Finding Solace

I have only ever been to one support group in my life.  Its not unusual for young Mums to attend coffee groups and new mothers' groups, and that may be the full extent of many people's experiences of the support group environment.  For men, nothing may the extent of their's.

Right after Mum died, I was advised about several support services.  Victim Support met us at the retirement village after Mum was found.  We received information about free grief counselling through the funeral director.  And I was told about a group called Solace - a group that existed to support people who had experienced loss through suicide.

Of course, during my year of denial, I decided I didn't need counselling, and I certainly didn't need to go and share with a group.

Of course my mind was changed about many things since Mum's one year anniversary. In February, during a discussion about finding time to do things for myself, my therapist suggested I go along to the Solace support group that coming weekend.  I figured it was worth a try.

Initially, I was nervous.  I got to the venue late, and couldn't see clearly where to go.  I found the right door to the room where they were meeting, and walked in on a surprisingly large group of about ten (which I later found was, apparently, a small turnout..!)

I had been apprehensive about what I would find.  I thought the group would we weighted with parents who had lost children (because, after all, youth suicide is in the media all the time, right?) and that my situation wouldn't be relevant a year on.

How wrong I was.

There was a mix of people - all ages, all walks of life.  The time between their loss and that meeting day varied between months and decades.  But none of that mattered.  What mattered was that we had all, at some stage, experienced a loss we were finding, or had found, difficult to understand.

I immediately felt a connection with this group where I knew I could talk in a non-judgemental space.  And I think with suicide, sometimes you need to talk about things that might be 'controversial' to others, but the people who have been through that loss know what you mean.

If you or anyone you know has experienced loss through suicide, I would highly recommend getting in touch with your local Solace group - there are two (that I am aware of) in New Zealand.

Like anything in life, nobody understands like someone who has been there and done that.



Find your local Solace group here:

Auckland

Hamilton

The letter that shatters illusions

As if my ANZAC Day couldn't get any more strange, this was also the day that I finally received the letter from the Coroner which outlined her inquiry into Mum's death.

This was the closing piece of documention to 'her case' and lays out to the best of anyone's knowledge, what really happened.  Its gives us something to have put on a death certificate.  Its case closed.

At Mum's funeral I talked about her carrying out 'rational suicide' - consciously making the decision to end her life because a future of ageing was too difficult for her to face.

My therapist has pointed out that suicidality is not a moment of psychosis or insanity.  It is a decision someone makes consciously.  But the reasons for the decision are not always rational.  So perhaps I was only half right.

However, with the arrival of this letter, it became apparent that Mum's suicide was not the result of rational thought processes and the romantic notion of departing this world at a time of her choosing.

The coroner's letter brought into focus the bits and pieces of evidence, of belief, of writing and correspondence, we had found, and had thought - into one final conclusion.

The letter answers as many questions as it can, based on interviews with various people who saw Mum leading up to her death.  Whatever is left will remain a mystery forever.

The final picture isn't one of noble rationalism but of stress - distress - and depression.

Maybe we always knew it was true, but the illusion was easier to live with.  But illusions are like drugs - they'll make you feel good for a while, but eventually you have to work through the truth.

The revelation that Mum was, in all likelihood, depressed and suicidal in the weeks leading up to her death is like a knawing ache in the bottom of my chest.  It inevitable that we should wonder what we could have done.  It's sad to think that she took so much trouble to die because she may have seen it as the only way to escape the crushing negative feelings she was experiencing. 

I don't feel overly upset, or angry, or even consumed by the 'what ifs?'  But I am a master of denial...so maybe that is an illusion too.......

Please, please, please...if you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts, seek help...

Lifeline 0800 5222999
Helping young people with depression http://www.thelowdown.co.nz/

Local DHB crisis support http://www.mentalhealth.org.nz/page/303-In-Crisis

My strange ANZAC Day

I can only make assumptions about what most Kiwis (and Australians) do on ANZAC Day, as I feel like I'm not one of them.

ANZAC Day might be just a holiday, perhaps for some its about getting up early for dawn service, then heading home to spend it with their families.

