Care: A Reading List

There’s a piece of street art in my home town that says “The more I think about it, the bigger it gets”. I was reminded of it during a recent visit to Keele University when a conversation with colleagues turned to recreational reading. I always have a book on the go and I’ve written before about the importance of good reading for good academic writing, but the conversation at Keele made me realise how much my recreational reading overlaps with my professional interests, particularly my interest in care. And it’s not deliberate, it’s just that once you start thinking about care, you see it everywhere. The more you think about it, the bigger it gets.

Not everything I’ve read, however, has been good. I’ve read many books that, while undoubtedly cathartic for the author to write, should never have been published for general consumption. So I wanted to celebrate the good books. The books that are both beautifully written and true to the experiences of carers (both family & professional). The books that expand your mind and tear at your heart. The books that I regularly recommend to friends, strangers, students, and colleagues.

I hope to continue to add to this list over time, as I read new books and remember old ones, but I’d also welcome your suggestions. What’s the best thing you’ve read that explores the concept of care?

Five Days at Memorial by Sheri Fink

Home is Burning by Dan Marshall

Shtum by Jem Lester

The Girls from Corona del Mar by Rufi Thorpe

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Bettyville by George Hodgman

The Spare Room by Helen Garner

The Unspeakable by Meghan Daum

 

Sitting with the discomfort (in research & in life)

Nothing kills a dinner party quite like telling people what I do for a living. Dementia, carers, and suicide are not exactly the stuff of light-hearted conversations over cocktails. They are difficult, messy, emotional, and often controversial.

My job as a researcher is to make sense of the emotions, to bring order to the messiness, and offer insight into the controversy. As a researcher I’m trained to analyse, categorise, and classify, and to write concise narratives that show a logical, linear progression of ideas and experiences. But life isn’t logical. Or linear. Or easy to categorise. Life is confusing, organic, and determined to defy categorisation.

So I (and my dinner party companions) must learn to ‘sit with the discomfort’. I first heard this nifty little phrase in a presentation by Susan Beaton at a conference on suicide prevention. Beaton was talking about how clinicians use risk assessment tools to avoid actually engaging with people who are feeling suicidal. Because real engagement – really listening, really connecting with someone else’s pain – is exceedingly uncomfortable. Her thesis was that if clinicians were able to sit with their own discomfort, they might actually be able to do meaningful suicide prevention.

As a researcher who was, at that time, wading through hours of interview recordings in which dementia family carers talked about thoughts of suicide, this was a revelation. I realised that in order to do justice to these stories in my work, I first had to learn to sit with my own discomfort.  More recently I’ve been able to extend this concept to my writing – learning to sit with the discomfort that comes from not writing a nice linear journal article with clear conclusions, but instead writing an article that reflects the reality of my participants’ lives and is okay with a conclusion that effectively says “I don’t know what this means”.

But sitting with the discomfort isn’t just about suicide research and prevention. It can be useful in so many other research contexts and in daily life. Sitting with the discomfort is at the core of the contemporary mindfulness movement (including Acceptance & Commitment Therapy) and vipassana meditation; Toni Bernhard has written beautifully about its importance for people with chronic conditions & their carers; and much of Brene Brown’s great work also embraces this approach.

So the next time you encounter mess, pain, or controversy in your research (or your life), ask yourself: Why is this making me uncomfortable? Can I sit with it for just a little bit longer? Can I observe it without trying to fix it or run away from it? Can I find a way to talk or write about this that honours the messiness and confusion? And, as with all things, remember moderation is the key. Because sometimes not sitting with the discomfort is okay too.