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 ]

Shauna’s Mum says

” A schoolgirl’s been murdered in our area. It’s a horrible, horrible thing to happen – never should have and is just another reminder of this shit world we live in. I’ve been trying not to follow the news on it but they released CCTV footage of her last known moments and it was actually somewhere my brother drives past on the school run four times a day so I did watch it all and check the timings to just make sure he wouldn’t have been there and possibly seen something. (Different time of day)

I’ve just been struck by how it’s pulled the community together. There’s been balloon releases, marches, leaflet drops – the mum is clearly being very much supported ….I couldn’t find one person willing to have a cup of tea with me; three years on I still can’t. And I know suicide is different. Murder is evil; what was done to this poor girl, there’s absolutely no doubt people should be outraged by it…and I know suicide is about making a decision – albeit a stupid and flawed one…. but there are things I don’t understand why they’re quite so different.

The Head teacher of the girl’s school implored students to come forward because answers were needed. We needed answers with Shauna and anyone at her school who knew anything got told it wasn’t an appropriate thing to discuss. We even had a girl go to her teacher with some information, get told off for it and then to choose to write independently to the Coroner’s Court (with info we found hugely relevant but was promptly disregarded.)

Today the girl’s school announced that they’ll be making a memorial garden for her with lots of nice words about there always being a place for her and her never being forgotten. Shauna’s name wasn’t even allowed to stay on the Year 11 hoodies. The gesture is nice but the words; it would have made such a difference to us if someone had said stuff like that to us.

There was just both girls of a similar age and it’s just really brought it home how differently people see these things. I’m glad this Mum has the support that she so desperately needs, I don’t begrudge her it – I just wish it wasn’t so glaringly different how people reacted – this Mum is a heroine because of what she’s had to endure, we’re just potentially neglectful parents who should be forgotten about/ignored 😦

I don’t know if I’m making any sense. Like I say I do understand it. It doesn’t stop it hurting though. 😦 “

A weak heart (microfiction)

Anoushka smoothens out the non-existent creases on her well-fitting maroon skirt with both hands. The slender brown hands, terribly unsure of where to rest, how to move, how much to move. Them randomly reaching up to her head for no reason and then hiding behind her back to hold and comfort each other.

As she hears footsteps approach, she jumps up to stand. Her sharp black eyebrows jump up in unison. The hands now form sweaty tight fists by her sides. In walks his mum, an elegant lady in a long blue linen dress and a light white cotton scarf casually wrapped around her neck. A soft smile adorns her face. Her eyes sparkle with kindness. She holds out her right hand, leaning into the young lady with her upper body. The room warms up. Anoushka’s muscles relax and a smile surreptitiously escapes, mirroring the one shining at her.  Her twinkling, perfectly set teeth contrast magnificently with her silky chocolate skin. She radiates utter relief.

“How do you do? Matthew has spoken so much about you.”
“Anoushka. I am good. Thank you. I am happy to be called Anu. Thank you. How are you today?”
“I am very well but my husband is not too well. Matthew is with him now. He should be here soon.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“He has a weak heart. He has had for some time now. The doctor was in last night. He has advised rest and altered some of his medications. He is rather delicate today.”
“Ah! I am sorry to hear that. I hope he feels better soon.”
“I hope so too. It would have been nice for you to meet him today but now I think it might be better to wait till he’s better.”
“Sure. Whatever you think appropriate.”
“Well, just the colour of your skin would be enough to give him a heart attack.”

Rascal Moon – A short story

His substantial shoulders supported a shapely head of midnight black hair – a Number 1 on the sides and a Number 4 on top. When he was born his grandmother had made him a small blue cotton pillow stuffed with black mustard seeds, for his head to assume that gorgeous shape. His skin was the colour of almonds. His wide creaseless forehead came down to a pair of perfectly symmetrical arched black brows underneath which two deep brown wells belied his 20 years. They were a cocktail of ancient wisdom of an old soul, dark torment of a lunatic and pure white innocence of a toddler. Nose, as if borrowed from the Buddha. A lazy stubble, almost deliberate. Smile, bright and generous as a Moroccan sky, giving him wings.  A shy dent in the middle of his chin. His man-child voice, lightly raspy yet gentle, had a penchant for accents. His favourite was Vietnamese. A peculiar whiff of teenage-testosterone tinged perspiration plus Lenor floated around him.

Despite his age and size, he delighted in the physicality of affection. He would douse his head in coconut oil to encourage Cleo, the family dog to lick it all off. She loved the taste of it. They rolled and tumbled on the floor like kids immersed in a game of ‘dog and head’. His ability to connect with others, be it man or beast was superhuman. In all his solid self-assuredness, all he wanted was to belong.

His drum kit was his Mecca. His passion for ‘rock’ percussion anchored him to the Earth. Strangely, this softie’s songs were – Catatonic, Heartless, Chimaira, Smoke and Mirrors, A Semblance of Life, Bleed, The Blackening. The dinner table often shook rhythmically as he sat playing imaginary drums with his fingers on his thighs underneath, carrying a faraway look in his eyes. If he wasn’t creating rhythms on the bonnet of a car, a table top, a random plate, a serving tray, a window sill or a Djembe, he was inviting them to flow into his brain through his ears and the world disappeared.

