the weekend before he died, I said it was a chance to give him a good death, and I think we achieved that as a family.
This regret isn't just something from this year. It's my whole relationship with Gregory as an adult. I would have liked to take him to the cinema more often. We could have seen Oppenheimer together. I think I let my view of him be coloured and filtered by Moira and Sandy's feelings. I never really had a bad experience with him. He was never (or rarely) mean to me. I was disturbed by his mania when Moira and Sandy still lived in Bristol and Greg was in what I'm calling his ketamine phase, when he seems to have been experimenting with drugs.
But I think, when it came to the last few critical hours before he died, we got it right. I went to see him on the same day that Richard told me the news about his heart attack. I listened to myself and also canvassed opinion from the rest of the family. I knew I had to go when Laura and I cried down the phone to each other. I also helped to initiate the whole family coming together as soon as possible the day before he died. I'm proud that we all put aside any concerns or resentments about his past behaviour and just loved him for what he was: a big brother, a son, a troubled soul who tried his best.
And he really did try his best. When we went through his flat the day after he died, I found numerous folders marking the various crises he'd lived through: he seems to have kept everything and tried again and again to restart his life. I'd been cross at him for apparently failing and not trying hard enough, but I think now that I was wrong about this. He really tried.
I also found a sheet of A4 paper with red pen on it, not in his handwriting, with various drugs and their pros and cons. This was a mind-map of self-medication. I normally think badly of self-medication but this was rational and well thought-out: he seems to have experimented with various drugs in order to try to understand what could make his life better. What he was getting from the medical establishment wasn't working to take away his pain and discomfort and distress.
I've learned so much about Greg in such a short space of time. I forgive him his supposed shortcomings and I'm trying not to judge the way he lived his life anymore; or at least to judge it on his terms. I'm so proud of him for the legacy he left: of the kind and generous way he treated his friends (if not always his family); of the way he shared what little he had with people who needed it more than him; of the way he kept living and finding the diamonds in the coal.
I'm trying not to beat myself up about the missed opportunities with Greg. I had my own problems and my own life to lead. He rarely met us half-way; and maybe he didn't want us to. But it's clear that we, his family, were part of his life and his thoughts, that he did want us there and he did value our support and, in some cases, was jealous of our lives. He said as such in his amazing apology to Laura after his WhatsApp shitfit.
Talking to Ros last week, she said something very wise about grief: that it's harder to grieve for the people you had troubled relationships with because there are more regrets and complicated feelings. That's certainly true for Greg. So many unresolved issues and missed opportunities, so many whispered conversations about him behind his back as a family. I didn't seek to form my own opinion first-hand. This is not to malign my parents: they were looking out for me, trying to protect me from the harm that they and Laura and Richard had suffered because of Greg. I'm grateful that I was sheltered and didn't see the absolute worst of him and maybe still don't know all the details of his troubled life.
I had a lovely time in Berlin with Fran, but I'm not going to write about that now. The week after that was a bit tougher. I allowed myself to feel more of the pain of grief and had a few more cries. I could feel the pressure building in my chest and it was a relief to let it out every now and then. I wanted to do some proper crying before the funeral so that it wouldn't build up and up and then explode in front of everyone.
We drove up north on Monday 11 September, the day after Moira's 70th birthday. We could have gone sooner, but I selfishly wanted to watch the opening weekend of the NFL at home and Fran had a college gaudy on Saturday, so it made the most sense. It was just the four of us on Monday night. On Tuesday evening, everyone arrived: Elaine and Stephen; Laura; Vernon; Richard and Zoe. The house was very full. We had both extensions on the table. It felt good to be around everyone again and get and give lots of hugs.
In Berlin I'd had the idea to make a friendship bracelet for Gregory to wear in his coffin. I used black thread (of course). I finished it the night I got home and then posted it the next day (Tuesday 5 September) but it didn't arrive until Monday 11th, the day we travelled up. Bubs went to tie it on his wrist personally. I want to ask her about that experience at some stage. I'd posted it first class, so it should have arrived on the 6th or 7th but didn't for some reason. I was fine with the idea of finding another use for it, but I'm glad that he was able to wear it in the end.
We had a relaxed breakfast on the morning of the funeral. Sandy reminded me to get ready so that I could drive with him to the Savoy Park Hotel to set up the projector for the reception. We took Fran in, too, so that she could do some shopping for supplies at Morrisons. On my return I ironed my shirt and trousers with Bubs's supervision. I quite like the ritual of ironing my shirt before black tie dinners and I wanted Bubs to teach me her technique. I was determined to do it myself, though; and to give her the opportunity of mothering me without the burden of an extra domestic task. I also seemed to delay her going to the garden with Laura but they did eventually get their time together.
The funeral director was called Barry Whalen (no relation). They picked us up in a black limo for the chief mourners: Moira, Sandy, Laura, Richard, Zoe, Fran, and me. It was weird taking this last journey together, driving behind the hearse with Greg's fantastically decorated coffin visible through the front window. Laura was crying. I managed to make her laugh by saying "Pull my finger" when we were holding hands to comfort each other.
It was a short drive to Masonhill Crematorium. For the whole two weeks beforehand, even though I knew it was wrong, I'd been picturing the funeral at Castlehill Parish Church, where we used to go for services at Belmont Academy and where the school chaplain came from. We were the only funeral at the crem that day - also unusual. We were led into a private family room where we sat for a few minutes. I went to the toilet. Had a drink of water. We could hear the chatter of friends and family outside the chapel. And also the Star Wars theme tune, which was Moira and Sandy's idea.
Then it was time to go in. We walked beside the coffin, which was being pushed on a trolley. We each had a posey and put one hand on the coffin. "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen was playing: the first song we listened to when Gregory was dying and the song Moira and Sandy used to play when they were dancing with Gregory as a baby in their arms. My eyes started to water. We each laid our flowers on the coffin and sat down.
The celebrant was Stewart Donnelly - recommended by the funeral director. He was a humanist and did a good job. Moira had written her memories of Gregory and he pretty much used them unedited. He also used some of the memories that Laura and I had shared. Projected behind him was a beautiful photo of Greg from the summer of 2000, the year he was first ill, on holiday in France. The other music was "Angels" by Robbie Williams (a favourite of his from the early naughties in Germany) and "Caledonia" by Amy Macdonald - both of which we listened to with him as he was dying in ICU.
After the service, there was a huge hug and handshake line outside the chapel. It was lovely to hug friends and family. I was touched that Mr Moir, our old headmaster at Belmont, was there, on two crutches; and also Mr Mac, my old Chemistry teacher, and one of Sandy's good friends from U3A. There were also lots of Gregory's friends dressed appropriately in metal clothes.
We drove back to the reception at the Savoy Park Hotel, which was just across the road from our old house on Bellevue Crescent. There was a buffet and a slideshow of photos of Greg. I had something to eat and then did my best to circulate and meet some friends and family. I had a lovely chat with Amy, his first long-term girlfriend, who shared some of her memories. She's now married with two kids, so it was hard for her to be there. But she said she still had feelings for Greg and called the late 90s his "glory days", not realizing the significance of this phrase from our joking around with Burnistoun the week he died: the sketch with the denim jaisket.
Eventually, people started to leave. We went home and had a bit of downtime. Then we had snacks and a big dinner together. It was nice to be able to help. Laura and I also went through a bag of photos that Scottie and Yosif, his flatmates, had rescued for us.
I'm still processing how all of this has affected me. I'm now learning to live with grief. I'm starting to feel a bit flat and depressed, but we're all looking out for each other. I'm trying to return to my normal life and routines, but it will take some time to adjust - as it would do with any 4-week break, let alone when your big brother has died. So, I'm coming to terms with it slowly. It is in some ways a relief, but it's still a loss. And the story is still being written.
The strikes that have had the biggest impact on me so far have been train strikes. I don't often travel by train but there was one day earlier this summer when Fran and I were going to London. Normally, we'd take the train from Bicester to London Marylebone. This day was particularly complicated because we were trying to combine three events in one day: going to see Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club at the Playhouse Theatre; going to Michael and Matty's 30th birthday party (which also turned out to be a secret engagement party!); and going to Becky's 10th wedding anniversary.
We knew this was going to be a strike day in advance, so I did some planning a week or two before to figure out the best way to travel. We decided that we'd drive to Brockwell and park using the JustPark app. We got a parking space all day for about £7. We then took a bus and a tube into town for the theatre. After the musical, we took another bus to Camberwell for Michael and Matty's party. And from there we took another bus to Brockwell Park and walked across the park to the party. It wasn't ideal driving home late at night, in the dark, through unfamiliar London streets (it was a bit stressful), but I managed it.
I think we also had something the very next day. That's right! We drove up north for a couple of nights in Cumbria to celebrate Fran's birthday and then on to Ayr to spend some time with Moira and Sandy, Richard and Zoe. Sometimes you get weekends like this where everything seems to happen at the same time. I used to have more of an appetite for them, but I found this one quite daunting and exhausting, which meant I didn't enjoy everything (especially the final party) as much as I might have done because I was already tired out and emotionally drained. I find that if you stack too many social things on top of one another, then you aren't fully present; you're always looking toward the next one: you go into survival mode rather than living in the now.
I mentioned something along these lines to Fran a few days ago and I think I need to be more assertive if I can see this happening again. The main thrust of the day should have been our theatre trip, which was a birthday present from Fran. It would be hard to turn down the two other invitations, because family and friends are really important, and they notice and appreciate when you make an effort - particularly on a strike day when other people, who lived closer, were unwilling to make the more difficult journeys.
In the grand scheme of things, I support striking workers. It's a last resort for them, in many cases. I'm so disappointed in the government for failing to pay our public sector employees properly - particularly nurses and doctors, who took on such a burden during the pandemic and do such a wonderful job. (Chink of an opening to talk about Greg here: the staff in the ICU were amazing!)