As a child, and particularly, a teenager, I dreaded ANZAC Day.  All that day meant to me was my ex-serviceman father leaving early in the morning, and returning home later in the day absolutely smashed off his face, and sleeping it off in the garage.  As a child it was weird...as a teenager it was humiliating.

Of course, Dad coming home from the RSA drunk was nothing new, and was simply part of our lives growing up.  I constantly worried about what other families and my friends would think of me.

In Dad's later years, as I became more aware, I started to understand the toll war had taken on him.  Dad served in the Royal Australian Army Medical Corps for twenty years, and saw active service in Malaya, Borneo, and, perhaps most significantly, Vietnam.

My self-centred humiliation about my father's behaviour on ANZAC Day, or any other day of the week where alcoholism ruled the roost, changed to contempt for governments who send young men to ill conceived wars to have them return battered and scarred, with wounds we cannot see.

As Dad grew older, I came to accept he was unwell, but putting up a jolly good fight to live life to the fullest in his post-Army life. 

By the time he passed away in February 2010, we had made our peace, and I am satisfied that he left this world knowing his family loved him.  On his final night, I remember feeling all the bitterness for how he had made me feel over so many years simply fall away. 

On 25 April 2010 I attended my first ANZAC Day Dawn Service at the Auckland War Memorial Museum - the same place my father marched every year since the late 1970s.

I find ANZAC Day as the rest of the country sees it very difficult to understand .  Rhetoric about the 'dawn of our nationhood' or how young men 'fought for our freedom' sounds hollow in a country where children are living in poverty, suffering third world diseases, public assets are about to be sold, workers are being starved into servitude to multi-millionaire employers, and huge tracts of land can be sold to the highest foreign bidder.

I am sure the young men who went to their all too early graves in 1915 - and in subsequent wars - believed they were saving us.  I know my Dad did, even if the facts about the war he served in tell a different story.

So, ANZAC Day becomes my father's memorial.  I do not hear Reveille and think of our 'nationhood.'  I hear it and think of my father polishing up the copper coffee urn he would take to the RSA.  I don't feel stirrings of patriotism when I hear 'Advance Australia Fair,' but remember his insistence on saying 'daance' rather than 'darnce' even when everything else he said sounded like a Kiwi.

I think its important to remember our lost soldiers, but perhaps I don't think of them in the same way as everyone else - I think of them more as pawns in the greater global scandal that is war, rather than heroes, conquering or otherwise.

The war made my father a shattered pawn.  That despite all the damage war did, for the most part, he gave us a happy childhood, and that is what makes him a hero to me.

Grief is universal

Thank you Unspoken Grief for this.  Their website aims to support those touched by miscarriage, stillbirth and neonatal loss.  But the message is universal.

Freakin' out over four decades

Today I got the bad news that a health professional that I respect and admire had committed suicide.  This was a real trigger for me, and prompted me to finally put this post in writing...

Much of the body of  'Serendipity' was Mum's story of her journey though her mental illness and treatment.  The details of this journey were always hidden from us, although my brother had been told some of the story - hence we had a term for this period of her life - 'The Freakout of 1972'  I never talked to Mum about it, because it had not been her that had told me.  I felt she would tell me if she though it relevant or necessary.  It turns out that she only felt it to be either of those things after she had gone.

In an earlier post on this blog, I talked about what grief looks like.  It turns out that was simply the air punches leading up the the whammy that would knock the wind out of me. 

For most of 2011, I managed to hold myself together remarkably well.  Friends would express sorrow about Mum's passing, and ask how I was.  "I am fine...really," I would say.  And I believed it.  My brother and I sorted out Mum's affairs and tidied up loose ends, and I was fine.  I carried on my paid work, my unpaid work and I was fine.

November 2011 loomed - the first anniversary.  But I was going to be FINE, right?

Enter the surprises that grief had in store for me. 

Right after Mum had passed away, I had been to see my doctor about chest pains and increased anxiety.  See a counsellor, he had suggested.  Because I lived outside the PHO district, this was tricky - he couldn't refer me to anyone, and I was left to my own devices.  My own devices aren't particularly reliable, so despite gathering some phone numbers, that was as far as my actions proceeded.

