I don't know what to say

"I don't know what to say," is the sentence I've heard most often this week.

It's difficult to know how to react around someone whose parent has recently died. Offering someone your condolences sounds so formal and doesn't give any clues to what you are actually meant to do or say. The word must be from Latin: my musician's Italian gives me a clue because I know con means with and dolorosa is sorrowfully. How do you give someone your with-sorrows?

My mum and sister have a full time job of providing tea and cake for visitors who don't know what to say.

I have been distracted by a concert. The youth orchestra that was my Dad's idea and we started together seventeen years ago (17 - how is that possible?) had been booked to do a concert for the Mayor's charities. The Mayor had been very specific about how the audience should dress. It was to be black tie for the men and he knew how us 'ladies liked to dress up.' Our orchestra committee were confused about this because none of the females liked to dress up. Our secretary wanted a Minion costume but we had to rule it out because it had no mouth hole and we needed her to play bass clarinet. My dad suggested I dress as Charlie Chaplin and our percussion director wear a bunny girl outfit like Bridget Jones wore in the film. It turns out that ladies who like to dress up wear dresses are too tight, often with centre splits that show their pants,  witches capes, long gloves and ostriches draped around their necks. When dad was ill he was still talking about the concert and when he died, although the whole orchestra were devastated, we all knew he wouldn't have wanted it to be cancelled. It was difficult. The Mayor asked if he could say something about him and dedicate the concert to him and we agreed that the end of the concert would be better than at the beginning.

The Mayor didn't really know what to say either. The orchestra had played brilliantly, not forgetting anything that we had worked so hard on, the soloists were amazing and even I held it together. He told the orchestra how lucky they had been to be able to play a 'proper' concert for people who were dressed up and he went on to try to say something about dad but words appeared to fail him.

I understand how difficult it is. The day before the concert, I was worried about whether I could be with people. I made my apologies to my mum and my aunts, leaving them to drink more tea and eat more cake, to pop into school to see if I could be with "normal" people. They were a little offended until I explained that by normal I meant not grieving, although it's probably true that none of my family can be described as normal. This experiment started well: I was coping and then I suddenly felt a bit wobbly so I scuttled off to my friend's room. While we were chatting the two male teachers who share a name came in, carrying a box of paper. I looked at them; they froze, gave each other sideways looks and tried to back out of the room. They were hoping to put their paper in her bin, although I'm not sure why. They still hadn't acknowledged my presence out loud and realised as they were backing out of the room that they probably should do.
"Oh hi Julia," they said, as if they had just seen me. "Err, sorry about your dad."
"Err yes, sorry."
"I wasn't going to say anything but err sorry."
They backed to the edge of the door, turned and ran.
My friend and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
It had cheered me up enormously and made me realise that I could cope being around people, especially those that didn't know what to say.

In fact, the most comfort I've had has come from the people who've said nothing. The Long Suffering Husband who sat with me in silence in the dark, made hot water without asking, brought crumpets because he's worked out that's all I'm eating. My son, who gives the best hugs. My daughter who didn't take her eyes off me during the whole concert.

The orchestra committee, who organised everything and sent rude messages about people called Richard. The orchestra who make me so proud. My friends who bought expensive concert tickets and stood with me at the start and during the reception, protecting me like live patronuses from the dementors.

Maybe that is how you are meant to do condoling: just to be together with your grief. You probably don't need to say anything.

Norm's Passage

When your parent dies, you imagine that so many things will be difficult.  You think about all the people you will have to tell and how sad it will be.  You know that people will ask you how you are and imagine the standard response will be' fine', as in 'perfectly fine but not really.' That's what I thought, anyway.  I thought I'd be too sad to carry on with much but what I really feel is lucky and proud. So lucky to have had a wonderful man as my father and champion and proud that so many other people felt the same way about him without me ever feeling as though he put others first.

Everyone has such lovely things to say. As I type that I think it's weird because no one would say nasty things.  Can you imagine ringing up someone and saying, "I'm sorry to tell you I've got bad news," and the person replying with, "Good, I never liked him anyway."? 

You imagine that you'll not be able to laugh but I'm chuckling at idea.

There has been genuine admiration for my dad.  When someone tells your daughter that they are sorry to hear about her grandad because he was 'one sick guy,' you know that he has made an impression through several generations. (I got the translated version). 