When we were in Aberystwyth in May during our annual holiday in Wales, we drove past a group of striking nurses (or was it lecturers?) standing on the roadside. I relished being able to toot my horn at them to show my support and solidarity! I hardly ever use the car horn but I made an exception for them.
I think the distribution of wealth in our capitalist society is unfair. Too much wealth is stolen and hogged by the super-rich and even the ordinarily rich. They don't need that much money. Other people just need a small pay bump to make their lives that much more comfortable. I'd love to see a government (or even an opposition party) have the balls to simplify the tax system and tax those with the highest incomes a fair proportion. Would it be possible only to tax incomes and remove all the other consumption taxes? I guess it would also be good to tax greenhouse gas emissions, too, to help change people's behaviour.
Nani, Moira's mother, had a lovely saying: "Money's round to go round," which means that when you have money, you should share it around with those who need it. It's designed to function that way. It's a circular economy. Don't stockpile cash, possessions and resources that are needed elsewhere.
The more I read and learn about this stuff (our capitalist system, the way the economy functions, the impact our way of life has on the climate), the more I'm ready for a change of system. It's so arrogant for governments not to listen to the concerns of the workforce about fair pay and working conditions. They instead listen to a few wealthy and powerful assholes like bankers and capitalists, who are behaving in pure self-interest. We have enough wealth: we're one of the richest countries in the world. We'd be a lot happier and would function a lot better if that wealth was more widely distributed.
I can handle the minor inconvenience of a few strikes, but I wish they actually led to better outcomes and sooner. The strikes have barely affected me, but Fran's commute to work has been compromised more often. And sometimes, even when the trains are running, the disruption of the strikes still has an impact with the wrong number of carriages for a busy morning commuter train, which is thus overcrowded and unpleasant.
Berlin, where we went on holiday at the end of August to early September, has such a wonderful public transport system, which is run for the benefit of the people, not for profit. I'd like to see all our public transport infrastructure removed from private ownership. The profit should be the benefit it brings to people's lives, not the pensions and bank balances of the wealthy. Fuck the system!
Moira arrived at about 18:15 after terrible traffic from the airport to the hotel and the hotel to the hospital. I think the M32 was closed. Then, when she arrived at the hospital, there was a fire alarm and she couldn't get in the building! I was completely oblivious to this. There's lots of background noise in ICU, but on that first day, I found it quite a comforting place to be. They were taking such good care of him.
When Moira arrived, she was much more hands-on with him. She leaned over to whisper in his ear. She touched him. I wasn't sure at first if this was allowed. COVID-19 restrictions are now relaxed, but their memory stays with me from my previous visits. So I may have just touched his left forearm when I said goodbye to him that evening.
When I returned again on Monday evening he was in quite a different state. But that's not what I wanted to write about today. His feet were still slightly grubby-looking. His shins were dry with peeling skin. His toenails, of course, had seen better days.
When Richard, Laura and I were alone together back at the hotel that evening, I mentioned that I'd noticed his dirty feet and suggested I might wash them the next day. Laura offered to do it with me. So when we went in on Tuesday, the day he died (22 August), I took with me my shower gel, a Miami Dolphins hand towel from the Giants @ Dolphins NFL game that I went to see with Gregory in 2007 at Wembley, some coconut hand cream from the Body Shop, and a pair of nail clippers. I'd had an idea to buy massage oil from St Nick's Market, where we had breakfast together that morning, but we were already running a bit late for visiting hours, which started at 11:00, so I didn't do it.
Moira and Sandy went in first that morning to see him; then Richard, then Laura, and finally me. I took my bag in with me and we asked the nurse if it was OK if we could wash his feet. She gave us a cardboard basin to use and put some nappy-like blankets under his feet to absorb the moisture. She also lowered the end of the bed so that we could get more easy access. This was the spiritual experience: washing and massaging the feet of my big brother on the day he died, a few hours before he died, with my big sister. We each washed one foot. I made sure to clean in between his toes, which I know feels nice (to me). I faced my fear and revulsion at his body and turned it into a beautiful, ritualistic thing. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples at the Last Supper. I wanted to do one thing for him to prepare him for the afterlife. I couldn't have him wandering around the afterlife with dirty feet. I think that thought also came up in the Balance app meditation that I listened to that morning: what's one thing that you can do for someone else today? This was my thing. The thought just came to me; I shared it; Laura affirmed it; and we decided to do it together.
After washing his feet, we dried them with the Dolphins towel. Laura clipped his toenails and the fingernails of his left hand; I clipped the fingernails of his right hand. We then massaged his feet and hands using the coconut hand cream. I will now always associate that smell with him and remember this moment, this quiet ritual that Laura and I were able to share.
The other spiritual experience, which followed soon after, was when we were all allowed in together as a family, just wee 6, when Gregory was extubated and allowed to die in our arms, as we held him, cried over him, dropped our tears on his skin, built up pug in his hands and on his arms, whispered to him, and played him music. I'd read on the ICU page of the hospital website that we were encouraged to bring in music to listen to with the patients in their rooms. I brought my Tronsmart Bluetooth speaker (a brilliant present from Richard and Zoe), laid it on his hip, next to his left hand, so that he could feel the vibrations, and we played an impromptu playlist, a Desert Island Discs selection of 8 songs, one of which ("Angels" by Robbie Williams) we repeated. The first track we listened to, "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen, will now always have the power to make me cry: the thought of Moira and Sandy holding Gregory as a baby, listening to that track, and then holding him as a battered and worn out 44-year-old man, their son, dying in a hospital bed with all his family holding him, too.
Moira got caught up in all the wires - a comical moment. I said, "Be careful! You'll kill him!" His strong body struggled on for about 45 minutes, without any life-sustaining care; just the painkillers (morphine?), which I know he enjoyed after his kidney transplant. He didn't seem to be in any pain as he took his last breaths with us. We were wishing him to go whenever he was ready. There was no machine in the room to tell us when he died. It just became apparent that he stopped breathing, that his pulse had stopped. He was, finally, at rest. And with that, despite all the tears and shaking grief, a huge weight seemed to be lifted from us all. He had left his body behind and entered ours. His afterlife will be in our thoughts and conversations, when we say his name and think of him.
I think this may have been the first dead person I've seen, the first time I've witnessed someone dying. And it wasn't a terrible thing. It was actually kind of beautiful, peaceful, calming, funny, trying, an endurance of love and regret, tears and laughter, hugs and strokes, whispers, quiet thoughts, shared music, good vibrations, peace, calm, rest.
The one thing I'd like to achieve by this time next year is to go through the bags of Greg's stuff next to me, and the books downstairs under the dining table. We had a few hours the day after he died to look through his flat for treasures we wanted to keep, such as his 21st birthday photo album, bank account and council tax details, and some artworks. I also couldn't resist looking through his books and saving three bagfuls for myself; and one Jaws book for Richard. Because I had my car and the rest of the family had flown or taken the train to Bristol, I took these possessions home with me, apart from a select few items that Moira and Sandy kept to help with preparations for his funeral. They looked through the bags in their hotel room, so they are now neatly sorted into 1) a bag of notebooks, 2) a bag of artwork, and 3) a bag from Scottie and Yosif containing more photos and fanzines, which we looked through together in the evening after the funeral.
I'm most looking forward to going through the notebooks. I want to see his handwriting, read some of his thoughts, understand what he was processing, and (selfishly) to see if he ever thought of us as a family and me specifically. There's one notepad in particular that I'd like to find first, which is a small ring-bound notepad, about the size of an iPhone, written in red pen, which Laura and Richard read through together in Greg's flat while I was biffing around doing other things. Apparently it contains a mini-biography. Everything is in there, and it must have been written relatively recently because it mentions COVID-19.
I don't plan to keep all of this stuff. I want to find a home for it: give some of his artwork to friends and family, but also digitize it into a sort of archive so that anyone who wants to can dip into it. I'd also like to pass on his fanzine collection to a guy called Lapinas Pix on Facebook, who runs a website that archives metal fanzines, including The Crypt #2, the second issue of Gregory's 'zine. I also want to scan issue 1 and share that with him, along with Cryptic News (the newsletter) and a couple of flyers that Martin Kelso, another of Gregory's friends, shared with me.
People have been so kind and willing to share this sort of stuff. Martin apparently quite enjoyed looking through his boxes of this stuff to find it for me. He's glad he has them and the memories that come with them.
Watching Gone Fishing last night, the subject of "death cleaning" came up, which is when older people, the age of my parents and Fran's parents, start to process and get rid of all the stuff in their life to make it easier for their loved ones to deal with what's left when they die. For Bubs this might mean her extensive craft cupboard and the boxes of photos that they looked through when preparing a slideshow for Gregory's funeral reception and service. The interesting thing about those photos, because they're not in albums, is that they awaken old, half-forgotten memories. The photos in albums are much more familiar and probably become the memory itself: a memory of a photo, not of the thing itself.
I'm also looking forward to feeling the tactility of the artwork: the dried paper, slightly brittle; the smell of Greg's tobacco smoke; the homeless / penniless artist signs he seems to have used on the street - perhaps when busking and begging in Bristol. I can't believe he managed to keep all of this stuff when he was, for a time, homeless. When was he homeless? Was this when Moira and Sandy left Bristol - partly to get away from him? He was being a dick in the mid-2010s: breaking into their house, being verbally and physically abusive. It must be horrible to feel unsafe in your own home, and for the cause of that to be your own son. I can't imagine what that must be like.
Eventually, probably through Bubs's love, the relationship must have softened. Gregory went to visit them in Scotland for little holidays and at Christmas or for his birthday just before Christmas.
