Trace the Line: Music and Loss

 

We had a brilliant evening of music at St Nicholas', Beverley with Yvonne Lyon, Gareth Davies-Jones and David Lyon touring their new album Trace The Line. It was hard to believe that I last met up with Yvonne and David in 2017 when they were touring their previous collaboration The Space Between.

I was so pleased to bring them to Beverley, and they now have some new fans. One of the tracks on the new album is a beautiful songs about loss, which Yvonne has addressed in songs before. Knowing how much Yvonne's music meant to Debbie, it was a very poignant moment. 

Take a listen here - and even better buy it!

Six Years On

As some of you may know, today marks six years since Debbie died. I wouldn't say that I have felt particularly sad today, just distracted and finding it a little hard to focus on tasks and preparation. Essentially, I have been in a slightly exaggerated version of my usual state!

I nearly put "my first wife, Debbie" in that first sentence, which illustrates the issue I have been thinking about a little bit today. When Debbie died, I was the rector of a church in Morecambe, and in the following two years, I was surrounded by people who had known Debbie, and had experienced her care, wisdom, leading worship, read her writing, laughed along with her, had  fun with Crib Services, Messy Church and more. I could talk about her to the people around me, knowing that we had those common experiences.

Debbie at her ordination as a priest 11 June 1994

A few months after moving to Beverley, I was at a meeting in York with a colleague who had known us both when we were in Nottingham. In a break, I joked with him about what Debs would have made of something that had occurred, he laughed, and I had a sudden realisation that if anyone else in the room was listening, they would have had no idea who I was talking about. On the way home, it further dawned on me that in my day-to-day routine, I met no-one who had ever met her - and that felt very strange. It also made my encounters with those who did remember even more special.

The consequence of that is that in most circumstances I now encounter, whenever I refer to quite a large period of my life, there needs to be some telling of the story, and some explanation of who Debbie is. Sometimes it is necessary to clarify that, in order to explain a situation properly. For example, I have two mothers-in-law! 

In fact, this happens for everyone to some extent. As time goes on, the community we are surrounded by changes, and fewer people remember who and what was there before, including loved ones who have died. Perhaps it is more acute in situations like mine where I have both moved and married again (especially if the new location is one where there are few connections). 

I am sure that is why, for some people, regular acts of remembrance are so important – to keep memories alive and recollections fresh of a loved one lost. For some people that is about regularly tending graves, annually placing tributes in the memorial column of a local paper, or perhaps a Facebook post. I have Debbie’s writings, her blog and her Facebook profile being available so I can ‘hear’ her voice, as well as a wealth of photographs and some video footage.

In other eras, you would need a very different approach to keep that sort of memory fresh in people’s minds. Perhaps that’s why the touch, smell and taste of bread and wine are part of communion - the central act of remembrance for Christians, which we think of especially tomorrow, Maundy Thursday.

Five Years On

The first anniversary of Debbie's death was inevitably a strange day, but I have to say that the date itself hasn't usually had a great impact on me in the years since. The more poignant moments are usually prompted - at least for me - by finding a photograph or a memento, hearing a piece of music, or even in visiting places that were significant for us. 

Today marks five years since Debs died, and I found myself thinking about her and what happened a little more than usual. Perhaps 5 years is some kind of subconscious threshold, or maybe it is because bereavement feels quite current, as I took a funeral yesterday, we've had a death in the family, and there is a rather significant funeral on Saturday.

Whatever the reason, it prompted me to think a bit about the enduring impact of bereavement that I have seen in myself and in others over the years. One thing people often reflect on - especially when the person is younger - is what might have happened, or what might they have achieved. And I can understand the temptation to spend all your time and energy yearning for a kind of parallel universe where they are still with us.

However, if having a faith that believes in life beyond this means anything, it has to mean that whatever seems unfulfilled in this life, it does not remain so for eternity. The gifts we received from the person who has now died are not wasted; neither is their potential wasted, even if we won't see it in this life. It's hard to put exactly what I'm thinking and feeling into words, so I'll leave you with Nothing Good Is Wasted, a song by my good friend Rob Halligan.

