Little things

Croydon, Berlin, Lebanon, Antrim and Troy, all within a few miles of each other. Yes. This is the New Hampshire (NH) part of New England. But the capital city of NH is not New London. It is Concord.

1.35 million inhabitants of NH live in 9,300 square miles.

9 million inhabitants of London live in 600 square miles.

It’s a different world. Time and space assume a different dimension here. They are both expansive. I have a sense of abundance and connection.

I have met nothing but kindness since I’ve been here. On the very first day, I was offered two lifts, one from Manchester airport (yes, they have a Manchester too) to Concord and then from my AirBnB house to the grocery shop and back. I have no car as I can’t trust myself to drive on the right (wrong) side of the road. I can literally hear the wires clanging and short-circuiting in my head as I watch the cars move on the roads.

Apples, maple syrup, random conversations with the locals on the street, excellent assistance in shops, witty Halloween decorations and the fall colours. Within the last week, a festival of colours has unravelled in all their glory. I don’t think any camera can do full justice to the drama of Orange, Yellow, Red, Terracotta and Green.

I have really noticed the small things. I spent yesterday morning cutting out small squares of felt in preparation for a community meeting at a small village school where they have recently lost a student to suicide. These pieces are for everyone who attends. They serve as tiny ‘blankies’, something for people to hold on to and fiddle with, to help them cope with the difficult conversations taking place in the room. I would have never thought of that.

When we got there, each table was decorated with twines, hydrangeas, little pumpkins and squashes to make the atmosphere a little bit festive. Warm and welcoming. Not too sad and drab. These little things made such a huge difference for everyone present.

On World Mental Health Day and every other day, let’s remember the little things. They are the big things.

Come October

3/10/2019. 6 am: I am excited. At the airport, waiting to board my flight to Washington Dulles. Change to another flight to Manchester and then a taxi ride to Concord, New Hampshire. This is the first leg of my travels as a Churchill Fellow. I have checked in and am having a cup of tea. I have just come across this post from a young woman on Facebook:

“According to my local crisis team, I was ‘too articulate’ to be feeling suicidal.
As a writer, and someone who works in languages, I am a naturally very articulate person. Because I could speak so clearly about my thoughts and feelings, I was discharged from the crisis team as I didn’t fit the bill of someone suicidal, or indeed, of being mentally unwell enough to need their support despite evidence to the contrary.

The Papyrus text line allowed me to articulate how I felt (you don’t have any choice really when you’re using the text service, you have to ‘say’ it how it is!!), and that was delved into so much deeper with thoughtful questions, suggestions and recommendations that allowed me to get through a real low point and see that there was hope. At no stage did they reply with ‘sorry, you’re too articulate to be feeling the way you claim’.

Non-judgemental, kind, compassionate, a REAL life saver, especially in the current climate of NHS mental health cuts.”

Judgement. The ultimate wall. Even a positive judgement can be harmful. A missed opportunity. A lost life. Who fills the gaping holes created by ‘unfit for purpose’ services, NHS cuts and ignored carers?

Charities. Families. Friends.

The needs of young people are different. They need an active, positive and creative interaction to make sense of how they feel. They need to be heard and understood. They need to know in their hearts that they are deeply loved and cared for just the way they are. They need to know that things get better. Educating families is crucial.

4/10/2019

Today’s gem: Mayo Clinic video for parents. All parents of adolescents should see this.

A traveling ‘Fellow’ am I.

Somewhere in the middle of last year, a friend, Angela Samata ( of ‘Life after Suicide’ fame) recommended I look up Winston Churchill Memorial Trust. I did. They had a catchy strap line – “Travel to learn – return to inspire”. I checked out their application form. Form-filling is a formidable process but this one wasn’t too bad. I touched base with a couple of people from Australia and the USA who had stayed in my memory from various conferences. I asked them if they would have me visit their organisations, observe their work with the aim of learning and exchanging ideas. They were happy. I filled out the form. Got shortlisted and invited for an interview.