I'm so touched by the stuff he kept. He's got the little buttonhole from my wedding, for example, which is making me well up with tears now. If he rarely expressed his love for us in words and actions, there certainly seem to be traces of it here in his possessions, which are now our possessions. We possess him, in a way, too. We're the ones that are telling his story now. He may not have loved us at all! I wonder if he'd like that: losing control of his own story. I guess he'd already lost control of his own story, through his mental illness: he lost his way - or, at least, that's what I thought from the outside looking in. Maybe we'll find something to surprise us in these notebooks. Maybe there will be lots of diamonds in the coal. I'm looking forward to living up to my heritage and doing some mining.
Is my problem, my thing to work on, that I should care less about other people? To let them live their lives how they want to live them and not try to interfere, thinking that I know better? Sometimes it can be tremendously liberating to let your loved ones influence you. For example, I was exhausted after the week that Greg died. I'd only slept 3-4 hours a night that week. I came home on Thursday evening and went on holiday on Friday morning. It was hectic. On the journey to Berlin, I was a liability. I kept losing things and wasn't in control. I decided that I would lean on Fran and just accept and agree to her little, loving suggestions, such as letting her take an extra bag, or having a little snooze while we waited in departures. It felt great, actually, to let her help me. I normally have a familiar stubbornness, which I see in Moira and Sandy, a pride of not wanting to be told what to do. I wonder if I've seen how Tom accedes to Ros in health matters and followed his example. With his bowel cancer, he let Ros do all the thinking and just let himself be treated like a lump of meat. Trust the experts. That put a big burden on Ros, but I suspect she would have taken it on anyway. Sometimes it can be good to work as a team. Just do your job and trust that they will do their job. Work with the referee, as my captain's philosophy puts it. This came to me / out of me in a dream on 16 March 2020: "Win. Positive encouragement. Lead by example. Preserve the spirit of the game. Work with the referee."
I could rehash the stuff I've written about in previous years: continue to lose weight; continue to read; continue to work on my sleep hygiene and discipline.
I could continue to use the Balance app for meditation. I really like Ofosu, the guy who guides you through the meditations. I'm doing a 10-day energy meditation series at the moment. It's mostly mindful breathing exercises, which I do in the shower. These have a few benefits. They make me feel good (or better), even on bad days. They give me energy. They help me to slow down and focus on one thing at a time. They keep me going on good days. I almost didn't do one this morning after my bike ride, after breakfast, and before lunch. I felt good enough. I didn't need the prop. But it's a 10-day series and I didn't want to break it. I'd normally listen to my Bill Simmons podcast or an audiobook. They're also timed to 5, 10 or 15 minutes, which helps me not to stay in the shower too long. Fran started doing them when she was having a tough time: feeling low and stressed. And she's kept doing them in her showers most days. I'd seen the Balance app had a promotion for one free year. I signed up and didn't use it. Kept it in my back pocket until I (or someone else) needed it. They also have good sleep meditations, which I used to help me get to sleep during the week Greg died.
I was talking to Ros and Tom about grief the Sunday before we went up to Ayr for Gregory's funeral. Ros shared a lot of her wisdom and experience of grief. She said that everyone grieves in their own way. And that the most difficult people to grieve over are the ones you had a complicated relationship with. I think those words of wisdom will stay with me. They will remind me that Bubs and Sandy will grieve in their own way. It won't be the same as Laura and me. Richard will grieve in his own way, too. He might have more regrets and guilt. Laura and I might have more tears. Bubs and Sandy might just try to get on with their busy lives. And that's OK.
When my brain was fizzy at the beginning of my holiday, I wrote to Just wee 6 (our family WhatsApp group) with a silly grief game in which you get points for sharing a crying selfie (amongst other things). I'm really the only person who's been doing them. Laura did one recently in the gym when "Hungry Heart" came on. Bubs did one the first morning but took two selfies that weren't of her face. I teased her gently that she had good aim. She hasn't done one since. Texting with Sandy yesterday, we made a deal that I'd share laughing selfies if the spreadsheet of Greg's lockdown jokes made me laugh. He asked me to send them instead of my crying selfies when I offered to stop them. He said that would be the best of both worlds. I'd been getting the feeling that I should stop them. I don't really know what purpose they serve. Maybe they make me conscious of my tears: acknowledge them. It takes me out of myself a little bit. I don't often take selfies, so it's weird that I would take one and then share it with family when I'm crying about Greg - at my most vulnerable. But I don't feel vulnerable. I feel strong. I'm leaning into my grief, not running away from it. I need to do it, so why not get stuck in now while it's fresh? What am I trying to do? Was I trying to make Moira and Sandy cry? They can grieve in their own way. That might not be with tears; or public tears. From now on, I think I'll just share them with Laura; or maybe the Brains (Richard said he didn't mind them, but wouldn't be doing them himself because he hates any and all photos of his face).
I need to accept people for who they are and stop trying to mould them to be me. But I think I'm quite good at leading by example. Sandy has started doing what he calls "Chriswalks" in the morning after we had a conversation about my daily walks and the benefit I've felt from them since I started them in February during a low spell. Richard took a couple of mental health days at work and initiated the process to start some counselling after a conversation we had the morning after Greg's funeral. I have gentle influence over people. They sometimes listen to and do what I suggest if it's gentle and kind enough. I just wish I could find a way to help Bubs with her sleep and her own mental daemons. But maybe if we just stay in touch more and have our little chats then she will find her own way.
I want to change the story that I tell about him, and tell myself about him. I'd always thought it was a shame that he never fulfilled his potential as a writer, a music journalist, and artist. But maybe he has. He just hasn't done it in the conventional way.
There's also the practical side of what to do with his iPhone and the digital dust it has gathered; when and how to inform social networks that he has died. I've found the form on Facebook, but I'm scared that his wishes might have been to delete his account after his death and we'd therefore lose all of his photos and posts. I'm a completist. I don't like to lose things - particularly to carelessness. I could back it up before submitting that form. There's no rush. And I don't have to tell Facebook he's dead. I don't think there's any harm. Maybe his account would be more vulnerable to hackers. I also need to inform Google about his Gmail account. Again, there might be stuff in there that I don't want to see or that he wouldn't want us to see.
I don't plan to keep all of this stuff necessarily. I'm happy to give it away to his friends and other members of the family. Or to recycle it. It may be hard. It will make me cry. But I'm not afraid of that. Is that what Moira's trying to protect me from? From grief, sadness, revelations? I already expect the worst anyway. I don't think I could be surprised in a bad way. I want to sift through the coal to find the diamonds and then give them to other people.
There is an instinct in me to also become his biographer: to speak to some of his friends and find out their perspective of him. I've already been doing this with Mel, Amy, Michael and Martin, to some extent - although not with any aim in mind. Just to find comfort in connection. Amy, for example, thought it might have been suicide. That's the problem of not being open about the cause of death. If someone dies at 44, particularly someone who had mental health and multiple co-morbidities, someone who had a hard life, it's inevitable that people might wonder if he died by suicide. But I do think he lived as if he had a death wish at times. He went on a bender after the transplant. He took risks. I think that the last few weeks of his life were a swan song: going to visit his girlfriend Mel in Edinburgh and his friend Henry in Bath.
I feel like I'm so much closer to Gregory after his death than I was when he was alive. I've learned more about him and changed my perspective of him. Perhaps because he can no longer harm or hurt me; and no more harm or hurt can come to him.
I will need to be careful about what and how much I share about Greg with the rest of the family - particularly Moira and Sandy. I think they've hardened themselves, calloused, after their horrific experiences with him in Bristol. They may not be ready to change what they think of him; or they already know too much. He was a troubled soul. But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was fine with the way his life was. Maybe he felt judged by us as a family that he didn't live up to our expectations.
What will the art tell us in pictures that words cannot? Some of his doodles are quite dark. I think they reveal the daemons that he battled with. But he was also fascinated by the dark and macabre from an early age. He didn't shy away from it. He loved horror films and metal music, black clothes, gothic women, Satanism. He was naughty. He was a vandal and a graffiti artist. He may have been violent towards medical staff and the police. I don't really know. And I will try not to judge; just let his detritus tell its own story.
He used to tease Fran and me for our Guardian lifestyle. I think he may have been jealous of our nice house, our marriage, our cats, our books, and comfort. But he also like to undermine people. He made fun of me for dancing at a wedding when I was younger and I have never really wanted to dance (in public) since then.
I guess part of this fear is just a fear of being judged by others. Greg sometimes didn't have that filter of politeness or respect. He told it how he saw it. Most people learn not to share all of their negative thoughts about other people. I can certainly feel myself judging people in my head. But I'm also good at not making other people feel bad. I'm sensitive to how they might feel and to the damage that negative comments can have on someone's self-esteem, and how deep those scars can run.
I think by embracing what's left behind of Greg's life, I can overcome my fear of him and let go of it and of him. I don't want to wipe him and his memory off the face of the earth. I don't want to sanitize it.
It may take more than a year, but I think the three of us Brains (Laura, Richard, and me), want to put him to rest in our own way: at Broadstrand in County Cork (Laura); on the top of Goatfell on the Isle of Arran (Richard); and at Ynyslas in west Wales (my own special place, where I proposed to Fran and where we visit every time we go on holiday to the bung). We will scatter his remains there and mark the dark side of his life as well as the good. We may listen to his music and scream into the wind. Let out our rage and sorrow and put him to rest.
I'm not afraid of death anymore. I've seen it happen right in front of me to my brother, and it was one of the most peaceful and uniting experiences of my life. It was incredibly private (I was so inside my own head) but also collective: we did it together, as a family, each in our own way, with our own words and actions. I didn't say much out loud; Laura and Richard spoke to him more; Moira whispered to him that it was OK for him to go, to let go. We were willing him to die. Sandy was mostly quiet. But he was there for him and for us. He held Gregory just like the rest of us. He was part of it. He touched Gregory's head and face, stroked his hair, said goodbye. It was hard for all of us, but it brought us together.
