Memories

Day 589

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Ruth was 47. She lived with Bipolar Disorder for 20 years. For all those years her mother looked after Ruth and volunteered for a Mental Health charity. The week after Ruth’s death, her mother rang the Charity with the bad news of her suicide. She didn’t receive as much as an e-mail of sympathy from them.

Saagar was under the care of our GP (General Physician/Family doctor). I didn’t hear anything from him after Saagar’s death. At the Coroner’s inquest the GP said that he had been advised against calling me by the Medical Defense Union (MDU). They claim to be ‘on your side’ and give ‘expert guidance and support’. It goes to show that on hearing of Saagar’s death the first phone call the GP made was to the MDU. The advise he got given was medico-legal in nature and that is what he was looking for. Interesting! Isn’t it?

I had the honour of meeting Ruth’s mum today. We could see so many similarities in Saagar and Ruth. Both adorable, affectionate, creative  and kind. I was her mirror and she mine. The bond we felt was very special. She let me try on Ruth’s sun-glasses. She thought they looked great on me and I do too. She let me have them. In that moment, I felt exactly how she must have felt – deep pain tinged with a tiny drop of relief; deep loss with a sense of peace. RIP Ruth.

Here’s a poem I found on the Order of Service for Ruth’s funeral:

Afterglow

I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one.
I’d like to leave an afterglow of smiles
When life is done.
I’d like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways
Of happy times, bright and sunny days.
I’d like the tears of those who grieve,
To dry before the sun.
Of happy memories that I leave when my life is done.

-By Helen Lowne Marshall

Day 587

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Sat at the window seat of a train, watching the beautiful English countryside passing by- trees, fields, roads, hills, houses, cars, fading sun, tall bullrushes – all speeding past me, not to reappear once gone.
While they all blur into one haze, it’s not.

Everyday I wake up in the same house.
I feed the same cats.
I use the same spoons and forks.
I drink tea from the same mugs.
Everyday I walk the walk, his last walk, to the station.

Every week I empty the same bins.
I mow the same lawn.
I buy the same groceries.
I visit the same coffee shop.
Every week I top up the same travel-card.

Every month I pay the same bills.
I file away the same documents.
I balance the same books.
I visit the same cinema hall.
Every month I visit the same restaurant.

Every year his same old birthday arrives in May.
I watch the same seasons go past.
I see the same friends off and on.
I learn to say ‘the year before last’.
Every year, days, weeks and months go by.

Not to reappear once gone.
While it all pretends to be the same, it’s not.

Day 585

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The Dragon Café is starting to feel like second home. Every Monday morning I look forward to going there for a cup of tea (and homemade banana bread) after work, meeting interesting people and being introduced to new dimensions of mind, body and spirit. Now I know some of the names and faces. I am turning into a regular and people are getting to know me too. It feels great.

This afternoon I attended a very simple but smart chess workshop and an art display by a Child and Adolescent psychiatrist and some of his patients. He talked about one of his patients with Selective Mutism, Megan Winton (self portrait above) who could not speak at all outside of her home but now does public talks on her artwork. He discussed their creativity process, the positivity of art and wellbeing and the crossover between service users and providers.

I also met with a passionate artist from a group called ‘Mental Spaghetti’ that brings together marginalised groups of society and the general public to help reduce stigma, enable social interaction and to encourage artistic practice in people of all abilities. They are working on an exhibition titled ‘Cross Pollination’ with the aim of blurring the lines of ‘Us vs Them’ (ie. service providers vs service users).

All those years I spent stuck inside a hospital building seem like such a waste now. We all are the same humans, yet there is a such a wide gap between the social model and the medical model of illnesses. I am intrigued to step out of my little world and see all these imaginative, inclusive and heart felt ways of dealing with people.

I wonder if Saagar would have enjoyed any of these things. I think he would have been a stunning percussionist and a very funny mimic. I think he would have had fun if he would have got this far. Oh! There I go again…

 

 

 

 

 

Day 583

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The last few days have been spent on this little island in the English Channel that is gorgeous despite unfriendly weather. It has a notorious reputation of being a tax haven and a convenient hide-away for the very rich. This is evident from the many yacht-tans and bottles of Crug that surround us at various restaurants. Despite being so tiny, it has a rich history.

The first people appeared on Jersey 250,000 years ago. They were nomadic hunters who used caves as base whilst hunting mammoth. The area was used on and off until the first ice age. In 6000 BC Jersey became an island after being separated from the Normandy peninsula by rising sea levels. There is substantial evidence of neolithic settlers in the form of dolmens, menhirs and chambered graves. Over the centuries, the Vikings, French, English and Germans staked a claim on the island at different times.

During the summer of 2012 two men, using metal detectors, discovered an ancient treasure in a field in Jersey. This treasure of compacted coins had lain hidden for up to 2,000 years. The Jersey Heritage display these coins in an exhibition complete with live conservation of the coin hoard. It is fascinating.

Coin with gold 1

Driving around, following directions from the female voice of the sat-nav with absolutely obnoxious pronounciations of the french road names made me think of Saagar and how funny he would have found them. Standing by the sea, listening to it’s rhythmic sound and watching the sun shine through the clouds made me feel really close to him. I wish I could hold him. I wish I could listen to his laughter one more time. I wish he would call me sometime. I would love to hear him say ‘Mamma’. I wish he could see the full moon tonight. And the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the sea. And this island of stone walls and lovely balconies. It is beautiful. But nothing is as beautiful as him. Nothing is beautiful without him.

 

 

Day 581

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After more than a year of Saagar’s death I could see that nothing at all had changed. Nothing was going to change. There is no power behind a Coroner’s inquest report, no legal, professional or financial implications for anyone concerned. Hence no lessons learnt.

I approached the GMC for help with the view that may be they will see things as they are and have more power to influence change but this is the letter I received from them today:

“In January 2016 documents regarding Saagar’s care were referred to a GMC Medical Case Examiner for review. I can confirm that the Case Examiner was specifically dealing with Dr GP and any issues surrounding his fitness to practise when they reviewed the documents. A decision was made by the Case Examiner that there was nothing contained within the documents which would call into question Dr GP’s fitness to practise and that as such the case should be closed with no further action.”

  1. Really? Is this protectionism or is it a reflection of a deeper level of ignorance within the medical community than I thought?
  2. Am I the one who’s crazy? Imagining things? Over-reacting? Making false judgements just because I am grieving?
  3. The job at hand is clearly much harder than I thought it might be. I can teach children to ask for help. I can teach parents and teachers to identify signs of crisis and get professional help for them. They can take them to the GP. And then what?

The GP may ask them to fill out a PHQ-9 questionnaire. They may score 27/27. The GP might not discuss that with the parents. Not get anyone’s advise on the phone. Not refer them to a mental health specialist. They may send them home with a medicine that might worsen their suicidal ideation. They may also reassure them that they will get better.

That is like sending someone with terminal cancer home with the assurance that they will get better. That however would be unacceptable because cancer is a physical illness.

Severe depression can be invisible to the untrained eye. So, it’s ok for GPs to send young men with the greatest degree of depression home. Unquestionably.

‘Parity of esteem’ is a joke.