The five stages of government

I’ve used the analogy of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five steps that a patient goes through when diagnosed with a terminal illness before. But here it is again, slightly differently.

In her 1969 book “On Death and Dying,” Kubler-Ross spells out the way people feel as the inevitable approaches: they go through a pretty clear progression of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance.

Those same steps have been offered up as the process of many other things by many other people; Kubler-Ross was onto a good thing, a real thing, that talked about the way most experiences are processes with recognizable steps.

Since then, commentators have transposed those steps onto everything from Kubler-Ross’s grief to decision-making and beyond, arguing that most exercises in the human experience are not a singular point, but a process that includes moving forward and sometimes back.

Kubler-Ross had significant experience with the dying: she spent a good part of her working life with them. I have some experience, as we all eventually do, with family members who have died, but the bulk of my experience is with governments.

And with apologies to Kubler- Ross, I’d like to suggest that we often get to see five stages of government — and that, effectively, the combined Williams/Dunderdale administration is in the last stage. This doesn’t mean that the ruling Conservatives are about to lose their grasp on government — far from it. Unless Premier Kathy Dunderdale decides she’s fed up and walks the plank, the next election doesn’t come around for another two years. And even if it does, change rests more in the hands of the opposition parties and whether they are able to cobble together that necessary mix of new strong candidates and ideas that differentiate them from the political norm.

But from Peckford/Rideout to Wells/Tobin/Grimes, from Ontario’s Davis/Miller to Chrétien/Martin and all the other iterations, longstanding governments have a familiar set of stages.

First is the new government, picking up the reins and promising immediate, first-100-day change. You could call that first stage ideal- ism — but call it that quickly, because it doesn’t even last the first 100 days.

The second stage comes fast: parties usually find out that, upon taking office, there’s far less money than they thought and far less ability to address promises. Remember the arrival of Williams in 2003? It was remarkably similar to the Wells administration after Peckford: “Sure, we promised things, but first we have to deal with this imminent economic collapse.”

That one’s simply enough called “reality.”

Then, there’s a period of staid governance — the new government still blames everything bad on the mistakes of past administrations, but the opposition pretty much knows its place, and the government can focus on pushing its good ideas forward.

At that point, virtually any opposition can be blamed on sour grapes, and while the government usually looks at any concerns raised in the media as misguided, it’s still willing to listen. You could call this stage “meaningful change.” It’s when sunshine laws like access to information and whistle-blowing legislation move forwards instead of backwards. There are bumps in the road but the government suspension isn’t tired yet, and its members hardly feel them.

Stage 4 is when the wheels start to come off, or at least the shock absorbers are flattening out: the House of Assembly is fractious and hostile, and suddenly, it’s not important to answer media requests for interviews. They’re just a pain in the neck, so send out emails and refuse to talk face to face. This stage is called “the bunker” — but while the government’s poured the concrete walls, it hasn’t fully closed the doors yet. It still has friends, and it’s trying to do important things — problem is, miles from that original idealism, the ideas are slowing, unless you start pinching them from the opposition.

Stage 5? It’s when “blame the media” becomes the official government mantra. “They’re out to get us,” is the rallying cry. We’ve started hearing that already. You try to take away any enemy’s tools: block access to information, but trumpet that you are the best and most accessible — because you are, except for when you’re dealing with the people who are out to get you and must be stopped. Your big plans are always the only answer — everyone else is simply wrong.

This is also where you start seeing long-serving MHAs, used to being popular in their own districts, both feeling the heat and deciding that they are not really keen to recontest their seats. They’ve managed to reach full pensionable time, and they aren’t ready for what might be a big fight.

Budgets sound tired, and throne speeches become the only outlet where you can hear someone else say what a good job you’re doing — and they say it only because you’ve put those exact words in their mouths.

You don’t understand why no one sees what a good job you are doing. It’s not denial. It’s not acceptance. The fifth stage is a sort of furious frustration.

The government? Well, it’s hardened off, kind of like the nail on an old man’s big toe.

Now far distant from ever having its bottoms warming the opposition benches, the current office-holders probably view themselves as the federal Liberals once did: as members of a sort of natural ruling party. The others? Why, everyone should be able to see that they’re a ragtag bunch, not equipped or experienced enough to run a province.

Which is just what the Grimesera Liberals thought of this province’s Progressive Conservatives.

And so it goes.