The scattering of ashes may take years to do. I certainly want to be there for all of it: to share it with Laura in her place; to be there with Richard in his. I don't know if Moira and Sandy will be there. They've had their funeral. They controlled the narrative and the PR. Now it's time for our goodbyes in our own way, with our own words, music, images and actions. There's no rush. We can be patient and wait to do it right. But I love the idea that Gregory will then always be with us in our special places. His atoms will live on and become other beings. They will grieve the loss of the spirit they shared in his body, like a theatre troop will grieve after their last show together; or a school year will cry after graduation; or a band will go their separate ways into solo careers. I love the idea that everything has a life and an afterlife. Everything has a spirit.
I think and hope that I will no longer be as tearful about Greg: that my grief ball will have shrunk and hit the pain button less often; or that my box will have grown so that the chances of the grief ball hitting the pain button become smaller.
Fran may have left her job at Hertford College by this time next year. She told me she talked to Emma about resigning today, which is a big step for her that she's been thinking about for the last year or two.
I don't know how much about my life will have changed in terms of work, hobbies, habits, reading. I suspect I will mostly carry on as I am now. I seem to be in quite a good way at the moment with solid routines and a comfortable and manageable way of life.
Will anything in my answers from this year surprise me? Or will what I've been writing about stay close to the surface and become part of my being and my everyday existence? Will it be amusing to see just how obsessed I was with Greg over the past few days: how he appeared in every answer and was never far from my thoughts? Will that still be the case this time next year? Will I still be carrying around my Hungry Heart in my back right pocket every day? Will I still have the bags of Greg's unsorted archive to the right of my desk?
I'm asking a lot of questions here, not writing answers!
I hope Fran will be happier and less stressed - but that won't be as a result of thinking about and answering these questions. I want to read through her answers from last year and jot down some things to discuss with her. It's a real honour and a privilege to be able to do that for each other: to take stock of our lives on an annual basis and see what we're happy with, what we want to change.
It would be nice if Richard and Moira have confronted and sorted out their differences by this time next year; and for Moira to be sleeping better and Richard to have overcome his work stress. I'd also like Ros and Tom to have had a much less eventful year with no more health scares.
We have talked about moving north at some stage to live near the sea, closer to my parents, and get more house for our money. But I'd be surprised if we've acted on that by this time next year. One thing that will have changed is we will have renewed our mortgage and probably also witnessed a general election or be in the midst of one.
I don't think I've set any ticking time-bombs for myself this year: no marriage proposals or job resignations. My focus has been more outward to my family and to my own grief at the death of my big brother Gregory (did I mention that?). I might also regret that I didn't write about some of the things I went through in case they start to slip away from memory.
Will I feel compassion for my past self? Note the hard work of grieving that I am undertaking? Will I have unknowingly been writing about issues that become much bigger things in my family over the next year?
Maybe we will have scattered some of Gregory's ashes in our special places and be planning other scatterings soon. There doesn't seem to be any rush with that process. There is but world enough and time.
Here are my answers from 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022. These are my answers from 2023:
Day 1:
Describe a significant experience that has happened in the past year. How did it affect you? Are you grateful? Relieved? Resentful? Inspired?My answer:
My big brother Gregory died on 22 August 2023 and we had his funeral on 13 September 2023. A couple of years ago we had a family conversation (minus Greg) about the prospect that he might die when his transplanted kidney was starting to fail and he was living somewhat recklessly. I prepared myself mentally that he might die; and in some ways I'm surprised and delighted that he lasted as long as he did.On the morning of Thursday 17 August, I received a WhatsApp message from my brother Richard, asking me to call him. He was Gregory's nominated next of kin, and so Richard was the first to be informed that Gregory had been out busking at 03:00 and either he or the people he was with had called an ambulance when we was struggling to breathe. He was being a bit difficult in the ambulance, refusing the wear the oxygen mask. They took him to Southmead Hospital, which was not the nearest hospital, because that's where he was receiving dialysis and they already knew him well. As they were transferring him from the ambulance to the hospital, he had a heart attack. A few weeks before, he'd had a vascular procedure on his lower left leg and they were worried about the possibility of a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot that travelled from his leg to his lungs) as the cause of the heart attack. They therefore gave him a drug that would take a while to kick in. This was why they persisted with CPR for an hour, which seems to be an abnormally long time. His brain would have been starved of oxygen during this time, so there was a risk that he would have brain damage. I called Laura and Moira and Sandy, trying to figure out if I should go to see him. After speaking to Laura, when we both cried, I realized that I had to go. I didn't want him to be alone in ICU.
The timings were weirdly perfect. Moira was due to fly down to Bristol to spend a few days with him. I drove to Bristol and sat with him in ICU. It was weirdly comforting watching his chest go up and down, controlled by the ventilator. He looked peaceful and asleep; rolled slightly over on his right side. The nurses were always at his side, checking and adjusting things every few minutes. I spoke to one of the doctors, who explained the above scenario to me. He even had his guitar with him, which was sitting in a corner with his black bag. I stayed with him for about 3-4 hours until Moira arrived after 18:00. When talking to Laura, we weren't sure if she wanted to be alone with him. Laura knew that a mother's instinct is to care for all her children, and if I was there, too, her attention wouldn't be fully on Greg. But she seemed relieved that I was there to give her a hug and update the family with the notes I'd taken from the doctors and nurses in the hours before.
At the end of visiting hours, I drove home again. Moira stayed with him over the weekend. The plan was to keep him sedated for another 48 hours and then gradually let him wake up and do some tests to see if he had brain damage. It became clear by Sunday evening that he was unresponsive. We had a painful family discussion on Zoom and we all agreed that we didn't want him to continue to live if it meant he'd need 24-hour care and would essentially be a zombie. We all knew what this meant. I asked how soon we could all get there. Richard and Sandy could get the train down first thing the next morning; Laura would fly to London Heathrow and I could pick her up and drive her to Bristol. It's amazing how quick and decisive we were.
When I saw Greg again on Monday evening, it was upsetting. His eyes were open but blank. He was convulsing and jerking around. His chest looked like a wobbly waterbed. I joked that he would have relished being undead like this. We had arrived after visiting hours, but the kind ICU staff let us in to spend a few precious but painful minutes with him - perhaps an hour.
All the restaurants had closed or had stopped serving by then, so we had a Sainsbo's picnic in our hotel rooms. For some reason, Moira and Sandy had only booked two extra rooms. Richard and I were expected to share, which would have been fine with a twin room, but it was a double bed! I mentioned to Richard that I'd be happy to pay for my own room and word got back to M&S, who arranged for another room.
I didn't sleep that well, what with lift noise and all of THIS, but I took care of myself with Balance meditations and yoga, trying to stick to my normal routines.
The next day was the last day of Gregory's life. We took it in turns to spend time with him in pairs. I went in with Laura. I'd had the idea to wash his feet - having noticed on Thursday that they were brown and dirty. I'd taken in some nail clippers, shower gel, and the Miami Dolphins towel that I'd got at the NFL game I'd gone to with Gregory in 2007 against the New York Giants, the first NFL regular season game in the UK. Laura cut his toenails. We both bathed his feet and massaged them with coconut hand cream. It was a beautiful ritual, and helped me to overcome my revulsion with his dying body.
We were then asked to leave the room by the nurses, who were presumably going to do some sort of procedure or maintenance. There seemed to be some miscommunication. I expected that they would let us know in 20 minutes or so that we could go back in. But I think it was over an hour before I asked if we could return. One of the doctors spoke to Moira and Sandy when they eventually went back in. They were going to extubate him: remove life-preserving care and let his body die naturally. One of the other factors in making this decision as a family is that, because he wouldn't have had a good quality of life, he would no longer qualify for dialysis, which is only given to patients to whom it would be beneficial.
It was a weird feeling going in as a family to be with Gregory when he died. I was trembling slightly and felt wobbly. Having read the ICU page on the hospital website, I'd seen that they encouraged families to play music in the room, so I had my Tronsmart Bluetooth speaker with me. After about half an hour of us all holding Gregory as his strong body struggled on, I asked if anyone wanted me to play some music. I put the speaker on his left hip, next to his left hand, so that he could feel the vibrations. We listened to a number of songs together, starting with "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen, which Moira requested because that's what they used to listen to with Gregory when they were holding him as a baby. I wasn't sure how many songs we'd get through, but him being a stubborn bugger, he lasted for about 45 minutes! We were willing him to die but he kept holding on. The last piece of music we heard together was "The End" by the Beatles, the end of the medley on Abbey Road that includes "Golden Slumbers" and "Carry That Weight". The last line is: "And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make."
I'm sure I'll write more about this throughout this year's 10Q. But to answer the immediate question: this has made me profoundly sad and melancholy. I feel like I'm now making space for grief in my life - a grief that will always be with me. And Gregory lives on through us: in our thoughts and memories and conversations about him. He has left his body and is living in ours, which is a comforting and beautiful thought. We all also felt a huge sense of relief. We no longer have to worry about him anymore! Even though the worst has now happened. I wonder if his recent trips to Edinburgh to visit his girlfriend Mel, and to Bath to visit his friend Henry, were in some ways a swansong. Did he know what he was doing? Did he want to go out this way? I know he was scared of the prospect of losing his leg to amputation if the post-op infection didn't clear up.
This experience has consumed my life for the past four weeks, including a week and a bit on holiday in Berlin, which was a blessed relief and a chance to feel and experience something else for a while, which none of the rest of my family were able to do. It has brought us all closer together, going through this as a family, which I'm immensely grateful for - especially the three of us siblings, which we are now calling the Brains. I've also learned so much about Gregory and his life that I didn't know when he was alive. I'm sure I'll write more on that in due course.