Having suffered from chronic hyperventilation syndrome for ten years, I had noticed this was becoming increasingly hard to self-manage, and decided to take myself to see a physiotherapist at Breathing Works .  But, before I did that, I wanted to rule out any physical reasons for my feelings of shortness of breath, so went to a new GP in my local area.  He was great, and we talked about lots of possibilities around what might be aggravating my condition.  We talked about anxiety, and different approaches to handling it.  I'll get around to that, I thought....

I started seeing an osteopath about the tension in my back - although rather than it causing the hyperventilation, it was a symptom of it.  I also saw the physio at Breathing Works, which was great in terms of reinforcing some of the knowledge I already had, and providing practical exercises to do to help things improve.

So far, so good.

November rolled around, and I was off to two day meeting for the volunteer organisation I sat on the Board for.  Everything was fine for the first day, but I severely underestimated the impact the location and timing of this meeting would have on me.  The last time I had seen Mum was immediately after the same meeting the previous year when I had dropped by afterwards on the way home, and even over that weekend she had come to take my toddler son away for some respite from boring adults sitting around talking.

On the Saturday morning I began hyperventilating, and needed to lie down.  I decided I needed to leave the meeting, and managed to get myself home by singing along to the radio to stop myself panicking and hyperventilating.  Once home, I went to bed.  Later that afternoon I had an episode of uncontrollable shaking.

I decided I probably needed to see the GP about the hyperventilating again, and after reading some info from Breathing Works, figured I had better get my iron levels tested. (It turned out they were low, but I didn't find this out until a bit later - low haemoglobin is a trigger for hyperventilation syndrome)

I went to work as normal on Tuesday.... but I felt anything but normal.  I had another episode of shaking when I woke up.  Something was just 'not right' - I felt a sensation of constant built up tension that had no release valve.  I lasted at work until about 11am, when I decided I needed to 'get out of there' and see a doctor.  I didn't even try to get into my regular GP, but went to the local Accident and Medical clinic, where I spoke to the doctor on duty about what had happened over the weekend.  He gave me a small prescription of Lorazepam just to 'take the edge off' and provide some support while I sorted myself out.

The next day I went back to my GPs clinic again, and saw a different doctor.  I explained what had happened, and said that this time I think I needed outside help at setting myself on a path to recovery.  Leaving it up to me wasn't working, so could he please refer me to a therapist and give me some medication. That in itself was quite a big deal, as I had resisted the idea of medication for a very long time.  It is a credit to the doctors at this surgery that they do not treat medication as the first or only course of action, but recognise it as part of a package of treatment options.  The doctor gave me a three month prescription for citalopram and put through a referral to that PHO's psychological services. 

That night I took my first dose of citalopram, and overwhelmed by my anxiety about taking drugs for my brain, had the mother of all panic attacks.  I felt my body going hot and prickly, it was hard to catch my breath.  I was so terrified I was going to die that I got my husband to call 111.  I couldn't even tell the operator how I was feeling because it was so hard to catch my breath.  The first response paramedic arrived and took all my vital signs...which were all good.  Terrified of this happening again, I went into hospital for observation for the night. 

This was a turning point in terms of my anxieties and panic attacks.  Panic attacks produce frightening symptoms that the sufferer can interpret as life threatening - chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness.  Having been in the hospital and having my vital functions as assessed as all normal is possibly the best thing that could have happened.  I can feel reassured that chest pain does not mean I am going to die.  My heart and lungs are all fit and healthy.

My subsequent work with my therapist has revealed that I had seriously underestimated the gravity of my loss, and that I spent a year essentially 'in denial.'  My body couldn't hold in that tension and raw emotion any longer, and reacted with panic, anxiety, and I now think, depression.  I needed help, but I had to reach a crisis point before I would admit it and before I would really push to ask for it.

Anxiety and depression are such difficult beasts to tame.  Mostly the problem is in recognising them in the first place.  Then getting to the bottom of why they are lurking in that corner in the shadows.  If you leave them there long enough, eventually they will turn into the monster that becomes bold enough to step into the middle of the room and roar!

I could recognise my anxiety easily - depression, less so.  And although I thought I had grief pegged - how wrong I was.

I realised later that the first pages of "Serendipity" describe Mum's early encounters with the psychotherapist that changed her life, and enabled her to achieve all the things she dreamed of. 

