Perception

My wife and a female friend were discussing where to take her dog for a walk and her friend made a throwaway comment that one end of the local park is darker than the other so is best avoided. It was a comment that appeared to mean little to them (but is, of course, loaded with complexity) but had a huge impact on me. I had never felt as if I needed to worry, ever, about where I go or when but this caveat appeared hard-wired in their brains. I realised I had an entitlement I had never thought about and was stunned to have such a clear indication, through that conversation, that it's the perception of safety that carries all the weight. One needs to feel safe irrespective of evidential statistics.
(I want to know what can be done about this. I try to teach myself about how other people might feel, I try to practise empathy, I try to remain aware of the effect my presence may have on others (as a large male out jogging in the dark, for example), I talk to my friends about their actions and their perceptions, I hope I can be supportive and encouraging to the women I know. What else can I do?)

I meet a lot of refugees through my work helping homeless people with complex needs. A Palestinian teenager came in for help recently. He knows no other human in a 2000 mile radius and the reasons he is here without his mother, father, siblings, other family members or friends are too distressing for me to have to contemplate unless it is absolutely necessary, professionally, to do so (it is). In many ways he is still a child but in other ways he has been forced into the worst aspects of adulthood that no grown-up would ever want. Before I was able to suggest taking some quiet one-to-one time to discuss how I could assist him he erupted in catharsis, spewing out some disgusting tale of dehumanising violence he had barely survived. He wanted to talk. Seemingly more than anything in his life at that time he wanted to tell me his story of vulnerability, of abuse, of escape, of his contactless family and their probable torture, stories of immolation and being buried alive. For now though he was safe. Traumatised, damaged, scared and scarred, in desperate need of intensive trauma therapy but safe.

A minute into his discussion someone else arrived at the door, another young man in dire need of help, distracted by drug use, hearing voices telling him to hurt someone and preoccupied by the persecutory paramilitary organisation that was listening to him through the electrical sockets in the walls. 

I know a woman who wanted children from when she was a child. The image she maintained with absolute clarity throughout her teenage years, her early twenties and through her thirties was of having children and being the strongest, most supportive, educational, feminist mother she could be. Her love of her dogs could only increase when she found out some years ago she could never conceive. 

She loves her dogs with an anthropomorphic connection, with all her heart. Ten months ago her oldest dog died. She continues to be affected by her grief every day, it disrupts her interactions, her socialising, her self-perception. 

I completed a mental health assessment with a middle-aged man last month. He considers himself a "high-flyer" in his work, had indulged his strong entrepreneurial streak over the years to start businesses in various countries and had maintained an internationally transient lifestyle. One day he was cycling his bike to work, skidded on a tram line and hit his head on the kerb. He received no major immediate injury but damage was nevertheless sustained in subtle neurological ways. 

Thereafter he made one or two bad financial decisions, lost work, became unattractive to businesses, his landlord and girlfriends. He returned to Belfast but there were no favours to cash in.

His physical health is not so poor, he is not addicted to alcohol or drugs, he can walk and talk and maintain a sense of autonomy. He could be considered to be in a good place, objectively, but he experiences such intense depair and loss he feels the world would be better off without him. His psychic and social fall has been from such an immense height, he feels, that the drop was further than any human should be expected to deal with.

It will be Xmas day in two weeks. I remain without Ruby. I will still smile and laugh and be happy, of sorts, but my child died and remains dead and I remain without her. All my experiences, all my ideas, all my thoughts, all the relationships, however fleeting or lengthy, however shallow or intense, I have because of her and because of her death. Whether you know it or not, whether I know it or not, everything I now am is because of her. There is no part of my existence untouched by her. This is as it should be. 

When grief doesn't disable me it still make me unable. But I will always strain to remember the invisible battles we all have, the ones we fight against parts of ourselves, and will try to empathise with the subjective experience as being the only experience that really matters. 

Quiet Activism

Civil war is raging in Syria, there are more refugees than ever, Britain is out of Europe, Trump is president. Environmental degradation is increasing at an exponential rate. 

David Bowie, Prince and Leonard Cohen died. As have Alan Rickman, Ronnie Corbett, Gene Wilder, Caroline Aherne and Victoria Wood- all were great comics and actors. 

