The Kübler-Ross Model of Coping with Loss: A Case Study.
Stage 1: Denial
The rain hadn’t stopped for weeks. Torrential downpour after torrential downpour. Tonight it was even worse. A howling wind swirled around the darkened steeples of the building, which loomed over the street, scarecrows but for people. A lone individual was walking through the storm, clutching an overcoat around him as he walked. His gait was peculiar, a well-defined man, he was clearly sportingly active, yet he walked with a laboured limp.
Shut shop shutters lined the boulevard on both sides with a sole light spilling out into the darkened air. The light belonged to a bar, a run-down beer shack with no real character or anything there. The tattered sign had seen better days, but the name was just about visible on the broken wooden board. The Dream Inn. The Dream had certainly turned into a nightmare. The man didn’t want to go in, who would? But it was getting colder and wetter so he had to. Any port in a storm.
Inside wasn’t much better than outside. The carpets were sticky and an air of stale beer and disillusioned souls permeated the atmosphere. Nicotine stained woodchip wallpaper and faded photographs of forgotten patrons decorated the wall. With his arrival, the number of customers had doubled. His sole company was a sweaty man playing on the fruit machine. He didn’t look like he ate a lot of fruit. Beside him stood a pint of Guinness, which was by now the warmest thing in the city. Pound coin. Down the slot. Another. Down the slot. Another. Down the Slot. Jackpot! Down the slot.
The Gents toilet door opened a
bar manappeared, carrying a mop and a cloth. The unmistakable smell of an ancient, freezing urinal trough followed behind him. He took the cloth and mop behind the bar and took his place at the beer pumps. Without washing his hands, naturally.
With a voice as gravely and broken as the road outside, he looked at the
Soaking Manbefore him.
So, what’ll it be?
The soaking man couldn’t bring himself to speak yet. His bloodshot eyes perused the back bar, but it was hard to read the labels through the dust on the bottles and the tears in his eyes. The bar man looked at him, and added a little more force to his words.
What would you like to drink?
I need a drink to help me forget
Forget what, comrade?
Nothing
The bar man nodded solemnly, and began to pour a large whisky into a glass that was either frosted or filthy or possibly both. Neat. No ice.
He slid it across the bar, and returned to toilet cleaning duties, inviting the smell, which had only just ceased lingering back into the room. The room fell silent but for the beeping and coin falling sounds emanating from the man at the Fruit Machine. The soaking man looked at the whisky, the rain still falling from his hair and nose, dripping into the whisky. Diluting its efficacy.
He drank the whole glass in one, and loudly banged his glass on the table. The bar man, and the smell of urinal cakes, came back into the room as the sound occurred. He went behind the bar.
Another
The bar man dutifully obliged before returning to clean the toilets. The door opened wider this time, and for the first time the soaking man could see inside the toilets. There was not enough disinfectant in the world to fix the scene he saw. Nor enough weedkiller.
And so the scene repeated itself five or six times over the course of the next couple of hours.
Seat. Drink. Weep. Repeat. Seat. Drink. Weep. Repeat.
Then, finally, another
customer arrived in the bar.
Like the soaking man before him, he had difficulty seeing what was at the bar. He turned to the soaking man on his stool, who was looking at the tumbler of whisky, refilled for the seventh time.
Hey Buddy! What you got to do to get service around here?
It comes
The soaking man turned towards the new customer, and when he did so a flash of inspiration appeared in the new customer’s eyes.
Heeeeyyyy, I know you. You’re that wrestler aren’t you?
No.
Yeah you are, what was your name?
You’ve got the wrong guy.
Garth Black! That’s it, you’re Garth Black
No. I’m not.
Yeah you are, you lost your title match last week! To Justin Cooper. You got knocked out.
I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy.
Mind if I get a selfie?
Yes.
The new customer ignored this and got his phone out anyway. As he was attempting to get them both in frame, Black snatched the phone from his hands and dropped it straight into his glass of whisky. The man was flabbergasted.
What did you do that for, you asshole!
I said I didn’t want a selfie.
You have an attitude problem, no wonder you’re no longer the champion.
With this, the soaking man got up from his stool and landed a right hook on the face of the new customer.
I told you, I’m not Garth Black.
