Grief

Yummy!

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It would be a bit much to say they are friends. But they are very fond of each other and meet up as often as they can which is about twice a year. They both care deeply for young people and support each other’s work. One is a dedicated mother of five. Keeps a beautiful house and garden. Cooks the best food. Sews gorgeous clothes and looks amazing. The second woman has one child who stopped living a few years ago. She doesn’t care much about her house or garden. Can’t use a sewing machine. Doesn’t pay much attention to her appearance.

The second woman appreciates the first one’s invitation to lunch. They sit at the dining table on top of which appear five large aromatic dishes straight from the oven – roasties, grilled carrots and broccoli, kale chips and baked salmon marinated in exotic spices.

As they settle down with their plates, the first woman starts “My Anne has been challenging since she was little. When she was six and we lived in South America, she got it in her head that she wanted to make a cloth tent. We went to the shops and she chose the materials in the green colour she likes. I put it together the best I could and then she wanted buttons and ribbons to go on it and I did all of that. When the tent was ready, I put it up in the living room before she returned from school with great anticipation. She took one look at it and declared “I no like.” She kicked it. It went lopsided and she went up the stairs to her room.”

“My Mike is dreadfully over-confident. He can charm anyone into telling him their secrets. He can make anyone laugh ….. And my Noel! He’s a big architect in Leeds and I love his girl-friend. She is so down-to-Earth. I am so glad they found each other …. And when they asked me what I wanted for my birthday …. And when we all went on a holiday ….. And when they got engaged …. And my Lisa! She is such a good designer. She comes up with original patterns for her tops and I stitch them for her. She carries her dresses like a model …. And my youngest… Oh! He’s full of ….”

The second woman places her attention on the delicious meal. She has no invitation to speak.

Only one race.

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You are not your body. Who you are has nothing to do with how you look.

You are not your mind, your thoughts, your feelings or your memories. All those things are aspects of you but they are not you. They change from moment to moment. Thoughts come and go. Feelings mould. Thousands of old cells are shed and replaced by new ones every second.

During my training to be a doctor, I had to dissect a human body. It was an enlightening experience. On my first day at medical school, it was a shock – the massive Anatomy hall reeking of Formalin, 12 metallic rectangular tables, each occupied by a horizontal human form covered with a white cotton sheet. 4 students in alphabetical order, to a table/ body. All different but more or less the same, students and bodies. Mine was a dark skinned, muscular young man in his thirties. I wondered how he had landed up on this table in the heart of Punjab when he clearly belonged somewhere else. I wondered what his story was.

As I carefully peeled the skin off, a pale yellow silky layer unraveled itself. I peeked at the next table and it was the same. And the next and the next. Men and women, old and young, squat and fit, brown and black. Whatever on the outside, were the same just underneath.

We laugh and cry the same salty tears, we feel the same love, we yawn and sneeze and hiccup and breath the same way. We all are distinct and yet, more or less the same. We are all made up of a substance called ‘love’. We carry the whole Universe inside of us.  We are bundles of boundless cosmic energy. Our bodies are vehicles for us to experience this Earth and for this fantastic energy to express itself. Let us not allow anyone to tell us how we should look, as their vision may be limited. Be fully expressed. Don’t let their limitation be yours. You are whole and complete, just the way you are, no matter what anyone says. Don’t let anyone let you love yourself any less than one thousand percent. Your love and compassion for yourself is the source of all joy for all humanity.

Just as black people are so much more than just black and homosexuals are so much more than just that. And Saagar was so much more than just a handsome brown young man. Underneath, we all are human. We have the privilege of coming from the most gorgeous star. Our numbers are higher than ever before and our potential as a race is the highest it has ever been. At a time when we need more cohesion between humans than ever before, we are building divisions all over the world – us and them. Be it the colour of our skin, our religious convictions, our gender, our choice of sexual partners or our private medical choices. We need bridges, not walls. We need to see ourselves in others and them in us – vulnerable, tough and unique at the same time. Everyone. Absolutely everyone.

I say to all you planning and scheming and dreaming, defending, proving, and justifying, laughing, crying, and feeling people, wanting love and understanding, offering love and understanding people:

 “You be me.  I be you.  They be us. We be them. All be one. Love be all. All be love. Only love. Get down on it.”

One moment on a Friday morning.

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Time is a scaffolding. Not the real thing. A construct. A transactional entity. An illusion. A convenience. A cage.

The Time is always Now.

Right now I hear Si pottering in the kitchen downstairs.

Michael, his friend is waiting in his car outside the front door. The engine is whirring, parked slightly to the left of the middle of the road with just enough space for passing cars to slide past.

My second cup of tea is waiting. Steaming.

The sunshine had penetrated many curtains to reach the park across the road.

The wind is gently encouraging the trees to wake up and dance.

The indoor plants watered this morning are feeling fresh. A large green Poinsettia (from last Christmas) on my left and a pink orchid on my right.

The ‘to-do’ list is staring at me from the far side of my table, feeling left-out. My Mind is pulling hard at me, trying to get me out of writing, into ‘doing stuff’. I am watching it. It looks like a toddler yanking at her Mum’s dupatta pleading for attention.

