The week before last week I went to a funeral, and have remained somewhat overwrought since. It wasn't the first I've been to as a conductor and certainly won't be the last; perhaps because it is the end of the year and I'm a bit tired or perhaps because lately many of my clients have been really struggling with the series of curveballs that we call life or perhaps because I was just caught with my guard down, but I'm still thinking about it and am sad.
Dave was one of my boxers, someone who had been with me since I started Counterpunch Parkinson’s, someone who had chosen the fighter name “The Greatest” in tribute to Mohammed Ali. Dave -- The Greatest -- loved boxing with us so much that even at the end, when
whatever the evil process that was rapidly stealing his mind from him made him
confused and unable to communicate effectively, even at the end he would mumble
something about boxing or shake his already shaking fist in response to any
question I asked of him, even totally out of context, outside of our boxing
classes.
Though he had been very unwell, with a
rapidly encroaching and all-encompassing dementia and several falls and pneumonias, and getting worse over recent months, his death was sudden and
unexpected. He was discharged from hospital to the rest home he had recently moved in to on Wednesday. I went to visit him on Thursday to find that he had died in the night. The funeral was also sudden, due to religious reasons, it took place the next day. I cleared my plate to get there and was glad I did – I was given a role in the ceremony, a role usually reserved for a
close family member. It was humbling and
a reminder that it is as much an honour and privilege to be welcomed into the inner circle that surrounds a family at times of sadness and loss as it is to stand beside my clients in life.
David was not an
easy person to work with – even before things got the way they were at the end –
he was difficult, and angry, and short tempered, and sarcastic. He got very confused and anxious and a bit aggressive. But he was also funny – very funny, and a bit
nutty, and a lot dedicated -- even when it would have been very challenging for
him to come he kept coming and trying.
It broke my heart to see him confusedly trying to put his hand into the
closed end of his boxing gloves or looking at me lost and bewildered when he
could no longer make sense of my most simple instructions. And here is the thing – difficult or not, I love
all of the people I work with and probably love the difficult ones even more,
perhaps because of the extra effort needed to extend compassion in such
instances.
We saluted Dave at
the beginning of our boxing class the week after the funeral. Our boxers, our coaches and coach trainees
and volunteers all in a big circle, arms around each other as NZ’s toughest
heavyweight boxer lead us through a Maori prayer and song, a moment of silence,
and then directed us to the boxing bags for 100 of our best punches to kick off
the class with a spirit that Dave would have loved and as our way to give
Parkinson’s the finger on his behalf, and then we worked hard and played harder
during the rest of the class because that is what this community is about. When life gives you Parkinson’s,
Counterpunch.
I am a
conductor. I come from a discipline
where love is recognized as a teaching tool.
And like regular love, conductive love comes with a risk of hurt and
loss – there is no way around that, it is part of what it means to be human and
to work with people in this way. It
always makes me reflect on my work, my practice, and my relationships, and even
when I’m heartbroken I go back in – I choose this work and to love this way
despite the risks.
I am a conductor,
but also a coach – the head coach – and in that role I must teach the other
coaches I train how to work effectively with our boxers. I am purposeful in how I teach about the role
of the group or about the importance of fun and motivation. And I cannot help but teach about love
because it is in my approach – obvious, out there, heart on my sleeve, a part of
the way that I work. I don’t know if I
do enough to prepare my coaches for the heartache that comes with working
through love, and I don’t know if I could or even should. I teach my boxers to put their guard up – a boxing
term for protecting yourself. I teach my
coaches to let their guards down, and I hope and pray that I am building a
community that will nurture and support people who choose to work this way.