On that Zoom call on the Sunday after his heart attack and the weekend before he died, I said it was a chance to give him a good death, and I think we achieved that as a family.
Day 2:
Is there something that you wish you had done differently this past year? Alternatively, is there something you're especially proud of from this past year?My answer:
I wish I had made more of an effort to visit Gregory when he was in hospital at various times this year. Judging by his "shitfit" message on Whalen Family Singers, when he had a go at all of us without naming names, this didn't go unnoticed. There was a weekend when I went to visit Tom and Ros when I wasn't far from Bristol and could have gone to see him. Can't remember exactly when, but it may have been around the time of his vascular procedure at the end of June. I also didn't go to see him when he was in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary after his leg wound flared up. It was too much hassle.This regret isn't just something from this year. It's my whole relationship with Gregory as an adult. I would have liked to take him to the cinema more often. We could have seen Oppenheimer together. I think I let my view of him be coloured and filtered by Moira and Sandy's feelings. I never really had a bad experience with him. He was never (or rarely) mean to me. I was disturbed by his mania when Moira and Sandy still lived in Bristol and Greg was in what I'm calling his ketamine phase, when he seems to have been experimenting with drugs.
But I think, when it came to the last few critical hours before he died, we got it right. I went to see him on the same day that Richard told me the news about his heart attack. I listened to myself and also canvassed opinion from the rest of the family. I knew I had to go when Laura and I cried down the phone to each other. I also helped to initiate the whole family coming together as soon as possible the day before he died. I'm proud that we all put aside any concerns or resentments about his past behaviour and just loved him for what he was: a big brother, a son, a troubled soul who tried his best.
And he really did try his best. When we went through his flat the day after he died, I found numerous folders marking the various crises he'd lived through: he seems to have kept everything and tried again and again to restart his life. I'd been cross at him for apparently failing and not trying hard enough, but I think now that I was wrong about this. He really tried.
I also found a sheet of A4 paper with red pen on it, not in his handwriting, with various drugs and their pros and cons. This was a mind-map of self-medication. I normally think badly of self-medication but this was rational and well thought-out: he seems to have experimented with various drugs in order to try to understand what could make his life better. What he was getting from the medical establishment wasn't working to take away his pain and discomfort and distress.
I've learned so much about Greg in such a short space of time. I forgive him his supposed shortcomings and I'm trying not to judge the way he lived his life anymore; or at least to judge it on his terms. I'm so proud of him for the legacy he left: of the kind and generous way he treated his friends (if not always his family); of the way he shared what little he had with people who needed it more than him; of the way he kept living and finding the diamonds in the coal.
I'm trying not to beat myself up about the missed opportunities with Greg. I had my own problems and my own life to lead. He rarely met us half-way; and maybe he didn't want us to. But it's clear that we, his family, were part of his life and his thoughts, that he did want us there and he did value our support and, in some cases, was jealous of our lives. He said as such in his amazing apology to Laura after his WhatsApp shitfit.
Talking to Ros last week, she said something very wise about grief: that it's harder to grieve for the people you had troubled relationships with because there are more regrets and complicated feelings. That's certainly true for Greg. So many unresolved issues and missed opportunities, so many whispered conversations about him behind his back as a family. I didn't seek to form my own opinion first-hand. This is not to malign my parents: they were looking out for me, trying to protect me from the harm that they and Laura and Richard had suffered because of Greg. I'm grateful that I was sheltered and didn't see the absolute worst of him and maybe still don't know all the details of his troubled life.
Day 3:
Think about a major milestone that happened with your family this past year. How has this affected you?My answer:
It doesn't get much more major than your big brother dying, does it? I've discussed some of the circumstances in my previous answers, so today I'll focus on the milestone of the funeral. It felt like quite a long time between his death (22 August) and his funeral (13 September): 22 days. I went on holiday to Berlin from 25 August to 4 September and I had originally drafted my auto-reply email message with the expectation that the funeral would be in that week beginning 4 September. Things were slightly complicated by the fact that the death had to be registered in England, so my parents had to drive to Carlisle a week after he died. It took a few days to get the cause of death certificate, and they'd returned home by then.I had a lovely time in Berlin with Fran, but I'm not going to write about that now. The week after that was a bit tougher. I allowed myself to feel more of the pain of grief and had a few more cries. I could feel the pressure building in my chest and it was a relief to let it out every now and then. I wanted to do some proper crying before the funeral so that it wouldn't build up and up and then explode in front of everyone.
We drove up north on Monday 11 September, the day after Moira's 70th birthday. We could have gone sooner, but I selfishly wanted to watch the opening weekend of the NFL at home and Fran had a college gaudy on Saturday, so it made the most sense. It was just the four of us on Monday night. On Tuesday evening, everyone arrived: Elaine and Stephen; Laura; Vernon; Richard and Zoe. The house was very full. We had both extensions on the table. It felt good to be around everyone again and get and give lots of hugs.
In Berlin I'd had the idea to make a friendship bracelet for Gregory to wear in his coffin. I used black thread (of course). I finished it the night I got home and then posted it the next day (Tuesday 5 September) but it didn't arrive until Monday 11th, the day we travelled up. Bubs went to tie it on his wrist personally. I want to ask her about that experience at some stage. I'd posted it first class, so it should have arrived on the 6th or 7th but didn't for some reason. I was fine with the idea of finding another use for it, but I'm glad that he was able to wear it in the end.
We had a relaxed breakfast on the morning of the funeral. Sandy reminded me to get ready so that I could drive with him to the Savoy Park Hotel to set up the projector for the reception. We took Fran in, too, so that she could do some shopping for supplies at Morrisons. On my return I ironed my shirt and trousers with Bubs's supervision. I quite like the ritual of ironing my shirt before black tie dinners and I wanted Bubs to teach me her technique. I was determined to do it myself, though; and to give her the opportunity of mothering me without the burden of an extra domestic task. I also seemed to delay her going to the garden with Laura but they did eventually get their time together.
The funeral director was called Barry Whalen (no relation). They picked us up in a black limo for the chief mourners: Moira, Sandy, Laura, Richard, Zoe, Fran, and me. It was weird taking this last journey together, driving behind the hearse with Greg's fantastically decorated coffin visible through the front window. Laura was crying. I managed to make her laugh by saying "Pull my finger" when we were holding hands to comfort each other.
It was a short drive to Masonhill Crematorium. For the whole two weeks beforehand, even though I knew it was wrong, I'd been picturing the funeral at Castlehill Parish Church, where we used to go for services at Belmont Academy and where the school chaplain came from. We were the only funeral at the crem that day - also unusual. We were led into a private family room where we sat for a few minutes. I went to the toilet. Had a drink of water. We could hear the chatter of friends and family outside the chapel. And also the Star Wars theme tune, which was Moira and Sandy's idea.
Then it was time to go in. We walked beside the coffin, which was being pushed on a trolley. We each had a posey and put one hand on the coffin. "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen was playing: the first song we listened to when Gregory was dying and the song Moira and Sandy used to play when they were dancing with Gregory as a baby in their arms. My eyes started to water. We each laid our flowers on the coffin and sat down.
The celebrant was Stewart Donnelly - recommended by the funeral director. He was a humanist and did a good job. Moira had written her memories of Gregory and he pretty much used them unedited. He also used some of the memories that Laura and I had shared. Projected behind him was a beautiful photo of Greg from the summer of 2000, the year he was first ill, on holiday in France. The other music was "Angels" by Robbie Williams (a favourite of his from the early naughties in Germany) and "Caledonia" by Amy Macdonald - both of which we listened to with him as he was dying in ICU.
After the service, there was a huge hug and handshake line outside the chapel. It was lovely to hug friends and family. I was touched that Mr Moir, our old headmaster at Belmont, was there, on two crutches; and also Mr Mac, my old Chemistry teacher, and one of Sandy's good friends from U3A. There were also lots of Gregory's friends dressed appropriately in metal clothes.
We drove back to the reception at the Savoy Park Hotel, which was just across the road from our old house on Bellevue Crescent. There was a buffet and a slideshow of photos of Greg. I had something to eat and then did my best to circulate and meet some friends and family. I had a lovely chat with Amy, his first long-term girlfriend, who shared some of her memories. She's now married with two kids, so it was hard for her to be there. But she said she still had feelings for Greg and called the late 90s his "glory days", not realizing the significance of this phrase from our joking around with Burnistoun the week he died: the sketch with the denim jaisket.
Eventually, people started to leave. We went home and had a bit of downtime. Then we had snacks and a big dinner together. It was nice to be able to help. Laura and I also went through a bag of photos that Scottie and Yosif, his flatmates, had rescued for us.
I'm still processing how all of this has affected me. I'm now learning to live with grief. I'm starting to feel a bit flat and depressed, but we're all looking out for each other. I'm trying to return to my normal life and routines, but it will take some time to adjust - as it would do with any 4-week break, let alone when your big brother has died. So, I'm coming to terms with it slowly. It is in some ways a relief, but it's still a loss. And the story is still being written.
Day 4:
Describe an event in the world that has impacted you this year. How? Why?My answer:
Oh, a chance to think and write about something other than Greg dying? OK! The first thing that springs to mind is the number of workers' strikes that have been happening. These are in response to high inflation and the refusal of some employers to raise wages. Some of the strikes are also about working conditions, such as the rail companies threatening to close ticket offices, which are a valuable resource to many travellers, especially older sections of the population who are less comfortable using the internet to make their bookings. If ticket offices are closed down, an immense repository of timetabling and ticketing knowledge will be lost.The strikes that have had the biggest impact on me so far have been train strikes. I don't often travel by train but there was one day earlier this summer when Fran and I were going to London. Normally, we'd take the train from Bicester to London Marylebone. This day was particularly complicated because we were trying to combine three events in one day: going to see Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club at the Playhouse Theatre; going to Michael and Matty's 30th birthday party (which also turned out to be a secret engagement party!); and going to Becky's 10th wedding anniversary.