While preparing for the interview I knew I’d be asked to say something about Churchill. I researched and found some relevant facts. He’d coined the term ‘black dog’ to describe depression. That was clever. Also, he had something in common with me. He had survived the loss of a child.

This February I was awarded a traveling Fellowship by WCMT to go to USA and Australia for 3 weeks each to bring back ideas on preventing suicides and supporting families looking after someone with a mental illness. Ideas we can implement in our communities. It was an honour but also quite daunting. I have never done anything like this before. But here I am with 10 days to go, before I leave for the first leg of my travels to Concord in New Hampshire which is home to National Alliance on Mental Illness, NAMI. I have put my name down for their community walk on Sunday, the 6th of October aimed at stamping out stigma. I reckon that’s the best way to get to know people and get involved. Also, autumn in New Hampshire is meant to be spectacular. Deb and Elaine from NAMI have been very welcoming and I feel their warmth in their e-mails.

Yes. I am excited. With minor trepidation in my heart. And Saagar. Away from home, from Milkshake and Si for 27 days. Haven’t done that in a very long time. But it’s time and I am ready.

[PS: We’ve reached 82% of our fund-raising goal. I am deeply touched by the generosity of all the 151 backers and am grateful to everyone’s positive vibes. Thank you! To find the campaign link, search ‘1000 days’ and ‘indiegogo’]

Just numbers.

“Don’t read the comments” he said. On Tuesday, the 3rd of September 2019, the latest statistics on suicide in the UK were published by the ONS. The figures were posted in articles in the Guardian and elsewhere on the internet including Zerohedge, an alternative news website. Si forwarded me a link to one of these articles with the above warning. Don’t read the comments.

Some of the highlights from the data collected in 2018 were:

‘… the latest rate is significantly higher than that in 2017.’

‘Males aged 45 to 49 years had the highest age-specific suicide rate …

‘…rates among the under 25s have generally increased in recent years, particularly 10 to 24-year-old females where the rate has increased significantly since 2012 to its highest level …’

I was advised and forewarned. Yet, I read the comments. What a way to start a relaxing Sunday! Should you read them, be prepared to be revolted, disgusted and saddened. My eyes were opened wider to the fact that this is just a laughing matter for some. Here are a few of the comments:

  • With Deagel.com predicting a 77% reduction in the UK population by 2025 due to economic implosion (nothing to do with Brexit), the suicide count hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface yet.
  • 17 in 100.000 is hardly anyting. NO NEWS here.
  • Spinsters shall inherit the earth
  • Britain needs to get that female suicide rate up to match the male suicide rate.
  • Happens when a central bank, in the name of 2% inflationary targets, actually produces 10% inflation and lies about it……. Working a job that pays 10% less every year, while the cost of living rises 10%, can induce suicidal thoughts when your wife and children are going without and starving……….
  • Globalist politicians: Oh look, there’s another white boy killing himself. Charlie, we need another order of immigrants. How many does it take to replace a White guy?
  • That’s what happens when you neglect your own citizenry in favour of immigrants. Brits feel like worthless peices of garbage and off themselfs, thanks government!
  • Here’s hoping they’re all “remainers”.

This is our world. These are our people. What can we do? We can share our stories and experiences. We can speak nice and loud, sing songs and poems, write blogs, books and articles, make films of love and belonging.

Many thanks for helping us reach 64% of our target for the film, 1000 days. The love and generosity of many readers of this blog, families of those who couldn’t bear to carry on living, friends and friends of friends has made this possible. Please contribute what you can and help us complete this film to connect everyone with the reality of a suicide.

(Donate on: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/1000-days–3#/ )

Convenient myths.

On a few occasions, after I’ve shared the story of Saagar’s brief illness and sudden death in public, one or two individuals, often men, who’ve possibly been through their own difficulties, have said that there was nothing I or anyone could have done to stop him. I know they mean well and speak from experience. I appreciate them reaching out to me.

For a few microseconds, on rare occasions, I have told myself that may be it’s true that Saagar’s death was not preventable. I have felt my shoulders relax, my tummy unknot and my mind quieten.

Life would be so much easier if I could believe/ accept/ give in to the concept that no matter what, Saagar’s death was inevitable. That the planets were misaligned and his demons got the better of him. That this was his destiny and it was ‘written’ in the balance sheet of his karma. Life would be easy if I could be complete with the fact that many people with depression/ Bipolar/ other mental illnesses will die young. Sometimes within 10 weeks of their diagnosis. What if I changed my outlook so I could have peace?

What if 3 decades ago everyone accepted that people who got AIDS would be dead within a few months or years. And then nothing more was done about it. That’s just the way it was and that’s how it would stay. Would we reach the stage where we are today, where thousands of individuals lead near normal lives for decades on regular medication, where HIV is not passed on from a carrier to another if the former’s viral load is sufficiently low.

Today, in the UK, cancer care is excellent and cancer research is huge. Anyone who gets diagnosed with cancer can be sure to get prompt and high quality specialist care for as long as needed. So much so that if a child is diagnosed with cancer, the parents automatically get assigned a therapist. We have come a long way.

On the other hand, if a child or an adolescent gets a mental illness, the patient can barely get the attention they need. Never mind the parents. It can hardly be a co-incidence that all the bereaved parents I meet are certain that more could’ve been done to help their child. Not all of them are deluded. Or are they?

Here’s Robert and Linda’s story. They sadly lost their talented young son Richard Wade. They too believe his death was preventable. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FofR47rM1BQ

The more we ‘accept’ that these young deaths are inevitable (as the myth goes) the more we keep quiet, the less likely it is that things will change. Accepting might be the wiser thing to do. It might be better for our mind but it may also contribute to future deaths. The easy road may be the wrong road.

We’ve reached 41% of the funds we need to complete the film, 1000 days. Please help us release this film so we can bust some of the myths that surround suicide and bring this subject into society’s consciousness.

Click on: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/1000-days

A big fat THANKS to all of you for being a constant source of strength for me.

Mind the Gap

 You are 28.
 Married 4 years. 
 No babies yet?
 Your mum’s bursting with unspoken questions. 
 The answer arrives finally. 
 A perfectly miraculous baby.
 Born to you, so ordinary. 
  
 He’s way beyond your dreams.
 Your life’s now embellished. 
 He’s much loved and cherished.
 First grandson on both sides.
 That smile! Those cackles!
 Those big bright brown eyes!
  
 He can’t wait to grow up.
 As if in a big hurry, 
 He rushes into walking, talking.
 Loving mangoes and chicken curry.
  
 You work hard for your family. 
 That’s the way you’ve learnt to be.
 From the life of your Papa and Mummy. 
  
 He thrives. 
 Multiple moves
 He survives. 
 So many new houses, schools and friends.
 So many new towns, cities and trends. 
 He takes all of them in his stride.
 Builds up a repertoire of languages 
 from far and wide.
  
 He learns to play the drums
 Lovely unfamiliar melodies he hums.
 Spinning red cricket balls on summer afternoons.
 Reveling at night to heavy rock tunes. 
  
 You split your sides 
 with his impressions of accents 
 and caricatures of the brown, the black, 
 the yellow and the white.
  
 Paul Choudhary and Russell Peter.
 He loves their comedy.
 Their lines he recites to perfection
 At every opportunity. 
  
 Two things delight him most – friends and food.
 Stars at GCSEs and A levels come easy. 
 He’s quiet the dude.
  
 Uni takes him away to Durham.
 You miss his laugh, his wit and his hum.
 You find it painful to cook for one.
 And long for his cocktail –
 The old-fashioned rum.
  
 Two years go by.
 You think you are learning to comply.
 The holidays come by.
 Each and every moment you enjoy. 
 One day his closest friend, Hugo calls to say,
 “The guy I’ve known most of my life? 
 Saagar is not that guy.”
  
 The summer soon turns scary.
 You find yourselves in A&E.
 His laughter replaced with 
 Anger and paranoia.
 The Liason Psychiatrist calls it ‘hypomania’. 
  
 He starts him on ‘Olanzepine’.
 Puts him under the Home Treatment Team.
 They keep you well out of the scheme.
 They know what’s best for him. 
  
 Two weeks pass.
 He responds well to the pill. 
 He’s told he has Bipolar Disorder.
 You’re told nothing. Nil. 
  
 As his mood returns to somewhat normal,
 He wants to return to University.
 He is discharged to your GP.
  
 The GP receives a discharge letter.
 With no diagnosis. 
 No mention of signs of getting worse 
 Or better. 
 No list of warning signs.
 No safety plans or designs. 
 He’s just another number to quote. 
 A delivery note. Completed in rote. 
  
 He went back to Uni but just for 2 days.
 His mood slumped.
 He is too quiet. You are stumped. 
 At the next visit to the GP
 You describe his sadness.
 You are weepy.
 Then you hear the wise doc say
 Take more pills, Citalopram and go away.
 In 3 or 4 weeks
 They will start to play.
 Wait.
 Rome was not built in one day. 
  
 “Would you please refer him back to the psychiatrists? You plead.
 “They will do exactly what I am doing.” Says he.
 “This is not the first time I’m treating someone like this.”
 Take this slip please.
 You remember the look on his face.
 It’s now clear
 As if in front of you right here.
 The lines you thought were concern,
 Were fear.
  
 As advised, you go for walks and have a routine.
 Weekly CBT, daily gym, nice food and TV. 
  
 Multiple episodes of ‘Office’ and ‘Friends’
 Didn’t bring about any upward trends.
  
 He is but a hollow shell.
 You don’t know what to do. 
 Who to tell?
  
 This is your NHS.
 It’s honest and good.
 You know it. 
 It’s you. 
 May be waiting is the best thing to do.
 If they say he’ll get better
 It must be true. 
  
 One Thursday afternoon you return from work.
 An A4 sheet lies flat on the fourth step from the door 
 “Sorry. I can’t take this any more.”
  
 The hand writing unmistakable.
 The implications unthinkable.
 A dash upstairs. Screaming his name.
 A call to 999. 
 He’s only a child. A sweet child. 
 And he’s not well. 
 Surely they’ll find him.
 All will be swell. 
  
 Standing bare feet 
 in the middle of the street
 A festival of autumn all around me
 Red, orange, ochre and green. 
 A car pulls up in front of our house.
 Two uniformed men with his
 Keys and wallet … talk about
 Black hair…
 Brown skin …
 Grey hoody with a penguin …
  
 No one said anything about death or suicide
 What was there to hide?
 10 weeks from the first hospital visit.
 2 days from the last GP visit. 
  
 Later you find out they knew.
 But they didn’t tell you.
 And they didn’t know what to do.
 They sent him home with you.
  
 They call it ‘Care in the community’.
 Do we know the difference between 
 Treatment and care?
 If this is your community,
 What a pity!
 These are your colleagues.
 You trust them implicitly.
 With your baby. 
 Like they would have trusted me.
  
 I grieve for his guilt,
 His shame, his self-blame.
 Him. All alone. Forlorn.
 His quiet desperation.
 Separation.
 His terror. His fright.
 Night after night.
 Misunderstood.
 Behind a hood. 
 No one should have to suffer so.
 Nobody.  
  
 “To be or not to be” 
 That comes up for me.
 Time goes round and round pointlessly
 Never too far from complete insanity.
 Oh! The finality.
 I wonder if this is a movie or reality? 
  
 The official investigation says 
 everything was 'thorough and reasonable' 
 despite all the missing bits and 
 complete lack of clarity.
  