The man who was not Garth Black took the phone from the glass and threw it at his prone antagoniser, sparked out on the floor. He then downed his drink and waited for the barman to come back out. When he did so, he walked past the fruit machine, stepped over the man on the floor and poured another drink.
Stage 2: Anger
My name is Jezebel Jones. And this is my tale. It’s how I learned that you should never meet your heroes. I’ve always wanted to be a wrestler. Always. From the day I was born, I’d put my little twin sister in headlocks. I could run the ropes before I could walk. All I’ve ever wanted was to do this. All I’ve ever wanted to be was a wrestler.
But, you know, I don’t look like other girls. My hair is short, my nose is pierced, and I can’t help it if I like awesome music and nobody else does. I’m gonna be huge. But there’s one wrestler who always inspired me. One wrestler who I always thought I wanted to be like. His name? Garth Black.
Garth Black speaks out, just like me.
Garth Black looks different, just like me.
Garth Black conquered his daemons, just like me.
Garth Black stands up to the man, just like me.
Garth Black believes in women’s rights, just like me.
Garth Black is a world champion, just like me.
One day, anyway.
When he left, WZCW just wasn’t really worth watching any more. These people, Vis Imperium, Constantine, Tony Mancini, Hollow Ones. They were precisely that, Hollow, completely lacking in the deep down things that matter. They didn’t speak to me like he did, they didn’t have anything to offer. If a guy like Randy Studd turned up at my front door, I wouldn’t even recognise him.
So I heard that there was going to be a signing event at an indie show in town. I haven’t started to train just yet, so I knew I’d have to buy a ticket. So I bought the ticket, bought three bus tickets and traversed the city. It cost me nearly a hundred dollars and three hours of my time to see him, but it was going to be worth it.
I knew he wasn’t going to charge me for a photo or an autograph. I knew he’d tell me all about his time on the road. I knew he’d give me some pointers, maybe he’d even offer to train me. Or introduce me to Daddy Mack. I don’t even know. I wanted so badly to speak to him. In the queue my heart started to race. I was getting closer, I could see him. It was wonderful, third in the queue, my idol, second in the queue, my idol…
My drunk idol. What a waste of space.
I told him how much I respected him. I told him how much I wanted to come back. I still remember every single word he said back to me. I had recorded it, hoping to get on record the words of a great man. Instead what I got was the angry ramblings of a drunkard.
“YOU DON’T EVEN CARE WHO I AM! I AM THE GRREATEST WORULD CHAMPION THERES EVER BEEN AND THEY PUT THAT SAP, THAT CHEATING SAP IN THERE IN MY SPOT. WHAT MORE DID I HAVE TO DO? WHAT MORE COULD I DO. YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ME JELABEZ, YOU ARENT A TRUE BELIEVER. IF YOU WAS YOUD BE TELLING SERRA YOU WANT ME THERE. YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE FOR ME, I WANT TO GO BACK. I’M SO ANGERY!”
And so it continued. I’m not even sure I still know what he was trying to say, but I think the general gist was that he was angry. His subsequent actions certainly suggested it. I had poured my heart and soul into this, the only man I trusted, and this was how he repaid that trust.
Black then flipped the table before him, and the one’s before the other wrestlers. He called them all sellouts and stormed out of the arena. It was like Jesus in the temple. Except Jesus was now the bad guy, and my Jesus, who I’d poured all of my devotion into had let me down. I think that was the day I gave up on all men.
Garth Black is an angry, pathetic asshole.
Stage 3: Bargaining
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear Miss Serra,
I am writing to ask you to consider my appointment for the position of ‘wrestler’ at your company. I feel that I have been a productive member of the wrestling community for some years now and I have consistently shown myself to be one of the top performers at the company whenever I have been there.
WZCW needs me right now, and you know it. Please let me know what you think about this proposal and get back to me as soon as is humanly possible.
I really want to hit the ground running.
Yours Sincerely,
Garth Black
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear applicant,
Thank you for your enquiry about a position here at WZCW. We are always on the lookout for new talent and received your application with enthusiasm.
Please submit a video real with your response and we will get back to you.
Yours Faithfully,
Angela Smith
Human Resources manager
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear Ms Smith,
For a show reel, please watch the WZCW Network. I’m the guy winning the World Heavyweight Championship.
Yours Sincerely,
Garth Black
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Hi Becky,
Please see the chain of e-mails attached, could you please advise?
Coming for after work drinks later?!
Angela
x
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear Garth,
I did see you win the World Championship. I also saw you flipping tables at an indie venue on TMZ. I don’t know who I’m going to get with you, and you made your life here very, very difficult. I’m not sure you’re ready for it.
Sort your life out, and maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement. Until then, it’s a no. And I will make sure that every company knows how dangerous you are to yourself and your competitors.
Yours,
Becky Serra
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear Miss Serra,
You and I both know that if you don’t let me back, I will force your hand and I will come back. It’s really that simple. I have ways and means. I’ve been trying to do this the easy way, as you’ve always wanted, but you’re forcing us to do it the hard way, which you know I’m more than capable of doing.
I’ll see you at the Lethal Lottery, with or without a contract.
Yours Sincerely,
Garth Black
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Are you threatening to blackmail me?
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Are you threatening to blackball me?
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Dear Miss Serra,
Look, I want to come back and I’m trying to make it easy, but you’re really making it hard. I want to enter the Lethal Lottery and then we’ll see where we go from there. That title was stolen from me and every single thing I said about the conspiracies were true.
I’ll get myself cleaned up, I’ve done it before from an even worse position before, as you know. Just give me a chance. You don’t even have to pay me.
Yours Sincerely,
Garth Black
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
You can be a backstage guest, if you prove to be clean between now and then.
We can discuss options for the future at that point.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
You won’t regret it!
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
I almost certainly will.
Stage 4: Depression
West London Psychiatric Rehabilitation Centre Case Notes.
Patient name: Garth Black
Admitted three weeks ago suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Alcoholic tendencies. The patient has seldom seemed himself since he has been admitted. He is withdrawn, to the point of silence at times. Initially he was in the general ward, but it has become clear that he requires constant suicide watch. He seems to have driven himself to this point through constant revisitation of a traumatic incident a few months ago.
The patient has been very reticent to talk to us throughout the course of his treatment, having a clear aversion to authority figures. At first his proclamations seemed fanatical, but having contacted friends and former colleagues we have seen that rather than being delusional, the patient has been driven to despair by being proven right. Having asserted that the centre believe his story of how he ended up here, he has now indicated that he will be willing to talk to one of our counsellors, providing it is a junior member of the team. We have agreed to this request, and henceforth the notes in this case file are those of Dr. Robert Taylor, a complete and utter novice, but a specialist in dealing with the mentally incapacitated:
The patient was never really ok with the situation that he faced in WZCW. He felt outside of the kliq. This led to him being very isolationist in his approach from the outset. Having been betrayed by multiple opponents and partners across the time he was in the company, he said that he was no longer capable of trust. The only people who had never let him down, he had turned on in a fit of anger a few weeks ago. There seems to be a great remorseful streak within his mind.
The redemption is not yet complete though. He feels a sense of tremendous betrayal at his former employers who he felt have punished him for the identification of their own shortcomings. It is the opinion of the medical staff that he is likely to seek revenge on his employers, but the sad fact remains that he is a bigger danger to himself than he is to any outside agent. His stated aim is to ‘be able to get up in the morning, look myself in the mirror and not want to smash it.’
With that being said, I believe if and when discharged he will seek retribution from as many of his former colleagues as possible. It is my understanding that there is an upcoming work event which will see many of his colleagues competing together. He has stated that his desire is to eliminate as many as possible, particularly any of the turn coats that rode his coat tails. He has repeatedly referred to a Mr. Tastic, a Mr. Blades and a Mr. Avison as people he holds personally responsible for having led to his decline as a performer.
The Centre was worried that this talk of elimination meant we should contact the police, but having looked into the patients notes, it is clear that he is a professional wrestler, and the event to which he is referring is a wrestling event named ‘WZCW Lethal Lottery’. It is clear he fears nobody within this event, but the Centre fears that should he be included, he is likely to make a spectacle of himself, and rather than making himself the spectacle as he intends.
Having spoken to a Miss Serra, a senior manager at Wrestlezone Championship Wrestling, she has reassured me that the patient’s invitation to the event is as a guest only, and he will not be invited to perform. It is the belief of the Centre that this is for the best as in the patient’s current fragile mental state, I feel he will wish to seek too much of the audience’s attention and should he fail to get it, he will feel feelings of rejection and dread.