We knew this was going to be a strike day in advance, so I did some planning a week or two before to figure out the best way to travel. We decided that we'd drive to Brockwell and park using the JustPark app. We got a parking space all day for about £7. We then took a bus and a tube into town for the theatre. After the musical, we took another bus to Camberwell for Michael and Matty's party. And from there we took another bus to Brockwell Park and walked across the park to the party. It wasn't ideal driving home late at night, in the dark, through unfamiliar London streets (it was a bit stressful), but I managed it.
I think we also had something the very next day. That's right! We drove up north for a couple of nights in Cumbria to celebrate Fran's birthday and then on to Ayr to spend some time with Moira and Sandy, Richard and Zoe. Sometimes you get weekends like this where everything seems to happen at the same time. I used to have more of an appetite for them, but I found this one quite daunting and exhausting, which meant I didn't enjoy everything (especially the final party) as much as I might have done because I was already tired out and emotionally drained. I find that if you stack too many social things on top of one another, then you aren't fully present; you're always looking toward the next one: you go into survival mode rather than living in the now.
I mentioned something along these lines to Fran a few days ago and I think I need to be more assertive if I can see this happening again. The main thrust of the day should have been our theatre trip, which was a birthday present from Fran. It would be hard to turn down the two other invitations, because family and friends are really important, and they notice and appreciate when you make an effort - particularly on a strike day when other people, who lived closer, were unwilling to make the more difficult journeys.
In the grand scheme of things, I support striking workers. It's a last resort for them, in many cases. I'm so disappointed in the government for failing to pay our public sector employees properly - particularly nurses and doctors, who took on such a burden during the pandemic and do such a wonderful job. (Chink of an opening to talk about Greg here: the staff in the ICU were amazing!)
When we were in Aberystwyth in May during our annual holiday in Wales, we drove past a group of striking nurses (or was it lecturers?) standing on the roadside. I relished being able to toot my horn at them to show my support and solidarity! I hardly ever use the car horn but I made an exception for them.
I think the distribution of wealth in our capitalist society is unfair. Too much wealth is stolen and hogged by the super-rich and even the ordinarily rich. They don't need that much money. Other people just need a small pay bump to make their lives that much more comfortable. I'd love to see a government (or even an opposition party) have the balls to simplify the tax system and tax those with the highest incomes a fair proportion. Would it be possible only to tax incomes and remove all the other consumption taxes? I guess it would also be good to tax greenhouse gas emissions, too, to help change people's behaviour.
Nani, Moira's mother, had a lovely saying: "Money's round to go round," which means that when you have money, you should share it around with those who need it. It's designed to function that way. It's a circular economy. Don't stockpile cash, possessions and resources that are needed elsewhere.
The more I read and learn about this stuff (our capitalist system, the way the economy functions, the impact our way of life has on the climate), the more I'm ready for a change of system. It's so arrogant for governments not to listen to the concerns of the workforce about fair pay and working conditions. They instead listen to a few wealthy and powerful assholes like bankers and capitalists, who are behaving in pure self-interest. We have enough wealth: we're one of the richest countries in the world. We'd be a lot happier and would function a lot better if that wealth was more widely distributed.
I can handle the minor inconvenience of a few strikes, but I wish they actually led to better outcomes and sooner. The strikes have barely affected me, but Fran's commute to work has been compromised more often. And sometimes, even when the trains are running, the disruption of the strikes still has an impact with the wrong number of carriages for a busy morning commuter train, which is thus overcrowded and unpleasant.
Berlin, where we went on holiday at the end of August to early September, has such a wonderful public transport system, which is run for the benefit of the people, not for profit. I'd like to see all our public transport infrastructure removed from private ownership. The profit should be the benefit it brings to people's lives, not the pensions and bank balances of the wealthy. Fuck the system!
Day 5:
Have you had any particularly spiritual experiences this past year? How has this experience affected you? "Spiritual" can be broadly defined to include secular spiritual experiences: artistic, cultural, and so forth.My answer:
When I went to visit Gregory in the ICU on the Thursday, after he'd had his heart attack the night before, I noticed that his feet were dirty. He's so tall that they were poking out the bottom of the bed. I didn't touch him at all until the very end of that day when I said goodbye to him. I sat at a distance on the side of the room, staying out of the way of the nurses, just being present with him. I didn't read my book. I only looked at my phone to write notes on what the doctors and nurses were telling me so that I could later share it with the rest of the family. I was there for about 3-4 hours, just focused on him, watching his chest go up and down, controlled by the ventilator. It was calming and soothing. He looked better than I'd expected. His head was tipped to the right, he was slightly turned on his right side. He was asleep. Peaceful. Not in any pain.Moira arrived at about 18:15 after terrible traffic from the airport to the hotel and the hotel to the hospital. I think the M32 was closed. Then, when she arrived at the hospital, there was a fire alarm and she couldn't get in the building! I was completely oblivious to this. There's lots of background noise in ICU, but on that first day, I found it quite a comforting place to be. They were taking such good care of him.
When Moira arrived, she was much more hands-on with him. She leaned over to whisper in his ear. She touched him. I wasn't sure at first if this was allowed. COVID-19 restrictions are now relaxed, but their memory stays with me from my previous visits. So I may have just touched his left forearm when I said goodbye to him that evening.
When I returned again on Monday evening he was in quite a different state. But that's not what I wanted to write about today. His feet were still slightly grubby-looking. His shins were dry with peeling skin. His toenails, of course, had seen better days.
When Richard, Laura and I were alone together back at the hotel that evening, I mentioned that I'd noticed his dirty feet and suggested I might wash them the next day. Laura offered to do it with me. So when we went in on Tuesday, the day he died (22 August), I took with me my shower gel, a Miami Dolphins hand towel from the Giants @ Dolphins NFL game that I went to see with Gregory in 2007 at Wembley, some coconut hand cream from the Body Shop, and a pair of nail clippers. I'd had an idea to buy massage oil from St Nick's Market, where we had breakfast together that morning, but we were already running a bit late for visiting hours, which started at 11:00, so I didn't do it.
Moira and Sandy went in first that morning to see him; then Richard, then Laura, and finally me. I took my bag in with me and we asked the nurse if it was OK if we could wash his feet. She gave us a cardboard basin to use and put some nappy-like blankets under his feet to absorb the moisture. She also lowered the end of the bed so that we could get more easy access. This was the spiritual experience: washing and massaging the feet of my big brother on the day he died, a few hours before he died, with my big sister. We each washed one foot. I made sure to clean in between his toes, which I know feels nice (to me). I faced my fear and revulsion at his body and turned it into a beautiful, ritualistic thing. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples at the Last Supper. I wanted to do one thing for him to prepare him for the afterlife. I couldn't have him wandering around the afterlife with dirty feet. I think that thought also came up in the Balance app meditation that I listened to that morning: what's one thing that you can do for someone else today? This was my thing. The thought just came to me; I shared it; Laura affirmed it; and we decided to do it together.
After washing his feet, we dried them with the Dolphins towel. Laura clipped his toenails and the fingernails of his left hand; I clipped the fingernails of his right hand. We then massaged his feet and hands using the coconut hand cream. I will now always associate that smell with him and remember this moment, this quiet ritual that Laura and I were able to share.
The other spiritual experience, which followed soon after, was when we were all allowed in together as a family, just wee 6, when Gregory was extubated and allowed to die in our arms, as we held him, cried over him, dropped our tears on his skin, built up pug in his hands and on his arms, whispered to him, and played him music. I'd read on the ICU page of the hospital website that we were encouraged to bring in music to listen to with the patients in their rooms. I brought my Tronsmart Bluetooth speaker (a brilliant present from Richard and Zoe), laid it on his hip, next to his left hand, so that he could feel the vibrations, and we played an impromptu playlist, a Desert Island Discs selection of 8 songs, one of which ("Angels" by Robbie Williams) we repeated. The first track we listened to, "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen, will now always have the power to make me cry: the thought of Moira and Sandy holding Gregory as a baby, listening to that track, and then holding him as a battered and worn out 44-year-old man, their son, dying in a hospital bed with all his family holding him, too.
Moira got caught up in all the wires - a comical moment. I said, "Be careful! You'll kill him!" His strong body struggled on for about 45 minutes, without any life-sustaining care; just the painkillers (morphine?), which I know he enjoyed after his kidney transplant. He didn't seem to be in any pain as he took his last breaths with us. We were wishing him to go whenever he was ready. There was no machine in the room to tell us when he died. It just became apparent that he stopped breathing, that his pulse had stopped. He was, finally, at rest. And with that, despite all the tears and shaking grief, a huge weight seemed to be lifted from us all. He had left his body behind and entered ours. His afterlife will be in our thoughts and conversations, when we say his name and think of him.
I think this may have been the first dead person I've seen, the first time I've witnessed someone dying. And it wasn't a terrible thing. It was actually kind of beautiful, peaceful, calming, funny, trying, an endurance of love and regret, tears and laughter, hugs and strokes, whispers, quiet thoughts, shared music, good vibrations, peace, calm, rest.