National Day of Reflection

 Tuesday March 23rd will mark one year since the Prime Minister went on television to announce that we were all to stay at home to save lives and protect the NHS. The anniversary of a lockdown might seem a strange thing to acknowledge, but it has been deemed an appropriate date to remember the many thousands of people who have died during this pandemic. It is being coordinated by Marie Curie and officially supported by the Church of England.

This Sunday. St Nicholas' in Beverley will be using our online worship to anticipate the day and to reflect on the impact of the pandemic and to pray for all of those affected.

Funerals and Lockdown

After nearly 30 years in ordained ministry I have lost count of how many funerals I have taken. Over time I realised that whilst the vast majority of people have only attended a few (if any funerals), within a year I had been to more than most people do in a lifetime. That's also true of funeral directors, organists, vergers, crematorium and cemetery attendants and of course others who lead services, ceremonies and celebrations.

In my present parish, I don't have large numbers of funerals to deal with - in 2019 there were 18. They don't all come in at regular intervals, and winter is usually busier than the summer. However, things are starting to feel a bit different. I took a funeral on Friday, and I have 5 more booked in the diary for the next 2 weeks. Our local funeral director said they had 13 ceremonies in their diary for this week, which was significantly busier than usual for this time of year, and altogether they were dealing with 35 families. 

I appreciate that it's not a representative sample, but it does seem to correlate with what is happening nationally. More people are dying than would be expected, based on statistics from previous years - whether from covid-19 or for other reasons - and we will see the consequences for some time yet. 

What makes this all the more painful is that bereaved families can't be given the support and attention we would usually want to provide. Funeral directors and ministers alike are unable to visit people in their homes, and have to do everything by phone or video call. Likewise there are restrictions at funeral services - only a few can attend and there can be no singing of hymns/songs. One of the most difficult issues is that some crematoria won't even allow a small gathering in the chapel, whereas others (such as our local one) do. I am sure that many grieving people will be frustrated, disappointed and even angry at the limitations that have been imposed.

Friday was my first experience of the new regulations. We had prepared the service by phone and email, so I had very good information to work with. I met the relatively small family group at the cemetery, and greeted them from a distance, and everyone stood apart in their household groups. The deceased was a Roy Orbison fan, so we even managed to play Pretty Woman on my bluetooth speaker at the end. Again, as everyone left, I could only say goodbye from a distance. Luckily the sun shone.

One things that struck me afterwards was that my funeral director colleagues have to take more risks. Not only do they have to regard every body as potentially infected, and take precautions accordingly, they are not able to keep to all of the distancing guidelines. Some of them have to travel together, and you can't keep 2m apart carrying a coffin from a car to a graveside. Unseen and unnoticed until you really need them, they are all working hard behind the scenes to help in a key role during this crisis.

I was also very aware that people often write down what they would like to happen at their funeral, and in many cases this won't be possible to fulfil. Once the crisis period is over, and we're in the recovery phase, I suspect that a lot of people will have a kind of renewed grieving period, when they are able to spend time with family and friends, gather to remember, hold memorial services, and try to fulfil the wishes of loved ones they have lost. Those of us in roles that can help at such a time will need to be ready.

So please spare a prayer or a thought for the funeral directors, the mortuary, cemetery and crematorium staff, the ministers of religion, civil celebrants, humanists and others who lead funeral ceremonies. Most of all remember those who have lost loved ones in this period, many of whom will feel that they have more to do, in order to do justice to the memory of the person they have lost.

Bereavement 4: The Mirror of Erised

If you are familiar with Harry Potter, you will know about the Mirror of Erised. Harry stumbles across this remarkable object, tucked away in a disused classroom, during his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The magical mirror doesn't show a person their reflection, but instead it gives a depiction of their heart's desire. There is an inscription across the top which states this - backwards, of course. "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

When Harry looks into the mirror, to his surprise he sees himself with his parents, who had actually died when he was just a baby. Captivated by this image, he tries to show it to his friend, Ron, but Ron doesn't see the same thing at all. As Professor Dumbledore puts it when he finds Harry there: "It [the mirror] shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts". Harry spends a lot of time in front of the mirror, looking at alternative reality that can never be, and using it as the next best thing to having his parents actually back with him.