This patient does not have any identifiable characteristics, but is very clearly suffering from feelings of being unfulfilled, unsupported and unappreciated, and in the medical opinion of the centre he will only be able to remove himself from this spiral of his own creation if he is to open up himself to accepting his own responsibility in his downfall. The patient seems unwilling to do this, so has built himself a mausoleum to misery that he is reluctant to remove himself from.
It is the opinion of the Centre that it is in the patient’s best interest to leave the Centre and to try and find some self-motivation, but my fear and suspicion is that this sadness that he feels within will be directed outwards towards his former colleagues if he is to come into contact.
I’d rather them than me.
Stage 5: Acceptance
It was half past seven in the morning and the sun was breaking through the crack in
Garth Black’s window. The ray of sun had made its way patiently around the darkened room and now it found itself slowly sweeping across the pillow. It had been a long few months, with some ups and a lot of downs, but for the first time in months he slept peacefully. Sure, he still had his plan of action, and he was still going to burst on the scene, but he would be doing it for himself and nobody else.
He dreamt of the countdown, and as each number was clamoured by the audience is heartbeat raced slightly faster. Who needed alcohol when you could have adrenalin? In Black’s dream he was in the gorilla position peeking through the curtain, just as the sun was doing in his room. He looked at the ring and he could see the blurry figures of the former colleagues that he was about to see. It didn’t matter who they were, and the fact that they were a little wooly around the edges as he looked at them was unproblematic- they looked like lambs to the slaughter because that’s precisely what they were.
As the countdown reached zero, a faceless wrestler in black tights ran past him. He looked like the base model on create-a-wrestler. But of course, to Black, most wrestlers looked like that. Black realised what the problem was – he didn’t have an entry number. Luckily, one rolled up to his feet. Excited, he cracked it open to reveal that he…
…didn’t have a number. Heartbroken and struggling, he started to feel very unsettled. Perhaps this wasn’t a dream after all, maybe it was the Dream Inn. Then when despair was all around him, his mentor, his one saving grace,
Daddy Mack appeared next to you.
Brother, if you build it, they will come!
Build what?
The Ring. Then the wrestlers will come, yeah.
There already is a ring, and wrestlers! The problem is that I’m not one of them!
Well, then brother, just hit one of them with a chair and take their number, yeah.
Now you’re talking my language! I’ll do it. Thanks, Daddy Mack!
Avenge my death!
You’re not dead, I’m staying in your spare room!
In which case, yeah, knock them dead, yeah!
Thanks Mack Daddy.
Black felt his heartrate slow, he was back into a deepened slumber in the spare room in Daddy Mack’s house. The sun had by now started to move across his face, and he was slowly awakened by the sunlight. He looked around the room, happy to be in familiar surroundings and now blissful in his awareness of what happened in his dream and the idea that his mentor had given him in his dream.
Mack would have never told him to do anything underhanded in the real world, but the Daddy Mack that occupied his dreams was a little less of an altruist. Black thought to himself that he preferred the Mack of his dream. Not everything has to be black and white you know. Sometimes you need shades of grey.
Black stirred in the bed and put his feet on the floor, one after the other. He thought to himself that putting two feet on the floor like this would be suicide later on in the evening, when he was going to surreptitiously enter the Lethal Lottery. For now though, it was the way to start the day and the way to be prepared for action.
He turned on the radio, and Lovely Day filled the air. He knew it would be exactly that. He moved across to the shower, and cleaned himself, before drying dressing and putting on his lucky sweatbands on. Now he was fully clothed, with his wrestling attire underneath, invisible to any outside observers, but he knew. And he knew exactly what it meant.
He brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair and walked back into the bedroom. Before him stood a full length body mirror. He didn’t usually like looking in the mirror, but he thought that he had better check that his attire really was discrete. And it was, but that’s not what he saw in the mirror. He saw himself, and everything about himself.
He knew he was flawed, he knew he could be neurotic and he didn’t have the body he had when he started in this business, ravaged as it was from time and the extra-curricular activities. But it was him. Every inch of what he saw when he looked in the mirror, ready for the Lethal Lottery was the sum total of his copious life experiences.
He wasn’t perfect, nobody is. But he looked at himself and he saw the man he was, and it was the man he wanted to be.
For the first time in a long time, maybe in forever, Garth Black was content.