Day 6:
Describe one thing you'd like to achieve by this time next year. Why is this important to you?My answer:
I find that when I set one if these intentions in 10Q, I rarely achieve it in a year. It's more like one or two years; sometimes three. For example, I haven't finished reading through my list of books to read after Finals yet. Nor have I reached my target weight of 80kg (currently 88.6kg). But gently stating a goal here can help to move me towards it.The one thing I'd like to achieve by this time next year is to go through the bags of Greg's stuff next to me, and the books downstairs under the dining table. We had a few hours the day after he died to look through his flat for treasures we wanted to keep, such as his 21st birthday photo album, bank account and council tax details, and some artworks. I also couldn't resist looking through his books and saving three bagfuls for myself; and one Jaws book for Richard. Because I had my car and the rest of the family had flown or taken the train to Bristol, I took these possessions home with me, apart from a select few items that Moira and Sandy kept to help with preparations for his funeral. They looked through the bags in their hotel room, so they are now neatly sorted into 1) a bag of notebooks, 2) a bag of artwork, and 3) a bag from Scottie and Yosif containing more photos and fanzines, which we looked through together in the evening after the funeral.
I'm most looking forward to going through the notebooks. I want to see his handwriting, read some of his thoughts, understand what he was processing, and (selfishly) to see if he ever thought of us as a family and me specifically. There's one notepad in particular that I'd like to find first, which is a small ring-bound notepad, about the size of an iPhone, written in red pen, which Laura and Richard read through together in Greg's flat while I was biffing around doing other things. Apparently it contains a mini-biography. Everything is in there, and it must have been written relatively recently because it mentions COVID-19.
I don't plan to keep all of this stuff. I want to find a home for it: give some of his artwork to friends and family, but also digitize it into a sort of archive so that anyone who wants to can dip into it. I'd also like to pass on his fanzine collection to a guy called Lapinas Pix on Facebook, who runs a website that archives metal fanzines, including The Crypt #2, the second issue of Gregory's 'zine. I also want to scan issue 1 and share that with him, along with Cryptic News (the newsletter) and a couple of flyers that Martin Kelso, another of Gregory's friends, shared with me.
People have been so kind and willing to share this sort of stuff. Martin apparently quite enjoyed looking through his boxes of this stuff to find it for me. He's glad he has them and the memories that come with them.
Watching Gone Fishing last night, the subject of "death cleaning" came up, which is when older people, the age of my parents and Fran's parents, start to process and get rid of all the stuff in their life to make it easier for their loved ones to deal with what's left when they die. For Bubs this might mean her extensive craft cupboard and the boxes of photos that they looked through when preparing a slideshow for Gregory's funeral reception and service. The interesting thing about those photos, because they're not in albums, is that they awaken old, half-forgotten memories. The photos in albums are much more familiar and probably become the memory itself: a memory of a photo, not of the thing itself.
I'm also looking forward to feeling the tactility of the artwork: the dried paper, slightly brittle; the smell of Greg's tobacco smoke; the homeless / penniless artist signs he seems to have used on the street - perhaps when busking and begging in Bristol. I can't believe he managed to keep all of this stuff when he was, for a time, homeless. When was he homeless? Was this when Moira and Sandy left Bristol - partly to get away from him? He was being a dick in the mid-2010s: breaking into their house, being verbally and physically abusive. It must be horrible to feel unsafe in your own home, and for the cause of that to be your own son. I can't imagine what that must be like.
Eventually, probably through Bubs's love, the relationship must have softened. Gregory went to visit them in Scotland for little holidays and at Christmas or for his birthday just before Christmas.
I'm so touched by the stuff he kept. He's got the little buttonhole from my wedding, for example, which is making me well up with tears now. If he rarely expressed his love for us in words and actions, there certainly seem to be traces of it here in his possessions, which are now our possessions. We possess him, in a way, too. We're the ones that are telling his story now. He may not have loved us at all! I wonder if he'd like that: losing control of his own story. I guess he'd already lost control of his own story, through his mental illness: he lost his way - or, at least, that's what I thought from the outside looking in. Maybe we'll find something to surprise us in these notebooks. Maybe there will be lots of diamonds in the coal. I'm looking forward to living up to my heritage and doing some mining.
Day 7:
How would you like to improve yourself and your life next year? Is there a piece of advice or counsel you received in the past year that could guide you?My answer:
I don't know about this one, so I'll just start writing until something comes to me. I'm mostly pretty happy with things as they are (for me). I'd like to see things improve for other people: for Fran not to be stressed about work; for Richard not to be stressed about work and for him to have healed the wound he seems to have with Moira; for Moira to sleep better (stop drinking caffeine after lunchtime), resign her U3A committee position, and maybe even have counselling to help her deal with all the feelings of guilt she has. We were texting the other day and I asked her why she was persevering with U3A even though some of the work she does grudgingly. She said she would never forgive herself. She doesn't owe anyone anything. It's a volunteer position. Her son has just died. I don't think anyone would blame her if she wanted to take a step back from her responsibilities and let someone else take over - even just temporarily.Is my problem, my thing to work on, that I should care less about other people? To let them live their lives how they want to live them and not try to interfere, thinking that I know better? Sometimes it can be tremendously liberating to let your loved ones influence you. For example, I was exhausted after the week that Greg died. I'd only slept 3-4 hours a night that week. I came home on Thursday evening and went on holiday on Friday morning. It was hectic. On the journey to Berlin, I was a liability. I kept losing things and wasn't in control. I decided that I would lean on Fran and just accept and agree to her little, loving suggestions, such as letting her take an extra bag, or having a little snooze while we waited in departures. It felt great, actually, to let her help me. I normally have a familiar stubbornness, which I see in Moira and Sandy, a pride of not wanting to be told what to do. I wonder if I've seen how Tom accedes to Ros in health matters and followed his example. With his bowel cancer, he let Ros do all the thinking and just let himself be treated like a lump of meat. Trust the experts. That put a big burden on Ros, but I suspect she would have taken it on anyway. Sometimes it can be good to work as a team. Just do your job and trust that they will do their job. Work with the referee, as my captain's philosophy puts it. This came to me / out of me in a dream on 16 March 2020: "Win. Positive encouragement. Lead by example. Preserve the spirit of the game. Work with the referee."
I could rehash the stuff I've written about in previous years: continue to lose weight; continue to read; continue to work on my sleep hygiene and discipline.
I could continue to use the Balance app for meditation. I really like Ofosu, the guy who guides you through the meditations. I'm doing a 10-day energy meditation series at the moment. It's mostly mindful breathing exercises, which I do in the shower. These have a few benefits. They make me feel good (or better), even on bad days. They give me energy. They help me to slow down and focus on one thing at a time. They keep me going on good days. I almost didn't do one this morning after my bike ride, after breakfast, and before lunch. I felt good enough. I didn't need the prop. But it's a 10-day series and I didn't want to break it. I'd normally listen to my Bill Simmons podcast or an audiobook. They're also timed to 5, 10 or 15 minutes, which helps me not to stay in the shower too long. Fran started doing them when she was having a tough time: feeling low and stressed. And she's kept doing them in her showers most days. I'd seen the Balance app had a promotion for one free year. I signed up and didn't use it. Kept it in my back pocket until I (or someone else) needed it. They also have good sleep meditations, which I used to help me get to sleep during the week Greg died.
I was talking to Ros and Tom about grief the Sunday before we went up to Ayr for Gregory's funeral. Ros shared a lot of her wisdom and experience of grief. She said that everyone grieves in their own way. And that the most difficult people to grieve over are the ones you had a complicated relationship with. I think those words of wisdom will stay with me. They will remind me that Bubs and Sandy will grieve in their own way. It won't be the same as Laura and me. Richard will grieve in his own way, too. He might have more regrets and guilt. Laura and I might have more tears. Bubs and Sandy might just try to get on with their busy lives. And that's OK.
When my brain was fizzy at the beginning of my holiday, I wrote to Just wee 6 (our family WhatsApp group) with a silly grief game in which you get points for sharing a crying selfie (amongst other things). I'm really the only person who's been doing them. Laura did one recently in the gym when "Hungry Heart" came on. Bubs did one the first morning but took two selfies that weren't of her face. I teased her gently that she had good aim. She hasn't done one since. Texting with Sandy yesterday, we made a deal that I'd share laughing selfies if the spreadsheet of Greg's lockdown jokes made me laugh. He asked me to send them instead of my crying selfies when I offered to stop them. He said that would be the best of both worlds. I'd been getting the feeling that I should stop them. I don't really know what purpose they serve. Maybe they make me conscious of my tears: acknowledge them. It takes me out of myself a little bit. I don't often take selfies, so it's weird that I would take one and then share it with family when I'm crying about Greg - at my most vulnerable. But I don't feel vulnerable. I feel strong. I'm leaning into my grief, not running away from it. I need to do it, so why not get stuck in now while it's fresh? What am I trying to do? Was I trying to make Moira and Sandy cry? They can grieve in their own way. That might not be with tears; or public tears. From now on, I think I'll just share them with Laura; or maybe the Brains (Richard said he didn't mind them, but wouldn't be doing them himself because he hates any and all photos of his face).
I need to accept people for who they are and stop trying to mould them to be me. But I think I'm quite good at leading by example. Sandy has started doing what he calls "Chriswalks" in the morning after we had a conversation about my daily walks and the benefit I've felt from them since I started them in February during a low spell. Richard took a couple of mental health days at work and initiated the process to start some counselling after a conversation we had the morning after Greg's funeral. I have gentle influence over people. They sometimes listen to and do what I suggest if it's gentle and kind enough. I just wish I could find a way to help Bubs with her sleep and her own mental daemons. But maybe if we just stay in touch more and have our little chats then she will find her own way.
Day 8:
Is there something (a person, a cause, an idea) that you want to investigate more fully in the coming year?My answer:
I want to investigate my big brother Gregory more fully in the coming year. I've appointed myself as his archivist - partly because I had my car when we were with him in Bristol when he died, but also because I was willing to look after a few bags of his notebooks, artworks, and photographs. I've said to Moira that I will leave it for a little while - at her suggestion. But I am looking forward to doing it. I don't know what I'll find. And perhaps I won't like some of the stuff that I'll find. But then I didn't like some (much) of the stuff that I knew about Greg anyway, and I'm going to confront my fears now that he's dead.I want to change the story that I tell about him, and tell myself about him. I'd always thought it was a shame that he never fulfilled his potential as a writer, a music journalist, and artist. But maybe he has. He just hasn't done it in the conventional way.
There's also the practical side of what to do with his iPhone and the digital dust it has gathered; when and how to inform social networks that he has died. I've found the form on Facebook, but I'm scared that his wishes might have been to delete his account after his death and we'd therefore lose all of his photos and posts. I'm a completist. I don't like to lose things - particularly to carelessness. I could back it up before submitting that form. There's no rush. And I don't have to tell Facebook he's dead. I don't think there's any harm. Maybe his account would be more vulnerable to hackers. I also need to inform Google about his Gmail account. Again, there might be stuff in there that I don't want to see or that he wouldn't want us to see.
I don't plan to keep all of this stuff necessarily. I'm happy to give it away to his friends and other members of the family. Or to recycle it. It may be hard. It will make me cry. But I'm not afraid of that. Is that what Moira's trying to protect me from? From grief, sadness, revelations? I already expect the worst anyway. I don't think I could be surprised in a bad way. I want to sift through the coal to find the diamonds and then give them to other people.
There is an instinct in me to also become his biographer: to speak to some of his friends and find out their perspective of him. I've already been doing this with Mel, Amy, Michael and Martin, to some extent - although not with any aim in mind. Just to find comfort in connection. Amy, for example, thought it might have been suicide. That's the problem of not being open about the cause of death. If someone dies at 44, particularly someone who had mental health and multiple co-morbidities, someone who had a hard life, it's inevitable that people might wonder if he died by suicide. But I do think he lived as if he had a death wish at times. He went on a bender after the transplant. He took risks. I think that the last few weeks of his life were a swan song: going to visit his girlfriend Mel in Edinburgh and his friend Henry in Bath.
I feel like I'm so much closer to Gregory after his death than I was when he was alive. I've learned more about him and changed my perspective of him. Perhaps because he can no longer harm or hurt me; and no more harm or hurt can come to him.
I will need to be careful about what and how much I share about Greg with the rest of the family - particularly Moira and Sandy. I think they've hardened themselves, calloused, after their horrific experiences with him in Bristol. They may not be ready to change what they think of him; or they already know too much. He was a troubled soul. But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was fine with the way his life was. Maybe he felt judged by us as a family that he didn't live up to our expectations.
What will the art tell us in pictures that words cannot? Some of his doodles are quite dark. I think they reveal the daemons that he battled with. But he was also fascinated by the dark and macabre from an early age. He didn't shy away from it. He loved horror films and metal music, black clothes, gothic women, Satanism. He was naughty. He was a vandal and a graffiti artist. He may have been violent towards medical staff and the police. I don't really know. And I will try not to judge; just let his detritus tell its own story.
Day 9:
What is a fear that you have and how has it limited you? How do you plan on letting it go or overcoming it in the coming year?My answer:
I was afraid of my big brother Gregory and his illness. It limited me because I didn't spend as much time with him. I always thought I could be his next victim. He was a real dick at times to everyone else in the family. I was sheltered from that. Apart from seeing him a few times when he was manic, which was hugely upsetting, I never caught the brunt of one of his verbal or physical attacks. He treated his girlfriend Amy terribly at the end of their relationship; but we didn't know at the time that he was manic depressive - although that doesn't excuse his behaviour entirely. He was prone to shitfits and I never had the courage to call him out on them.He used to tease Fran and me for our Guardian lifestyle. I think he may have been jealous of our nice house, our marriage, our cats, our books, and comfort. But he also like to undermine people. He made fun of me for dancing at a wedding when I was younger and I have never really wanted to dance (in public) since then.
I guess part of this fear is just a fear of being judged by others. Greg sometimes didn't have that filter of politeness or respect. He told it how he saw it. Most people learn not to share all of their negative thoughts about other people. I can certainly feel myself judging people in my head. But I'm also good at not making other people feel bad. I'm sensitive to how they might feel and to the damage that negative comments can have on someone's self-esteem, and how deep those scars can run.
I think by embracing what's left behind of Greg's life, I can overcome my fear of him and let go of it and of him. I don't want to wipe him and his memory off the face of the earth. I don't want to sanitize it.
It may take more than a year, but I think the three of us Brains (Laura, Richard, and me), want to put him to rest in our own way: at Broadstrand in County Cork (Laura); on the top of Goatfell on the Isle of Arran (Richard); and at Ynyslas in west Wales (my own special place, where I proposed to Fran and where we visit every time we go on holiday to the bung). We will scatter his remains there and mark the dark side of his life as well as the good. We may listen to his music and scream into the wind. Let out our rage and sorrow and put him to rest.
I'm not afraid of death anymore. I've seen it happen right in front of me to my brother, and it was one of the most peaceful and uniting experiences of my life. It was incredibly private (I was so inside my own head) but also collective: we did it together, as a family, each in our own way, with our own words and actions. I didn't say much out loud; Laura and Richard spoke to him more; Moira whispered to him that it was OK for him to go, to let go. We were willing him to die. Sandy was mostly quiet. But he was there for him and for us. He held Gregory just like the rest of us. He was part of it. He touched Gregory's head and face, stroked his hair, said goodbye. It was hard for all of us, but it brought us together.
The scattering of ashes may take years to do. I certainly want to be there for all of it: to share it with Laura in her place; to be there with Richard in his. I don't know if Moira and Sandy will be there. They've had their funeral. They controlled the narrative and the PR. Now it's time for our goodbyes in our own way, with our own words, music, images and actions. There's no rush. We can be patient and wait to do it right. But I love the idea that Gregory will then always be with us in our special places. His atoms will live on and become other beings. They will grieve the loss of the spirit they shared in his body, like a theatre troop will grieve after their last show together; or a school year will cry after graduation; or a band will go their separate ways into solo careers. I love the idea that everything has a life and an afterlife. Everything has a spirit.
Day 10:
When September 2024 rolls around and you receive your answers to your 10Q questions, how do you think you'll feel? What do you think/hope might be different about your life and where you're at as a result of thinking about and answering these question?My answer:
I think I'll feel grateful that I was able to record the early days of my grief for Gregory: what I was thinking at the time and how much I've learned about him and his life in the meantime. I'll be grateful that this was the starting point for a closer togetherness of what remains of my family. I will feel proud of myself for how I have adapted to and accommodated grief in my life and how much it has changed me. I will also be grateful for a chronicle of the events that happened in the past few weeks so that we don't forget them as a family.I think and hope that I will no longer be as tearful about Greg: that my grief ball will have shrunk and hit the pain button less often; or that my box will have grown so that the chances of the grief ball hitting the pain button become smaller.
Fran may have left her job at Hertford College by this time next year. She told me she talked to Emma about resigning today, which is a big step for her that she's been thinking about for the last year or two.
I don't know how much about my life will have changed in terms of work, hobbies, habits, reading. I suspect I will mostly carry on as I am now. I seem to be in quite a good way at the moment with solid routines and a comfortable and manageable way of life.
Will anything in my answers from this year surprise me? Or will what I've been writing about stay close to the surface and become part of my being and my everyday existence? Will it be amusing to see just how obsessed I was with Greg over the past few days: how he appeared in every answer and was never far from my thoughts? Will that still be the case this time next year? Will I still be carrying around my Hungry Heart in my back right pocket every day? Will I still have the bags of Greg's unsorted archive to the right of my desk?
I'm asking a lot of questions here, not writing answers!
I hope Fran will be happier and less stressed - but that won't be as a result of thinking about and answering these questions. I want to read through her answers from last year and jot down some things to discuss with her. It's a real honour and a privilege to be able to do that for each other: to take stock of our lives on an annual basis and see what we're happy with, what we want to change.
It would be nice if Richard and Moira have confronted and sorted out their differences by this time next year; and for Moira to be sleeping better and Richard to have overcome his work stress. I'd also like Ros and Tom to have had a much less eventful year with no more health scares.
We have talked about moving north at some stage to live near the sea, closer to my parents, and get more house for our money. But I'd be surprised if we've acted on that by this time next year. One thing that will have changed is we will have renewed our mortgage and probably also witnessed a general election or be in the midst of one.
I don't think I've set any ticking time-bombs for myself this year: no marriage proposals or job resignations. My focus has been more outward to my family and to my own grief at the death of my big brother Gregory (did I mention that?). I might also regret that I didn't write about some of the things I went through in case they start to slip away from memory.
Will I feel compassion for my past self? Note the hard work of grieving that I am undertaking? Will I have unknowingly been writing about issues that become much bigger things in my family over the next year?
Maybe we will have scattered some of Gregory's ashes in our special places and be planning other scatterings soon. There doesn't seem to be any rush with that process. There is but world enough and time.
Day 11:
What are your predictions for the coming year?My answer:
Grief ball gets smaller over time.Thursday, 3 October 2024
"Failed State: Why Nothing Works and How We Fix It" by Sam Freedman - audiobook review
I really enjoyed this book and would recommend it to anyone interested in British politics - particularly our elected politicians and civil servants. I tend to blame most of this country's shortcomings on the Conservative party, but, after reading this book, my views have changed. Yes, the Tories and Thatcher, in particular, have fucked things up. But it's not all their fault: it's the way our institutions have evolved, from the prime minister's office in No. 10 Downing Street; to the way that patronage in the House of Commons has skewed the incentives for MPs; to the way that power has become more centralized as local government funding has been cut; and the way that the media covers politics. I expected this book to make me feel angry; but I actually felt more enlightened. And it does actually make some good suggestions about how our system of government could be reformed.
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