I was concerned that I might find some things people said a bit too sugary sweet but instead they feel genuine and he never minded people saying nice things about him.  Compliments didn't make him squirm in the way they do me.  

One person I rang said, "What a loss to the town.  So many people will want to come to the funeral, you'll have to hire the Royal Albert Hall.  He's done so much for us.  They should honour him somehow.  They should name a street after him.  He's done so much more than any fat man has done.  I mean, honestly, fancy just being remembered for being fat!"

Relating the conversation back to the rest of the family we smiled.  It made us happy.  For a while we talked about the possible names for a street.  We played with alliteration and rhymes for all his names, including his middle name, which he hated. Then my mum won.

"Norm's Passage," she said.  "People could go up Norm's Passage or meet in Norm's Passage."

We laughed. He would have enjoyed the joke.

My Sister

My sister is bloody brilliant.

I don't say this often. Not often enough.

It's Difficult

It's difficult watching your very favourite person dying.
It's difficult to believe that it's real.
It's difficult to see them in pain.
It's difficult when they don't seem like themselves.
It's difficult to know if drugs are helping or making things worse.
It's difficult to know what to say.
It's difficult not to laugh when they get cross with you.
It's difficult to not ask too many questions.
It's difficult to be nice to all the doctors and nurses.
It's just fucking difficult.

How do you know?

There are so many questions to be answered.  When I was a child I was constantly asking, "Why?" "How does that work?" and "How do you know?"

There are questions that I remember puzzling over.  I remember asking, "If God made people, who made God?" and "Why isn't it the same time in Australia?" There were other questions that I never really asked but still thought about often.  When my mum was having my sister I remember wondering how much having a baby must hurt, having just done a rather large poo.

Wouldn't it be nice if you could learn everything when you are a child and you wouldn't have to keep asking these questions?  Would you be content if you knew everything? There I go again, another question.  Sometimes I think my brain is going to explode with all the questions I have.  In fact, it might be happening as we speak, as there is a throbbing vein on my temple, that the Long Suffering Husband thinks is where my brain is escaping from the gap in my skull that I made when I dropped a Le Cruset casserole dish lid on it a few years ago.

It's half term and so I have even more time to think than normal.  I'm reading books and listening to radio 4 (which is brilliant but makes me ask more questions) and spending time with my Dad, who has always encouraged the asking of difficult questions. He never got cross, no matter how much I went on. Mum's eyes would glaze over, her brow would knit together and secretly wish she had a pram that faced in the opposite direction but Dad always discussed the possibilities. When I was a bit older than the, "Why are bananas yellow?" stage we would tackle the big questions, as we walked the dog around Lake Meadows lake. The philosophical questions that nobody will ever really know the answer to batted back and forth like the tennis balls on the court next to the bowling green.

These are the questions that are filling my night waking moments.

Questions like, "How do you know if you're asleep?", "Why is the process of dying so individual?", "Why can't you choose when you die?", "How do you know if something is a hallucination or not?", "How do I know if I'm really here and not just a figment of someone else's imagination?"

These are the questions that troubled the great philosophers, probably without keeping them up at night. Descartes said, "I think therefore I am." Not so great philosophers like me can only conclude, "I think therefore I am knackered."

Brexit Persued by a Blair

Shakespeare used, "Exit persued by a bear," as stage directional code for the death of Antigonus in a Winter's Tale. When Tony Blair's speech to a carefully chosen audience in London about Brexit was reported in the press it became clear that it had backfired spectacularly.

I'm sure that they were hoping that the perusing Blair would signal the end of Brexit. They thought that his charisma and carefully chosen words would have people slapping their foreheads in a resounding thunderclap of understanding, saying, "Silly me, fancy not knowing this, of course we can stop Brexit."

Some of the words made sense. The referendum was held without us having any idea of the details we were voting for. We know what we hoped but neither of us, on either side know exactly what it would mean. We still don't know the details. It is true that the process of Brexit will be an all consuming process for government, putting some of the things that we really care about on the back burner. I worry that there won't be a NHS to give the saved membership fee to if it is completely neglected for the next two (or more) years.

Some of the words, however, appeared patronising. They sounded like a big brother telling his little sister that he knew best because he'd been on the planet twice as long as her and that worms really would be delicious things for lunch. He suggested that all big brothers could ignore their little sisters because brothers always know best.

The timing of the speech seems odd. Why didn't he say these things before we voted? Why not when we have some detail? Waiting for a period of limbo feels like pissing in the wind.

Far from signalling the death of Brexit, pursuit by this particular Blair has strengthened it. What were  his people thinking? Had they forgotten that the public wants him strung up by his testicles for the Iraq war? Had they forgotten that people have had enough of his smarmy face? Had they forgotten that he is blamed for the conditions that caused the Brexit vote: allowing an uncontrolled flow of Eastern European workers to flood the country and causing the Syrian crisis (Iraq war)? Had they forgotten that he's had his time and he's no Churchill?

The only thing that might have been killed by this backstage Blair is any chance of people listening, staying aware and challenging any decisions about leaving the EU that might be wrong or detrimental. Boris Johnsons response was a call to arms, to rise up and turn off the TV any time the Blair tries to kill the Brexit, to stop listening and thinking. I can't imagine anything more terrifying.

We might be family

Today, I heard a conversation that could only be heard in a town like mine.
Two boys were walking their scooters along the road.  They looked similar, in the way that ten year old boys often do; round-faced, impossibly blond hair in a smooth schoolboy cut, with eyes that look permanently confused.
"We could be family," one said to the other who grunted in response.
"Yeah, I'm related to George Brown."
"But George Brown is my cousin," he replied, emphasising the 'my' and stamping his foot.
"Yeah, but he's my Mum's Sister's Daughter's Son."
They both scratched their heads.
"Second cousins?"
"First cousins once removed, my dad said."
"Oh, maybe we are then but you've only just moved here. We've lived here for ever.  My mum and dad and both sets of grandparents were born here."
"Yeah, I know.  I wasn't born here but my mum and dad were. I really think we might be family."
"Like second cousins or something?"
"Yeah."


This week I became a great Auntie

Great Aunt Julia.

 It has a certain ring to it and should be said with a plumy accent, so that you imagine a tall, elegant woman who wears black and pokes at the baby with boney fingers.  In this fictionalised version of myself, the Long Suffering Husband died years ago and my own children wouldn't exist, leaving me a lonely and self-righteous old woman with nothing better to do than change my will in favour of the the new sprog until he is old enough to upset me.  I could give unwanted parenting advice on leaving babies to cry or swaddling them, so that they don't grow up with deformed limbs, while feeding a non-weaned child a Werther's Original, or a thimbleful of brandy.  I could sniff at their choice of name and insist that his first name should be his Grandfather's, rather than his middle name, which coupled with their 'modern' choice of first name makes him sound like a round on Only Connect, where the category is American rivers.

I am not that Great Aunt, though.  I'm just excited to be able to buy baby clothes and sing nursery rhymes.  In truth, I will probably see very little of this little boy, as he is the LSH's nephew's son and he hardly ever sees his sister (mainly because the LSH looks like his dad and his face makes his sister cry).

My children are first cousins once removed to the baby, so maybe one day their children could be pushing a scooter along with this little boy suggesting that they might be family.  Although, without the town connection they'll probably conclude that they are not related after all.

Funeral Songs

"So, what songs would you have at your funeral?"The Long Suffering Husband was eyeing me suspiciously from the other side of the sofa, "I know!" he said, "It would be, 'Always look on the bright side of life,' or 'Don't worry, be happy."

It could be an important question but I was surprised, as he has always insisted that he is going to die first, probably from a badminton or getting out of the car kind of accident. So, I checked my brakes before setting off today.

I didn't tell him that I have a playlist on my computer called "Julia's Funeral." I don't know when I did it but even I think it's a weird thing to have done.  I checked it today and it does have both of his suggestions in.

Hospital radio is a little bit like a collective funeral playlist.  There were some great tunes on today.  They go around and ask each patient for their request on a Monday and that becomes the week's playlist.  There were all the old favourites: The Rose, Angels, Wind Beneath My Wings, You Raise Me Up, True Colours, Unforgettable, We'll Meet Again, Stairway To Heaven.  There were the less obvious but beautiful songs like Every Time We Say Goodbye by Cole Porter, Humans and the brilliant Sarah Vaughan singing I Cried For You. There was loads of show tunes and Disney.
Dad told me that he'd requested Too Much Too Little Too Late by Johnny Mathis and Deniece Williams.

One of my flute pupils is learning Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and I suggested that it would be a good tune for a funeral.
She was horrified, "You couldn't.  Not for a cremation. 'When your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.'  It would be wrong.  Just wrong."

A friend told me about her grandfather's funeral and how her actress aunt had offered to sing one of the songs from her show.  The family gave each other sideways looks, wondering who was going to ask which particular song she was going to sing.  They were ticking them off in their heads: Something Bad, Popular, One Short Day, I'm Not That Girl, No Good Dead, For Good, A Sentimental Man, Thank Goodness, Defying Gravity.
"Oh, not Wicked, the other show," she said when she fell in.  You might have heard the sigh from wherever you were.

Possibly, most of the tunes on my playlist are what people might consider inappropriate.  I have Another One Bites The Dust, Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead, The Vicar of Dibley theme tune, Cold As Ice (by Foreigner) and the work song from Les Miserables, "Look down, look down, your feet are in your grave."  I'm thinking of adding the Countdown theme tune, which would be perfect as the curtains close on the coffin.  However, I will change the label of the playlist to read in brackets, "this is a joke, choose whatever songs you like."

Professional Ignorer

I know there is no such word as ignorer but bear with me.

When I was doing my A levels I wanted to be a doctor.  I liked science and puzzle solving. I was interested in people and somehow it made sense but I was far too lazy and a bit squeamish, so it never happened.  I've visited people in hospital more often than I would like recently and I have never been so grateful for my laziness.

Everything moves so slowly in hospital: a doctor can order a test on Wednesday and it still hasn't happened by Sunday.  Patients are annoying and their relatives are worse. Hospitals are huge, easy to get lost in and full of sick people. There's never any space in the car park and parking costs a fortune.  Joking is banned in hospital, even though they are weirdly funny places. And the food....the food is.....indescribable.

If you work in hospital the only cure for all of this annoyance is to block it all out.  You can stand in the middle of a ward, loudly discussing a patient and his left-sided paralysis without even noticing that he has fallen further onto his left side, almost out of bed.  The sound of bleeping machines and their blaring alarms fall on deaf ears.  When patients press their call buttons you keep your focus on your screen: chances are they are only going to ask for something that you don't have, like a pillow, or a chair for their visitors to sit on.

I'm not sure I could have been a professional ignorer.

I can see why you would have to, though, to survive.  When you have heard a story twenty one times, you do begin to switch off.
"Yeah, mate, it was all very sudden.  You know me, I never take a single pill and now I've got hundreds to take every day......I think they're putting bromide in my tea too, cause I can't get it up."

I had to keep listening because I wanted one of his phone-a-friends to ask him why he needed to 'get it up' on an Emergency Assessment Ward.  If that was a standard test I became even more grateful I had given up any idea of being a doctor.

I would snub lots of relatives too.  Probably not the ones they look right through.  I would talk to the smiling ones who make jokes and ask politely for a chair but I would tell those who insist on a nurse sitting with them and feeding their relative (who is perfectly capable of doing it himself) to .... (Alright,I'd probably be sacked).  I would tell the relatives that insist that the nurse showers and feed their relative before they'll take him home that they and people like them are solely responsible for the collapse of the NHS and physically escort them down the long corridor to wander aimlessly until they work out where the exit is.

I also have some sympathy for the eye-rolling medics whose patients haven't understood a word they've said.  As a musician, I also speak a different language to the general population.  I can sympathise with both the medic and the man standing outside the toilet being berated, "You need to do the sample again there was no volume on it.  We need to know how much you voided."  When you've asked a pupil to play a passage 'piano' eleven times you sometimes forget that they might have forgotten that it means quietly and are not annoying you on purpose.  Patients ask their doctors to tell them the same thing over and over again because they haven't understood. I hope that's not the reason doctors ask patients to repeat the story too.

The current crop of professional ignorers that I've been watching are extremely skilled.  They can talk to relatives without looking up from a screen, find out everything they need to know about a patient from an i-pad and I am so glad they have the job and not me.