The rascal Moon turned green. Its beat was better. It thrusted its powerful yet silent, surreptitious rhythm on him. It got him like a mongoose gets a snake. His consciousness started to expand and contract with the pulse of the lunar cycle. As the tide rose, his beautiful head exploded. As it ebbed, he shrunk into nothingness. He couldn’t belong to anyone or anything. Not his shadow or his drums, his friends or his Mum, his beating heart or the air in his lungs. He couldn’t belong to his smile. He took refuge in the ritual of neatly rolling tobacco, blowing smoke out of his Velux windows. There was nothing anyone could do. All his kin watched the pendulum swing with impeccable timing.

The wretched Moon forced acknowledgment. On the brightest night that autumn, the young man typed his last message on Facebook: “Bigass mooooooon. Innit?”

                                                  ___  ___  ___

(Middle English lunatik, from Anglo-French or Late Latin; Anglo-French lunatic, from Late Latin lunaticus, from Latin luna; from the belief that mental stability fluctuated with the phases of the moon)

 

If all the world’s a stage…it has props.

downloadIn the background stands a majestic Palladian structure in brick red. It’s nearly 400 years old. The artistic roof displays beautiful finials, turrets and cupolas. It’s easy to imagine the large atria and sweeping staircases on the inside. It appears as if this building emerges from an expansive lush green sea.

The cricket nets are placed to the right of this building. Many hours have been spent here, laughing, picnicking, practising, talking, spectating and playing. Multiple recordings of his bowling action have been made here, each scrutinised to the nth degree by him. Each one distinct to his discerning eyes but all identical, to my lay ones.

In the fore-ground sits a TV screen with ‘Friends’ playing. He likes Rachel. I think she plays the role of who she is in real life. Not much acting ability required for that. He doesn’t understand that. He thinks I don’t like her. I like Phoebe. We both love ‘Smelly cat’. He watches it when he is down. I see why. However feeble, it always brings a smile to his face as it does to mine now. However predictable, it doesn’t fail to amuse, to lighten the heart. The impression of a head is clearly formed on the red velvet cushion resting at the corner of a black leather sofa.

At centre-stage, a pink and silver drum-kit sits atop a hand woven black and white Moroccan rug.  2 goblet drums wait in the wings – a Djembe and a Darbuka. A set of initialled drum-sticks read ‘SN’. Big round black bags lean against the wall. They weigh half a tonne. They encase special cymbals – presently silent but given half a chance, fully capable to raising the roof of not just our house but also that of the neighbours.

A fake snake coils on the study table with its tail realistically hanging off the edge. It has been used successfully to blow the living day-lights out of people of all ages, shapes and forms, on many occasions. It took me 2 years to immunise myself against it.

An unwieldy ragged cricket bag with wheels at one end lazes against the wall. One entire shelf in the cup-board is dedicated to cricket gloves, balls and other paraphernalia.

The sun streams in from 2 big sky-lights and the space is lit like a sanctuary. A silver Apple Mac laptop lies gaping on the study table with funny cat-videos playing. It’s connected to the dome of Harman Kardon speakers which hide under the table.  An assortment of coins, head-phones and keys splash across the dark wood table top. A few coffee mugs are scattered around the room with various shades and degrees of dry brown coffee lining the insides.

Behind the door is an overflowing willow laundry basket. A pair of union-jack boxer shorts shine through. The space smells of an unkempt temple with a male caretaker –  hints of incense, musk and testosterone. From the door hook hangs a towelled maroon dressing gown.

All the props are here, tell-tale signs of a life. Where’s the main man? At a subtle level, his absence is only physical. His essence is present.

It’s in all the props, in the air around them, in the luminosity of the room, in everyone he touched, made jokes with, played music with, was kind to and loved. In the glow in my eyes, the light in my heart. In me.

His essence is here. I only need to close my eyes. This must be immortality.

“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”                              – Terry Pratchett

(Ref: A fully referenced, peer reviewed article published in an educational, medical  journal for GPs; a case study of a young man called SN to demonstrate the importance of Suicide prevention training and the role of human factors in patient safety: http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/1755738017724183.)

Day 803

She is in her early forties – single, tall, professional, gorgeous, glamorous, fun party girl who takes multiple multivitamins and visits the gym regularly. Every fortnight she has a new love story for me. Each of them has an exciting beginning, holding great promise. But somewhere in the heat of text messages sent too early or too late, certain feelings expressed or not, wrong emoji used, misinterpretations, unmet expectations, awkward silences and undisclosed relevant facts, the story evaporates. The deeper delicate shimmering layers of her persona lie concealed beneath her outer veneers. Not many get to witness the pure, fragile vulnerability within, hidden like a pearl.

Below is a humorous but painfully true, already outdated summary of some modern relationships that I chanced upon on social media:

“Dating in 2016

Let’s be friends, just friends, I’m not ready for a relationship but I expect you to do things with me considered inappropriate in terms of a friendship. We’re not together, you can’t claim me, you can’t be with anyone but me. I need you to be loyal but I’ll do what I want and when you get mad, I’ll just tell you we’re not together. If you catch feelings, I’ll become distant. You knew what this was…I told you, I’m not ready for a relationship.”