Black and green bins are lined up in tidy rows on the pavement along both sides of our street, waiting to be emptied. Five years ago, when the bin-collection day changed from Tuesday to Friday, I immediately thought I must tell Saagar. Then I remembered. Now, I think of him when I see the bins. I recall us putting the bins out together. In the Now. I feel that memory become a twinge in my chest. Sometimes, it becomes a cloud in both my eyes.

Now, I hold him in my heart on Fridays and every other day. He lives in me. Speaks through me. Sees the world and keeps me calm.

The neighbour’s son’s school bus stops at the same spot every day. He boards it wearing his yellow anorak every day. He sits at the same seat every day – by the window on the left, second row from behind.

The world goes on and I go on with it, carrying you in me. Loving you. Keeping you alive.

Fresh off the boat

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Twenty-two years ago, when I first landed in the UK, I arrived as a qualified anaesthetist. I didn’t think of myself as a ‘female doctor’. I did not classify myself as one from the ‘ethnic minorities’. Both of those things were incidental to the fact that there was a job to be done and I could do it well, even if it was in a completely different setting, four and a half thousand miles away from home, at Antrim Area Hospital, Antrim, Northern Ireland. I was nervous but being from an army family, I was accustomed to moving every couple of years from one state of India to another (states as different as Punjab and Bengal), making it my own, learning from a different way of life and moving on to the next. I was sure of my ability to adapt.

My belongings comprised of a family photograph in a silver frame, a suitcase, mostly filled with books and two hundred pounds in cash. From the window of the plane I could see forty shades of green, in a mesmerising patchwork across the fields and hills of Ireland. The sky was the deepest, most startling blue. My heart was up in my throat with the excitement of living and working in a country where everyone was educated (why wouldn’t they be if education was free?)  and well-mannered (why wouldn’t they be if everyone was well looked after by the Government?)

One of the secretaries from the Antrim Area Hospital, Mary, very kindly came to receive me at the airport. The drive from Aldergrove Airport to the hospital was like gliding through a picture postcard. After Delhi, I could fully appreciate the wide golden-green expanses gleaming in the sunshine with not one human being in sight. When I complemented Mary on how gorgeous her country was, she was perplexed, “Really?”

Saagar was 5 years old then. He had stayed back with his dad. My plan was to find my feet and have him join me as soon as possible. I wanted to get my post-graduate exams within one or two years and go back to work in India. In the next few months, as I settled into my job, I acquired a cheap second hand Renault 19, found a family home and an appropriate child-minder. In the tea room of the hospital, the nurses would tell me about their families and ask me about mine. When I told them that I had a 5 years old child back home, they would say, “How could you leave him there?” I didn’t know what to say to that.

I still don’t.

Same story

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“Three weeks before that day he was at a bridge and he called his friend who called the police. They came out but just told him to call the GP. One week before that day he called another friend saying he had a panic attack. The friend picked him up. Four days before that day they told the GP what was happening. She gave him a prescription for anti-depressants and said it would take 3 weeks for a referral. 4 days later my brother was dead. At no point did anyone tell the family.”

That day was sixteen days ago.

I wonder if anyone sat down with him to listen to what was going on with him. Two friends, one GP and the Police – none of them could put him in touch with his life and keep him safe. Yes. Ultimately it is up to him but I wonder if he was told that it might be helpful to get in touch with his sister, his brother, his mother, his father – the people who had known him all his life. That he could choose someone who he had a deep connection with, someone he trusted, and let them know how fragile he was at present. Someone who truly cared.

I wonder if you’ve seen this recent advert from St John’s ambulance where a dad is desperately trying to save his son. It encourages lay people to learn First Aid, in case of a physical health crisis. It’s a good one.

“Save the boy”

Let’s put this in the context of doctors not knowing how to give First Aid to someone in a Mental health crisis.

The police not knowing that this is life-threatening, that there are resources in addition to the GP, like A&E, Maytree, Papyrus, Samaritans, CALM, their community, their family.

The GP not knowing that this is life-threatening, that there are things in addition to antidepressants that help, like having a proper conversation, exploring the suicidal ideation, informing them that it would be in their best interest if they included a family member or a friend of their choice in their care, giving them details of helpful Charities, giving them compassion and hope, drawing up a Safety Plan, getting in touch with the local Mental Health Crisis Team and  being aware that antidepressants can make things worse for young people in the short term.

Over-medicalisation of suicidal thoughts and behaviours in a setting where most medics are uneducated and unsupported in managing these crises.

Save the boys and girls by insisting on education for all professionals in medicine, nursing, law-enforcement, prison service, youth services, social work, for schools universities, hair-dressers, cab-drivers, students, parents, teachers, managers and everyone else is the only way to get it right – A multi-agency approach to Suicide Prevention.

In the USA, ‘legislation’ was recognised as essential to Suicide Prevention(SP) in 2012. At present, 10 states have legally mandated training for all health care professionals.

ASIST Training (Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training):

Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIS…