When Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced the world to the 5 stages of grief in her seminal 1969 book ‘on death and dying,’ she probably had no idea that an elderly and rancorous copywriter, coincidentally also born in 1969, would be applying it, some 53 years later, to an entirely different set of circumstances.
Well, perhaps not entirely different. Redundancy is, if you think about it, the death of your job. And with that being the case, it makes sense that the grieving process is quite similar, albeit with a few key variations.
The first stage, for me at any rate, was shock.
I had assumed, based on positive performance reviews, lavish praise and a rather less lavish pay rise, just one month earlier, that I was in a good place.
Boy did I get that wrong.
The height from which I fell, coupled with the abrupt nature of my descent, made for a very painful landing. One that threw me into consternation and dismay. My mind simply could not fathom such an abrupt reversal in fortunes.
Hard on the heels of shock came denial. This wasn’t happening. (It was.) I was vital to the agency. (I wasn’t.) Surely saner heads would prevail. (They didn’t.)
Then came the hurt. Lots and lots of hurt.
Behind the brave face we all adopt for such occasions, I felt betrayed, ashamed, let down and worthless. I had stood shoulder to shoulder with these people through good times and bad. We were friends, colleagues and soldiers in arms. How could they treat me like this?
And that’s when anger reared its ugly head. I was enraged. Wild ideas of revenge flitted through my short-circuiting brain.
I would expose them all. Write a damning diatribe penned with vitriol and watch them squirm. Sue them for unfair dismissal. Take the matter all the way to the High Court.
Or, alternatively, and with memories of pranks I’d seen on American t.v, put a turd in a bag and set fire to it, place it on their porch, ring the doorbell and watch quietly from the adjacent bushes as the ensuing drama unfolds.
In the event, I did none of these things. Disappointingly, from my perspective, the molten anger of injustice only lasted a day or two before cooling and transmuting into the lava of acceptance.
I’d lost my job. Big deal. Shit like this happens to people all the time. It’s just business and I shouldn’t take it personally. I do, but I shouldn’t. It’s probably for the best as I was feeling very burnt out anyway yada yada yada.
And that, my beloved Fafferinos, brings me to where I am now. In the nascent stages of relief.
You see, if truth be told, I am glad to be out of there. Sure, the job served its purpose and gave me a regular (if somewhat underwhelming) income and the freedom to work unencumbered from my fortress of solitude in the Blue Mountains.
But, at the same time, I felt stultified by it and never really thought it made the best use of my particular talents.
Perhaps, upon reflection, they were right to give me the flick after all. Time will tell.
Anyhoo, looking down my stages of redundancy grief list I see that hope is the next cab of the rank. And that, my dear friends, brings me to you. A freelance gig here, a part-time job there and hope will come flooding back like the proverbial darling buds of May.
But yeah, honestly, I’m not there quite yet. Actually, between you and I, I feel there was more mileage to be had from the anger phase. That shit in the bag prank could have been gold.
Oh well, there’s always next time.