Death requires us to accept the unacceptable. Whether it’s our death or the death of those we love. It crosses all lines and takes us beyond any of our known categories - it’s an event horizon beyond which we can’t see. Those who are dying and those whose loved ones have died face a similar challenge from their friends and family. They face what Stephen Jenkinson, writer and teacher, has referred to as “death phobia” and “grief illiteracy” . They face people’s desire to try to make it all okay, to make sense of it, to find some way of neatly measuring and placing it. For the bereaved and dying, this can be experienced as a denial, a refusal, a pushing away. Supporting the dying and bereaved can make us feel inadequate and ill-equipped. We don’t know what to say; we find language completely inadequate to the task and therefore tiptoe around the issue in a shame-filled dance.
My experience of working with the dying and bereaved is to try and accept the person and what is happening completely. Step fully into their world with as much love and fearlessness as possible. No dodging, no equivocation: full contact. I often feel as if I’m entering the eye of the storm; standing alongside them in the maelstrom. This inevitably brings up fear and anxiety, but this feels like an entirely appropriate and fitting response to something of such tremendous significance. The psychoanalyst, Wilfred Bion, once described psychotherapy as two terrified people in a room: nowhere is this description more fitting than here.
So I step in with no answers, no platitudes; nothing from the self-help bargain basement. But again, this is right and appropriate: how it should be. To have a tactic, a technique, some kind of prepared method to help the client “come to terms with things” and “make sense of it all” feels like an insult. A failure on the part of the therapist to get to grips with the magnitude and mystery of death; to face down what feels impossible to face down.
Of course, death comes in all shapes and sizes. It can be utterly shocking when the young and healthy die unexpectedly. Death can also come after a long protracted illness, and be both a blessing as well as devastating. In each case, its mystery is fathomless. This can be particularly the case when we see others die; we are left to try and get our head and heart around the fact that someone who moments ago felt vivid and “here” is now somehow “gone”; leaving behind everyone who loves them and everything they have accumulated over their life. Damien Hirst has a piece of artwork called “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living”. It’s a 14-foot preserved tiger shark submerged in formaldehyde encased in a glass panel display case. I can’t vouch for the profundity of the artwork itself, but the title seems to speak a deep truth.
However, proximity to death provides an opportunity for those who are still living. Indeed, if we can wrap ourselves around the fact that at some point we’ll be gone, then a sense of deep gratitude and appreciation can open up. As Stephen Jenkinson explains:
“...until you see the end of what you hold dear, I don’t think you’re holding it dear. You might be holding onto it for dear life, but you’re not holding it dear. Until you see the end of what you love, you’re probably not loving it”
One of the reasons I’m so passionate about Gestalt Psychotherapy is that the goal of Gestalt is to facilitate more awareness in the client. More awareness of the habitual ways they relate to themselves, others and the world around them. This greater holistic awareness builds self-confidence, frees them to address issues, and helps them live with more choice and freedom. Of course, this is wonderful and can be transformational. However, there is a deeper issue at play. More awareness can help us get to grips with our finite human life and from that place, we can live holding what we love more dearly.
There is a wonderful interview with the television dramatist Dennis Potter. It was conducted towards the end of his life when he was dying of cancer and only had a few weeks to live. He describes the plum blossom outside his window at home:
“It's a plum tree, it looks like apple blossom but it's white, and looking at it, instead of saying "Oh that's nice blossom" ... last week looking at it through the window when I'm writing, I see it is the whitest, frothiest, blossomest blossom that there ever could be, and I can see it… But the nowness of everything is absolutely wondrous, and if people could see that, you know. There's no way of telling you; you have to experience it, but the glory of it…”
This is the type of awareness we are trying to facilitate through Gestalt psychotherapy. An open and receptive awareness firmly rooted in the senses and the present moment. It’s an awareness permeated with an understanding that the ability to cherish and appreciate what you hold dear depends upon your ability to see that it will come to an end. If we can live with that understanding more deeply then death perhaps doesn’t need to be accompanied by horrified anxiety; there is the possibility of something else shining through. We can see our humanity more fully, in all its frailty and mystery. This allows us to forgive ourselves for not being “good enough” - whatever that might mean. It allows us to live with "not knowing", as we recognise that no-one has all the answers. It allows us to get the support we need from others - whether that’s a therapist, a friend, or someone else. And it allows us to live more fully, with more heart, and in line with what is most important to us.
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