There are questions that only he can answer. When did the darkness get too deep to live through? What happened? At what point did he decide he ‘can’t take this any more”? How could he not know how much he was loved? Was the love around him not enough?

We hosted three of his close friends for dinner today. They spoke of him very fondly. They shared stories of his peculiar brand of humour, his openness and his special way of looking after his friends. We ate and drank. We hugged and cried. One said,”I can’t believe he is not going to walk through that door any minute.” They took some of his books and clothes – things that meant something to them. It warmed my heart to see such beautiful friendships. I have known these kids for a few years but only superficially. Today I saw them as young adults, struggling with their loss and finding solace in being in his space and making something that was physically a part of his life their own.

If I ask “Was there enough love?” The answer is clear.

There was enough love and he knew it.

There is enough love and he knows it.

‘There is an up-side to everything” is one of those sweeping, broad and annoying statements one hears nearly everyday.

However, I decided to consciously think about the ‘up-side’ to the fact that my adorable darling son got so ill over such a short time that he ended his life at the age of 20 and no one could do anything to help him.

1. He will always and forever stay as handsome as he was – no beer belly, wrinkles or grey hair.
2. I will never have another reason to be annoyed with him – the sink is full of unwashed utensils….again! Look at the state of your room! You didn’t put the sunscreen on while playing cricket… again!
3. I don’t have to worry about him. I just know in my heart that he is in a good place.
4. Getting held back at work is unlikely to bother me half as much as it did when he was home.
5. Some significant obstacles in my life have now evaporated (long story….).
6. Being forced to grow spiritually.
7. Clarity of thought – knowing what is important.
8. So many new people now enrich my life – his friends, their parents, his teachers and all my virtual friends.
9. Inspiration for his friends and me to be more aware of mental health issues, spread that awareness, work on filling the missing gaps in care, reduce the stigma and look after each other.
10. A message for everyone that we are never alone – all we need to do is reach out and be willing to give and receive help and love. Lots of love.

Seems strange but I suppose there is some truth in that saying.

There are things that I notice now that would have been completely ordinary before Day 0.

“I can’t believe this. It is so unreal”, says a mum with tears rolling down her cheeks as she holds her newborn baby for the first time. My words when he was born and when he died.

A father sitting next to his 4 years old daughter in the bus, holding her hand but fully engrossed in a phone conversation and completely unavailable to her. What I would give for a bus ride with my boy.

Tourists around London making funny faces and hand gestures while taking pictures. Just like he used to when we were tourists.

A baby in a pram, crying for attention while the mother reads a magazine, mindlessly moving the pram to and fro without looking up. What a lost opportunity for her.

A family of four sharing a meal and a laugh at a roadside café. Something I will not have any more.

A bunch of teenagers making funny and boisterous conversation on the train. So like him and his friends.

A young man listening to music on his ear-phones, walking down the street with his head imperceptibly bobbing, totally deaf to any other sounds. Just like him.

A delayed or cancelled train causing disruption for commuters. May be another life lost on the tracks.

A short burst of drumming in the middle of a piece of music. My star percussionist.

My colleagues discussing their plans for the kid’s summer holidays. Not something I have to think about now.

The sun shining through a chink in the clouds while the wind blows gently. Nature telling me he is around but, oh, how I miss him.

Mental illness is rife within the medical profession.

Recent research shows that half of all medical students would not feel able to talk to their tutors if they felt depressed. We need to get better at accepting that things go wrong for medical students and doctors in the same way that they do for all people. In the US alone, 400 doctors are lost to suicide every year, equivalent to 3 medical school graduating classes. A huge and needless toll.

There is little focus during medical training on recognising depression in others, leave alone ourselves.

Unsurprisingly there is reluctance to ask for help due to stigma associated with mental illness and the fear of losing the license to practice.

Burnout, depression and suicidality are occupational hazards for medics. A widely cited meta-analysis states that male physicians are 40% more likely to commit suicide as compared to men among the general populace whereas female physicians are 130% more likely to do the same compared to women in a control group.

Well, we know how to do it painlessly. Makes it “easier” perhaps.

It is such a tragedy that even within the medical community we are unable to have a good understanding of mental illness and provide adequate support for each other.

As I looked at the faces in the room, I recognized a common something in their eyes. I don’t know what it’s called but I have it too. They were all strangers to me and yet at some level we were all deeply connected by a common thread – the loss of a dear one to suicide – a husband, a mum, a brother, a boy friend, a sister, a dad and a few sons, mostly in their twenties. We had all experienced that horrendous reality – some more than a decade ago and others as recent as 3 months ago.

The sharing was open, real, practical, sensitive, funny, honest and heart wrenching at times. Familiar themes of ‘why’s and ‘what if’s emerged. It was a proper exchange among equals. We were there to see how we could help each other and at the same time to find a safe place to be able to speak about it. Sometimes I feel like walking up to complete strangers and telling them what happened – almost as a way of making myself believe it actually did happen.

It was good to see so many people who have survived what sometimes seems unsurvivable. I knew they would not just understand in their heads but really know in their hearts how it feels.

I was at my first SOBS meeting today – Survivors of Bereavement by Suicide. I will definitely be going back.

http://uk-sobs.org.uk/about/why-we-exist/