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 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. 😦 “