I was reminded of this the other day, as I was sorting through some stuff on the computer and looking at some old photographs. There were a couple of pictures of Debbie from before she was ill - one from a several years ago - which triggered all sorts of memories. After a while, I realised that I had been daydreaming for a little while in front of one of the pictures on my computer screen.  My imagination had taken me back to the scene where the photo was taken, and just for a moment I was enjoying the happy moment the photo captured, as if I was there.

Reality returned with a jolt, with the realisation that I was sitting in my study on my own, and whilst it was a happy memory, I couldn't actually go back there. So I understand the draw for Harry to the mirror. In his case, it was to dwell in a scene which could never be - sharing time with his parents as an older child. For me, it would be to travel back into the past to be with Debbie, fit and well.

But tempting though this is, it is also potentially destructive. You can't stay there in front of the mirror for ever, as it disconnects you from reality. Dumbledore says to Harry that "men have wasted away before it [the Mirror], entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible." Looking through old pictures with friends and family is fine from time to time, to tell stories and remember, but as Dumbledore concludes "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Remember that."

Bereavement 3: The Parable of the Swiss Army Knife

What does bereavement feel like to go through? Not a question you can usually ask someone in the thick of it, so I've been asking myself that question. Blogging about loss is actually proving quite therpeutic for me, and it seems to have made some connections for other people, so I've decided to continue.

If you want some theory, you could read about Kübler-Ross's 5 stages of grief, which can be a helpful insight from a psychiatric viewpoint. It can help to explain  lot of confusing and sometimes disturbing feelings that people go through. But not everyone fits the pattern. Humans are all different, and we don't tend to comply with tightly drawn up models in all circumstances.

Instead, I'm going to give you a little story that resonates with what I have been feeling. I've drawn on my own recent experience of bereavement and also what I have observed in others for the longer term effects. I've decided to call it the Parable of the Swiss Army Knife.

I still have my original Swiss Army knife. It's a Huntsman, which is mid-range - two blades, a screwdriver, a can opener, a saw, a bottle opener, a cork screw and that pointy thing which is a mystery, but I used to create starting holes for wood screws. After a long career in camping / DIY and serving drinks, it's lost its shine, but all the sections are still functional. When I first got it, the main blade was fabulously sharp, and sure enough I was so taken by surprise by its edge that soon I slit my thumb being careless cutting something with it.

If you've ever cut yourself on anything really sharp, you'll know the experience. You know it's sharp, but you have no real sense of what such a blade can do to you. Initially you feel nothing - no pain and if the blade is sharp enough, you don't even feel the cut occur. I remember looking at my bleeding thumb with initial disbelief. How did that happen?  Then you realise  you need to do something about it, and perhaps even get some assistance. As you start to clean the cut and get the slit held together with a dressing, that's when it starts to sting. Sometimes the sting is quite acute, especially if antiseptic has been used to prevent infection.

Once everything is contained, there's a dull ache, and sometimes a throbbing sensation. You have to be careful what pressure you put the wound under, as it can make it sting quite badly again, or even re-open the cut. You have to protect it from acquiring an infection and turning into something nastier. Eventually, it's safe to be exposed again, albeit with a slightly ragged edge, where some skin has died at the edge of the original cut. I seem to remember those edges peeling and flaking for a while afterwards. Once it had all healed up, I didn't have a visible scar from that particular cut, but it was certainly more sensitive for a while as things knit back together under the surface. However, I can still remember where it happened over 40 years later.

Bereavement 2: No Unfinished Business

When Debbie went into Saint John's Hospice, she was visited by some friends, but we inevitably had to limit the number and frequency of visits. Her energy was limited, and talking and communication took quite a lot of effort. That being the case, I wanted to ensure that if there was anyone Debs specifically wanted to see, we got it arranged asap. So I asked her if there was anyone she wanted me to get in contact with. "No-one", she said, "No unfinished business. Tell them I love them all." It was such a great line that I quoted it in the address I gave at her funeral.

During the days afterwards, I've begun to realise what a blessing she gave us being able to say that. At an earlier stage,  I recall her saying to me that she didn't think that there was anything significant she felt we needed to talk about, as we had already spent a lot of time discussing the bigger issues - illness, hopes, fears, changes in expectations, and the prospect of her dying. It mean that if the end came suddenly, we wouldn't feel cut off with so much left unsaid or undone.

Likewise, I know Debs got in touch with a lot of people - sometimes people she hadn't had a lot of contact with for a while. She was doing a lot of email and Facebook messaging in that period. Although I haven't read those conversations, I know she derived a lot of pleasure from being in touch with people, and in some cases renewing relationships. By being so pro-active, she actually reduced the likelihood of any of us having any significant sense of regret.

However, over the years in the ministry, I have seen a lot of bereaved people with regrets. Guilt is a common feeling at a time of loss. When I take funerals, I try and find a way of acknowledging that unfinished business, as regret and guilt are normal and familiar parts of the experience of bereavement. So often people say "if only we'd had a bit more time to..." It's very important to reassure people - after all in many cases the person who has died probably wouldn't have been worried. This is especially so when someone dies suddenly. Not everyone has the opportunity to do what Debbie did, and people can be left with no opportunity to tie up loose ends, clear the air, write the letter or pay the visit.

The way things worked out for us was actually quite remarkable. After her diagnosis, we got through a whole set of significant family milestones in 2015 - a wedding, family birthdays (18th 21st and 80th), a holiday, Fleetwood Mac - a concert we had been looking forward to for months, Christmas etc. We even managed a few extras in 2016, ending with a fantastic living room gig by the lovely Yvonne Lyon. When Debbie was first ill, we weren't sure we'd get very far down that list, so we took it a step at a time, trying to make the most of the undefined amount of time we had.

Obviously if we could have extended that period of reasonable health for Debbie longer, we would have done. It's not difficult to write a list of things we had hoped for together, which we had to let go of - ideas about a nice holiday for our silver wedding and early dreams about retirement had to go. But having had such bad news at the start of 2015, it felt like we had had enough time together to feel some sense of completion. We at least finished a chapter, even if the story ended prematurely.

Bereavement 1: Marking the Journey

As I said a while ago in a previous post, I've had mixed feelings over blogging about being alongside someone with cancer and now the experience of bereavement. Debbie's blog was very much about her story, and I didn't feel I had a lot to add in those weeks. However, since Debbie died I've been wanting to get a few ideas and feelings logged somewhere, so I'm going to post a few reflections. I have dealt with hundreds of bereaved people, but inevitably you are always at a distance. Writing about it first-hand is a very different project.

I'm very conscious that posts like this could become quite self-indulgent, and it's true that it will help me to clarify my own mind and get things out of my system. However, I'm also aware that my familiarity with funerals and other people's bereavements gives me a perspective that could be helpful to others. So, I hope these next posts help some people; if they don't, that's absolutely fine. I'll blog about football or something before too long!

A couple of days ago on the the BBC Today programme, there was a discussion about how many people die in hospital, when this was probably not the outcome that they or their relatives would have wanted. In a new book, Dr Seamus O'Mahony argued that many of those who die in hospital do so over-medicalised and without having made any kind of advance care plan. Obviously there will always be people who die in hospital, due to acute or sudden injury or illness, but many of us don't realise there are choices we can make. The key issue is getting people talking about it, because doing so brings out so many of our fears.

At a very early stage in the diagnosis of Debbie's cancer, we knew, at the very least, that her life was in grave danger and the possibility of curative treatment was, as she put it, a fragile hope. Not only did Debs blog about those issues, but she also did a lot to help us to anticipate what her dying would mean for us, and how we might all best prepare for it. Initially she wrote poems and letters for people, wrote an initial draft of her funeral (more about this in a future post) and talked very openly about letting go of some of her hopes for the future. Paradoxically as she did that, it seemed clear to me that she became more and more content and appreciative of what she had experienced in the past and the life she was enjoying in the present.

Having had some involvement at our local hospice as a minister, Debbie knew a little about it. It always struck us as a place which was peaceful, caring, and concerned with the whole person and their family. So we asked questions about what resources the hospice could offer, and how people came to be referred there. If, as seemed likely, her illness was terminal, then we both wanted to avoid the latter part of Debbie's life to be dominated by an endless round of interventions, and Debs was also clear she had no desire to die at home, especially if that meant our home would be a constant flow of nurses and visitors and our bedroom would look like a hospital ward. If possible, we agreed the hospice would be the best place for that final care of both her and us - and so it proved to be. Further down the line, Debbie completed a document where she explained her choices.

The critical issue is to get the conversation started. This coming week is the 2016 Awareness Week for the Dying Matters coalition, titled The Big Conversation. It's to encourage us all to start talking, whether there is a pressing reason to or not.

There are also other resources to get the conversation going, such as the Church of England resource Gravetalk, and a local initiative called My Last Orders.

Of course, you don't need any of those to talk about death and dying, but they can help to break the ice and get the conversation started. Whatever route you take, I can vouch for the fact that talking things through in advance is hugely worthwhile. Some people die suddenly, leaving relatives wondering what their loved one wanted; others reach a point in their illness where they can no longer communicate their wishes to those they will leave behind. Our experience was that talking it all through at an early stage meant there were no major questions left unresolved for us. We knew what Debbie wanted and felt, so we could work with her to achieve that, insofar as it was possible. What's more, we could get on with getting the most out of the time we had left. In the event, everything worked out according to her wishes, and that makes a big difference to how we are all feeling now.

So start the conversation. As the poster says, talking about dying won't make it happen.

Information about Debbie's funeral

Here is a bit more information for Debbie’s funeral tomorrow at 1pm

If you’re not familiar with the location, the church is on Church Street, Morecambe. Parking is limited, and we need to ensure there is space for the funeral cars, so the primary school playground next door will be open for parking, there is a pay and display car park on Matthias Street by the Town Hall, and also on-street parking in nearby roads.

Church will be open from 12 Noon, with music playing chosen by Debbie. We expect a lot of people, so there will be a video relay across in the War Memorial Hall . Please don’t worry about bringing children - Debbie would want them to know they are welcome. If you are worried about how they might cope with being in the service, you can always take them to the hall instead and follow things from there.

Tea, coffee and cake will be served over in the hall after the service finishes for those who don’t wish to attend the committal. Please note the journey to Dalton woodland burial ground takes about 25 mins, so we will be a while before we return to join in.

You are welcome to come to Dalton, but please bear in mind that parking is limited. If you are driving there, please try and make sure you take a full car, as that will help the pressure on space. The weather is currently good, so we don’t anticipate it being muddy. Even if it stays dry, do make sure your shoes can cope with the ground being uneven. If it rains, we’ll need something waterproof on our feet.

Whether or you can stay on after the service or not, please don't leave before signing one of our special memory books over in the Memorial Hall. We would really like to have a record of everyone who attended. Just writing your name is fine, but feel free to add anything else (or even draw something!) If you’re bringing children, please make sure you have a few crayons or felt tips for them to join in.

You can make a donation on the day, which will be split between St John’s Hospice and Messy Church. We will also be setting up something on Justgiving soon.

Update: Click here for information about donating and downloading a song Debs wrote.

Thank you for all the cards and greetings. We can’t hope to respond to them all, but we have read them and they are appreciated.

Debbie

Debbie, September 1992

I am sorry to have to let you know that Debbie died at St John’s Hospice on Wed 13 April at around 5.50pm. She had not been conscious for a couple of days, and spent the day sleeping, calm and in no discomfort or pain. I was there with Jono, Ellie and Amy when the end came, and it was very peaceful.

The Hospice was where Debbie wanted to be for this stage of her illness, and we are glad that was able to be the case. We are very grateful to all the staff who have made her stay so comfortable, and who have been so hospitable to us.

Debbie's funeral will take place at Morecambe Parish Church, Church Street, Morecambe at 1pm on Friday April 22, followed by burial at Dalton Woodland Burial Ground. Please don't feel obliged to wear black - wear whatever you think appropriately reflects your relationship with Debbie, and what she means to you.