There have been so many huge political and cultural shifts this year that have had effects on much of the world. And effects on me too. 

Every death of someone I respect but have never met makes me grieve a little. Every perceived death of cultural or political freedom makes me grieve a little. Every creative cul-de-sac makes me grieve a little. My greatest long-term worry is the destruction of the world's environment for human habitation and how this will affect my child and all others after me- this is the most serious problem the world has ever seen and most politicians display a wilful impotence for positive action. 

But grief provides a sense of impotence too, for me at least. Had Ruby not died I may have been more motivated into environmental activism, animal rights and political agitation- I was more politically active as a younger man although more politically conservative- but as I find myself moving harder to the left and towards libertarianism the older I get, the less motivated I am to be an activist. 

Or maybe this is semantics. Maybe I need a new definition of activism. My experiences have proved that only the most extrovert actions and the tiniest personal actions are the ones with greatest effect. I don't have the drive for large political actions any more- I rarely attend rallies and marches, I don't tear down posters, scream at police or conciously encourage discord- but instead I try to contribute a thousand tiny actions all pointing in the same direction to facilitate harmony. My grief has filtered out all the extraneous bullshit and the time-wasting shouting and has crystallised the importance everyday personal actions.

In short, I do what I can. And what I can do in the face of nationalism disguised as patriotism, or xenophobia disguised as border control, or exclusivity disguised as personal defence is not to shout as loudly as I can but instead live ideally, to persistently express ideas of equality across our differences and with a thousand tiny acts of tenderness. Seeds sewn often take root. 

As has been noted elsewhere, fascism doesn't arrive in jackboots with a shaved head, it arrives smiling as a friend. And when good people smile back and stare at fascists square in the eyes, fascists avert their gaze. I don't want to define myself by what I am not (atheist, anti-fascist) but by what I am- a humanist and a human trying their best. Scarred maybe, forever a little bruised and sometimes more delicate and more anti-social than I look. But I am tough and flexible and I am driven by hope and by love. 

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

I continue to survive one of the most profoundly violent and tectonic changes in an adults' life- the death of my daughter. There have been times I have fallen off the Earth or been diconnected from normal human warmth or can only identify myself as a fissure through a cliff face. 

One way I cope is to appreciate those things I previously considered irrelevant- things too small or too large to apparently be of significance to my life- but I now realise can have an immense effect. 

I was reminded strongly of this when I recently thought about the William Blake poem "Auguries of Innocence" which most people studied at GCSE/O-level at school and which I have always liked. 

The poem now makes perfect sense. I had previously thought it was just a slightly hippyish poem about peace and love but now understand the importance of juxtaposing the actions we may take on one line with the inevitable result of our cruelty or mistreatment in the next. It reads like a nursery rhyme (and is full of imagery of animals) which add to a slight feeling of unease that increases as I leave the initial opening lines, which echo the beauty of the small things in nature, and continue through the poem and its lessons on the risks of becoming innured to evil. It is a satire on the rights of humans. 

I had forgotten how much I love it and I now realise how relevant it is to the world around me. 