 The doctor stands up in Coroner’s court 
 and announces boldly
 “Suicides are not predictable or preventable.”
 I shudder in disbelief. Here stands a lay person.
 The only one who could have helped.
 I marvel at Saagar for staying alive 
 for as long as he did. 
  
 The Coroner sees the gaping holes 
 that swallowed him alive.
 Same old themes.
 Listening to understand.
 Communication. 
 Closing the loop. 
 Meaningful sharing of information.
  
She asked the Service Improvement manager of the distinguished Mental hospital what he would do to make things better.
He said he would discuss it at the next Business meeting and then spewed such jargon that I could have puked all over the floor of that spotless court room.
  
 I meet with other parents of deep loss.
 Story upon story of utter tragedy.
 Avoidable, preventable travesty.
 Immense outrage and consternation.
 Let’s start afresh with compassion. 
  
 They say when something good happens, learn.
 When something bad happens, learn.
 At a random conference, over coffee,
 I shared Saagar’s story 
 with a seasoned doctor of Psychiatry.
 He said plainly 
”This has been happening as far back as my memory ... ”
  
 I read somewhere:
  
 The opposite of love in not hate.
 It’s indifference.
 The opposite of art is not ugliness.
 It’s indifference.
 The opposite of faith is not heresy.
 It’s indifference.
 The opposite of life is not death.
 It’s indifference. 
  
 I questioned everything about me.
 Every decision, every word spoken, unspoken.
 Every move. Every choice.  
 I even questioned our love.
 But I learnt.
 I learnt to write. To speak. 
 I learnt that there is no ‘they’ or ‘thee’
 No ‘you’ and ‘me’.
 There is no other.
 It’s just ‘us’ and ‘we’.
 Saagar was our future. Our own. Our community. 
  
 Despite everything, I’m learning to love me.
  
 Did the others learn anything?
 Did my son, your son die of nothing. For nothing?
  
 No. There is a Saagar shaped hole in my heart.
 There is an Ed shaped hole in the NHS.
 There is a James shaped hole in A&E.
 At least seven thousand and fifty 
 more holes in the world since Saagar. 
 And rising.
 There are too many holes in this net. 
 In fact, there is no net.
 Just gaps.
 So, one and all, Mind the Gaps.
 And let’s please begin
 To close them in.  

[ Please support this film: https://igg.me/at/1000days ]

A tiny shift

58 months. Nearly 5 years.

And still, the first thoughts in the morning that rush into me to invade and occupy my conscious mind are those of Saagar. Like multiple grey moths stuck on the dark walls of my room, waiting. Then hurtling into my head the moment the light in there is turned on. Bringing in the darkness with them.

Everyday. Still. Sure as the morning, the sunrise. The thoughts. The moths. The darkness.

A mantra I created for myself, for distraction, salvation: “Thank you for this day. Thank you for Si, my family and friends. Thank you for Saagar.”

Often times it works. Sometimes its impotent. Useless.

I need to find a way to get out of bed without a dagger being struck in my throat even before I’ve opened my eyes. I speak to some learned people and they tell me to make a slight shift. They say that everyone comes into this world to experience X amount of happiness and Y amount of sorrow. So, when I think of Saagar, I should think not just of the suffering but also the love and joy in his life. I shall do this tomorrow morning. The moment my sleep is over. I will.

Tonight I share this link with you. It is the link to the promotional pages for the short film I mentioned the last time. It will be called “1000 days”. It hopes to cause a tiny shift in those who might watch it. Collectively, they all might bring about multiple small shifts towards greater connectedness in our world. The aims of the film are to:
1. Educate people that many suicides are preventable.
2. Empower everyone to ask for and offer help, hope and understanding.
3. Enable all of us to feel less alone.

https://igg.me/at/1000days

Your support is invaluable. Thank you for being here. Your contribution might save a life. Good night. xxx