As you would expect, the service was planned by Debbie in advance and has features that very much speak of her. One of them is that Debbie wanted to invite everyone to bring a natural flower to the service - there will be a point where they will be gathered during the service. There's no need to bring a big bunch, and please don't worry about it - we’ll have flowers available for anyone who hasn’t got one.

Everyone is welcome to come to the burial ground for the final part of the service. It is a just short walk from the parking area to the location of the burial. The main path is quite firm, but please bear in mind that some of the ground might be soft going, so have some appropriate footwear with you.

There will be an opportunity to make an financial offering on the day and the money will be divided equally between St John’s Hospice and the work of the national Messy Church team. Anyone not able to come can send a donation for Debbie to the Funeral Directors, Alex Willis Funeral Home, 2 Middleton Road, Heysham, Lancashire LA3 2QD

Thank you for accompanying us on this journey.

A Matter of Life and Death

A lot of friends and acquaintances will know that Debbie has been blogging since her diagnosis with cancer back in February. If you've read one of her most recent posts you'll know that we are now in a phase where containing the progress of her illness is probably the most we can hope for.

During this time, I was asked whether I was going to blog about it from the point of view of someone close to a person with cancer. I'm not quite sure what has held me back from doing so until now - perhaps not feeling it's 'my' story, not wanting to appear to wallow in things, or simply not knowing what to say. However, as our family has gone on this unexpected and unwelcome journey with cancer, I have been aware of a few recurring themes, so I thought I'd have a try at putting some of them into words in a few posts. This first try isn't a carefully thought out article - it's just what's bubbling in my mind at the moment.

We are in a strange phase now, not having any real idea of how long we may have, but a sense that this indeterminate period of time has an end point. Debbie has been physically constrained by her illness, but is very much here and with us - in and around the house, sharing meals, conversation, laughter, watching TV, writing and blogging and in many ways being her usual self. So we have a kind of double track going on - valuing the present, and also making sensible preparations for what is to come. Debs and I were only talking yesterday about how disconcerting, but necessary, it is for me to think myself into a future without her, even when she's in front of me and talking to me. Yet even as I write that down, it's quite hard to believe it's me typing it.

Since Debbie's current condition was confirmed, I have realised how weird it is to be a clergyperson. For 25 years I've been spending time with people who have been seriously and terminally ill, I've been with them close to and at the time of death, I've been with next of kin when they've heard of diagnoses and bereavements, I've prepared and taken hundreds of funerals and helped people find bereavement support. Does that make any difference? I guess it's a classic 'yes and no' response. Bereavement won't be any easier for me emotionally, than it would be for anyone else, but it will, at least, be familiar territory.

My experience is that for most people, conversation about death or dying is completely alien. I meet adults who have rarely, if ever, gone to a funeral or seen someone who has died. Many were prevented from attending funerals as children, and carry 'baggage' from that with them into their adult experience. It's fairly unusual to meet someone who has a clear and full idea of everything that's involved around the death of someone. And, of course, most people want to stay in denial that someone might die, until the issue is forced upon them by necessity. I have witnessed, and have felt, the great temptation for people to cling on to any hint of an upturn in someone's condition as the sign of a major recovery. Under those circumstances, any discussion of the subject of dying tends to be suppressed, as if talking about it will make it more likely.

If I was going to offer any advice out of my experience, it would be to encourage people to start talking about death and dying - what you hope for and what you fear, how you'd like to be remembered, and even some first thoughts on what sort of ceremony you would hope for. Do this before it's too late, and preferably when you have some time to think, read, research and discuss. I'm glad we have had some time to do this - it means we can go forward into whatever the coming time may hold, with some key decisions made, knowing it will be easier for those of us who are left. Crucially we'll know that one of the most important events in our life with each other was not a taboo that held us in fear, but a daunting challenge that we prepared for together.

In case any of that has helped, here's a couple of useful resources and links that might help to get you started:

Church of England Funerals Site Lots of information about ceremonies and practicalities.

November is Will Aid month, so it's a good time to get one written/updated and support some great charities in the process.