    Auguries of Innocence 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand 

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour

A Robin Red breast in a Cage 

Puts all Heaven in a Rage 

A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons 

Shudders Hell thr' all its regions 

A dog starvd at his Masters Gate 

Predicts the ruin of the State 

A Horse misusd upon the Road 

Calls to Heaven for Human blood 

Each outcry of the hunted Hare 

A fibre from the Brain does tear 

A Skylark wounded in the wing 

A Cherubim does cease to sing 

The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight 

Does the Rising Sun affright 

Every Wolfs & Lions howl 

Raises from Hell a Human Soul 

The wild deer, wandring here & there 

Keeps the Human Soul from Care 

The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife 

And yet forgives the Butchers knife 

The Bat that flits at close of Eve 

Has left the Brain that wont Believe

The Owl that calls upon the Night 

Speaks the Unbelievers fright

He who shall hurt the little Wren 

Shall never be belovd by Men 

He who the Ox to wrath has movd 

Shall never be by Woman lovd

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly 

Shall feel the Spiders enmity 

He who torments the Chafers Sprite 

Weaves a Bower in endless Night 

The Catterpiller on the Leaf 

Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief 

Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly 

For the Last Judgment draweth nigh 

He who shall train the Horse to War 

Shall never pass the Polar Bar 

The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat 

Feed them & thou wilt grow fat 

The Gnat that sings his Summers Song 

Poison gets from Slanders tongue 

The poison of the Snake & Newt 

Is the sweat of Envys Foot 

The poison of the Honey Bee 

Is the Artists Jealousy

The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags 

Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags 

A Truth thats told with bad intent 

Beats all the Lies you can invent 

It is right it should be so 

Man was made for Joy & Woe 

And when this we rightly know 

Thro the World we safely go 

Joy & Woe are woven fine 

A Clothing for the soul divine 

Under every grief & pine 

Runs a joy with silken twine 

The Babe is more than swadling Bands

Throughout all these Human Lands 

Tools were made & Born were hands 

Every Farmer Understands

Every Tear from Every Eye 

Becomes a Babe in Eternity 

This is caught by Females bright 

And returnd to its own delight 

The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar 

Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore 

The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath 

Writes Revenge in realms of Death 

The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air

Does to Rags the Heavens tear 

The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun 

Palsied strikes the Summers Sun

The poor Mans Farthing is worth more 

Than all the Gold on Africs Shore

One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands 

Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands 

Or if protected from on high 

Does that whole Nation sell & buy 

He who mocks the Infants Faith 

Shall be mockd in Age & Death 

He who shall teach the Child to Doubt 

The rotting Grave shall neer get out 

He who respects the Infants faith 

Triumphs over Hell & Death 

The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons 

Are the Fruits of the Two seasons 

The Questioner who sits so sly 

Shall never know how to Reply 

He who replies to words of Doubt 

Doth put the Light of Knowledge out 

The Strongest Poison ever known 

Came from Caesars Laurel Crown 

Nought can Deform the Human Race 

Like to the Armours iron brace 

When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow 

To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow 

A Riddle or the Crickets Cry 

Is to Doubt a fit Reply 

The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile 

Make Lame Philosophy to smile 

He who Doubts from what he sees 

Will neer Believe do what you Please 

If the Sun & Moon should Doubt 

Theyd immediately Go out 

To be in a Passion you Good may Do 

But no Good if a Passion is in you 

The Whore & Gambler by the State 

Licencd build that Nations Fate 

The Harlots cry from Street to Street 

Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet 

The Winners Shout the Losers Curse 

Dance before dead Englands Hearse 

Every Night & every Morn 

Some to Misery are Born 

Every Morn and every Night 

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to sweet delight 

Some are Born to Endless Night 

We are led to Believe a Lie 

When we see not Thro the Eye 

Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night 

When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light 

God Appears & God is Light 

To those poor Souls who dwell in Night 

But does a Human Form Display 

To those who Dwell in Realms of day

Work smarter not harder

Everything has changed in the last three and a half years since Ruby died. There are many things I will now never be able to do, there are new obstacles I will need to traverse forever (depression, mainly) and there are new considerations that demand necessary psychic work. 

I have had to be much more flexible in many aspects of my working practise and have had to deeply consider not only how I do what I do but whether I have wanted to continue being a nurse at all. It was disconcerting to scrutinise the initial reasons for choosing nursing as a career, reasons I have barely examined for twenty years, but it was one of a thousand corners of my current life worth reconsideration. In the last three and a half years I have critically looked at other ways I may be able to make money- baker, writer, bicycle maker, plumber, fireman- and will continue to consider these and others over time. For now though I will continue nursing and working with homeless people in the city as I have for the last ten years. 

I used to have a very clear work/life border. The second my work phone was turned off, I was not working. My work brain would easily disconnect and then it was time for real life, for my family, for me. 

But now the boundaries are blurry. The old coping mechanism of creating an obvious dichotomy began to break down after Ruby died and have been gradually replaced with a stratification of work and "mainly not work". There is less separation now. 

Objectively it makes perfect sense- I enjoy nursing, it is a vocation, the qualities one needs to do it well are qualities I naturally have or have consistently cultivated over the years, I am a nurse and also a Nurse- but it took the trauma of losing Ruby to subjectively understand the importance of appreciating that me, the nurse, is the same as me, Ben Dench and not a separate "other" attached to a job. 

The pragmatics have changed too. I see fewer patients face to face than I had previously, much of my contact is now via telephone, text or email. For many years it was an unquestionable demand of my work to see all patients in person for as long as they needed, regular meetings lasting one or two hours. This way of working, for who I am now and the way I work, is not constructive. 

My work is now less face-to-face and more by telephone, email or sometimes a text. This can be as supportive as face to face but keeps me in greater control of my caseload and relationships and, quite simply, keeps me at work. A two hour face to face meeting with a client can sometimes be replaced with a ten minute phone conversation if very well timed and if the subject matter is closely planned (with obvious flexibility within the subject matter of course). A well-placed text message can sometimes be more galvanising than a tear-filled hour together.

My clients were most often were my priority. Now it is my colleagues. If staff are well supported and cared-for almost any difficulty can be dealt with. I have had no pay rise since the day I started ten years ago- an issue for millions of people of course- but I continue in this team for two main reasons- the interesting patients and the lovely people I work with. Every team has its drama-queens, it's cliques and its tensions but these are simply one of the many chemicals in the compound glue that bonds every group. I put psychic effort into encouraging the warmth and relationships in the team to facilitate these bonds. 

And it does take great effort at times. I am not naturally sociable, generally preferring my own company, and coping with depression and grief means constant endeavour. But when my team works together, supports each other, volunteers their time and minds, it feels we can deal with any difficulty from terrible salaries to patients' threats to the death of a colleague. And my grief. 

As always in my grief navigation is key. Putting the effort into navigating these new pathways through work and life have resulted in a stable coexistence which, in turn, feeds into my own abilities to cope. Work works and life is easier. 

Ruby's 15th birthday

It was Ruby's 15th birthday last week. On the last two birthdays that Ruby has not been here Claire and I used our time as constructively as we could by raising money for charity. The first year we cycled around Belfast and the second birthday we hiked across the hills and very muddy fields of Antrim. We have planned a fund-raising hike in a month or two and so decided to keep this birthday for ourselves. 

We had plans for the day, we always do, and I would advise anyone in a similar position to do likewise. Prior to the day we realised how useful it had been for us to be physically active, using our time creatively for the good of others (the genuineness of this "atruism" needs questioning, of course, as we also gained so much from the activities) and being distracted with company from friends or strangers. We never lose the feelings of loss, how can we, but on her birthday we think of her happiness and aliveness.

But grief is predictably unpredictable. This year we had few plans. I managed a short jog in the morning. We went to her favourite park, Crawfordsburn Country Park, and put flowers on "Ruby's Bench" which we had made and placed in a beautiful remote spot of the park a few months after she died. We went out for a quiet lunch at her favourite pizza restaurant and had a glass of wine at home in the evening. We weren't very active, we weren't sociable, we didn't feel like being creative or proactive or supportive of others. We were quiet and barely reflective. We were together though and this was the only thing we knew we definitely needed. 

The most affecting difference this year is the exhaustion. I have not been tired- I have jogged twice, 10km and 20km, I have been for a long cycle ride in the lovely warm sunshine, I have been for a number of walks here and there- but my grief has had a deeper sense of fatigue, dulling my focus, disconnecting me from others. Last week either side of Ruby's birthday, just for a few days, I lived in a cloud of unreality. I could only consider aspects of base survival- eating, exercise, sleep and Ruby- and nothing else mattered. 

This sense of acute and incongruous introversion is not new as I deal with my grief, I have felt it many times before and it has its place in my list of unconscious coping mechanisms. It is a common and very successful method of defence in coping with trauma and grief for many people. The surprise is not that it has happened but that it happened now, after three years and as I was trying to prepare to cope with Ruby's birthday. Grief's predictable lack of prediction. 

This week I am not drained of energy. I am now off work for a day or two because of a bug and high temperature not because of my grief and weariness. Now I am simply tired, achy and sore, a normal and natural physical reaction to a normal physical illness. My treatment is paracetamol, fluids and rest. Visible, conspicuous, empirical, easy. 

I would rather have this physical ill-health with all its treatments and inevitable cessation than the wretched and difficult surprises of never-ending grief. 

A big long list of nice things to do for yourself

Bake a cake

Prepare

Play with a child

Learn how to use your water stop tap

Copy your front door key

Have salad

Walk

Say no

Know who loves you

Write a letter

Be randomly kind

Make a positively critical complaint

Do something new

Exercise your brain

Listen to an entire album- preferably sweeping and classical- from beginning to end

Appreciate animals too small to usually notice

Stare at the sky

Play

Dance alone 

Read non-fiction

Be a feminist

Write a poem

Drink posh water (bottled, ice and a slice)

Grind fresh spices

Listen

Know a great joke

Be body-positive 

Smell good

Have a movie night at home with popcorn and all the trimmings

Give someone a compliment

Look people in the eye

Go to bed, and rise, early

Watch no screens for one day a week

Fantasise

Learn the rules to a complex card game

Note wild flowers

Ride a horse

Run on the beach

Watch sunrise

Ring your mum

Carry a photograph

Go for a walk in the rain

Stare at a painting for more than three minutes

Randomly flick through a paper dictionary

Appreciate shelter, sanitation, readily available food and antibiotics

Note anniversaries and birthdays

Make pizza from scratch

Breathe deeply and stand straight

Stop apologising

Speak out when something is wrong 

Eat less meat and more plants

Paint a fence

Question all authority

Be kind, always

Mary

My friend and colleague Mary died last week. She had been unwell with cancer for some months but was very tough and very resilient. She remained unangry and full of love until the very end, wishing only beauty and kindness for everyone she knew and also for those she didn't. She was an atheist in a foxhole, free from self-appointed courage, lacking in uncouth stoicism and utterly honest. She was 59. She didn't drink alcohol, didn't smoke, took no drugs, didn't eat meat, she ran, climbed mountains, lived outdoors, hiked hills and lived as healthy a life as anyone could. Only weeks before she died she asked "why me for Christs sake?" and then she answered her own question "I suppose the answer is banal- why not me? Cancer does not discriminate". 

She was a social worker for decades. In that time she had helped vulnerable children at risk from abusive adults, homeless drug and alcohol addicts, people with severe mental health issues and physical disabilities in need of assistance, ex-offenders who, although were among the most reviled members of society, she treated with a great level of regard and as having unquestionably redemptive qualities. She helped young people cope with the stress of unexpected parenthood, she helped refugees settle into their new, unfamiliar country, she helped the most scared and frightened women who had the courage to leave violent men. She was an advocate for those without a voice, a hand to hold for those weakened by fear, a crutch for those crippled by illness. She was the only worker I have ever had the fortune to watch in action who had maintained the supposedly unacheivable goal of counsellors and support workers- that is, unconditional positive regard. Along with empathy, warmth, genuineness and a few other qualities, positive regard is seen as an unacheivable goal to be constantly aimed towards, without condition. It is near impossible- we are all prejudiced and we set conditions for all relationships, professional or otherwise. But Mary was the one worker who got the closest to this ideal- she only ever saw the potential of clients and the unfortunate reasons they ended up in need of assistance, never dwelling their lack of love or appropriate behaviour. When we discussed the kind of help we might offer someone who had done the most violent, awful things to other people, to young children maybe, she would say "The things he has been through would have to be so traumatic to have made him this way". 

Mary reminded me how far you can go with love, with respect, with tenderness, and how well other people respond to it. She once told me that to facilitate other people's level of trust you had to trust them and let them trust you. She was so charismatic, without being overbearing, anyone who had met her would remember her forever. 

She would have helped thousands of people over the years. Some of them would have been very young, would have children and maybe grandchildren by now. All those initial contacts by Mary would have helped them and then their friends, then their relatives, their neighbours, their community. Also their relationships, their autonomy, their self-determination would have positively affected. Thousands of lives have been transformed by Mary's intervention. 

She will receive no accolade, no prize, no recognition. No MBE for her (although this is also impossible as she was a republican and staunch anti-monarchist). As the poem below states "everywhere life is full of heroism". Mary is the epitome of the everyday hero without whom society could not function. It is likely I will think of her every day of my life. 

Her funeral was yesterday and she had asked me to recite this poem which I was honoured to do.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945)

Mary Ozanne 1957-2016