In March 1972 she began that journey.  Forty years ago. 

I am Serendipity's Daughter, indeed.

Statistics, reflections and revelations

Today the chief coroner released suicide statistics for the last year.   I suppose that's how it goes - in birth and death, you become a statistic.  But for most, the death part isn't a report that is publicised in the media.  This report was unprecidented in its detail, particularly regarding methods of suicide.  This time last year, I never would have imagined that this report would have any particular significance to me.

The media in this instance mostly discussed the suicide rates in earthquake stricken Christchurch, and the continuing high incidence of youth suicide.

Mum's is reflected in tiny numbers.  One of two women in her age group. One of two who used methods described as 'other.'  Always in life what I would have described as a quiet conservative radical, this obviously stands right to the end.

Discussing suicide is controversial.  It has only been in the last year that statistics this details have been made public.  There are restrictions on reporting suicide 'methods' for fear of copycats.

Most of what you can find on suicide is about youth. And a loss of youth to suicide is a terrible thing.  But elder suicide is rarely discussed, rarely makes a statistical dent, yet can be very controversial in a different way.  The report was released as it is felt it's time to re-evalute the role information plays in suicide prevention.  Young people aren't supposed to die.  But elder suicide is different, and more of an ethical minefield.  Is it acceptable because they are elderly, or is it still selfish when they have loved ones they stand to hurt when they go?  I would have described Mum as a Humanist, but even Humanist thought is a little conflicted, considering it a right to have autonomy, which might include deciding your time of departure, but then reminding us that, with suicide,other people are impacted, hence this may be a contradiction.

Our family found one of the difficult things about Mum's death was dealing with other people's expectations, other people's assumptions, and other people's reactions. Those who didn't know how she died were simply shocked she had.  Some who did know were shocked how. 

Which is why I wrote this and read it at Mum's funeral. [excerpts only]

Before Mum died, she was just carrying on life as normal. She had done her Friday shopping, including buying another four blocks for her retaining wall in her garden, she had done some ironing, written a cheque to send away to renew her NZ Herald subscription and sent me an email asking me a question. The spade in the garden, newly planted seedlings and a footprint in the soil suggest that gardening was the last activity Mum carried out before she left us.
-----
We believe that Mum carried out what is known in some circles as ‘rational suicide’ – a weighing up of the pros and cons, with death being the better option. Upon looking back at her life, she saw she had achieved everything she had set out to do, and more. She had been happy when she never believed it possible. A woman of her word, she had done her duty to her husband to the end of his life. Her children had been nurtured to adulthood, safe and successful and happy. She had become a grandmother and mother-in-law. In her own words “In 1972…I hardly dared hope that I would ever be a mother, let alone a Nana.”

Her moved to a retirement village resulted in her having, we believe, a disproportionate amount of contact with old ladies with dementia, old ladies who were blind, old ladies with walking frames who could go no further than the village lounge. We believe this, combined with memories and upsetting experiences of her own parents’ deteriorating health and suffering as a result, saw her looking forward to a future she didn’t want, and wanted to stop before she got to that place. [My husband] said to me, ‘But she was a strong independent woman!’ to which I replied, ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t always be.’ And we believe this frightened her more than death.

In the words of Mark Twain: “Lord save us all from old age and broken health and a hope tree that has lost the faculty of putting out blossoms."

We believe the choice to end her life was a final act of self determination. We believe that she wanted to end her time on earth at the moment she decided was right.

First century philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca said: "Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage, or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life." 

.. we understand such thinking about voluntary death is controversial and difficult to understand. But we are asking you to have faith that we have found peace, and do not believe Mum’s departure was a selfish act or a desperate act.

After a satisfying afternoon in the garden, Mum’s work was done.




If you are worried about yourself or a friend or family member who is depressed or anxious or may be having suicidal thoughts, please call someone who can help. If this is an older person, be sensitive to the fact that mental illness may carry socio-cultural baggage for them,and assure them that seeking help for mental health issues is as relevant as seeking help for physical issues.

Lifeline 0800 5222999
Local District Health Board Crisis phone numbers
Depression Helpline 0800 111 757
Depression in older people - Age Concern

What does grief look like?

I have just been reflecting on grief and loss.  Sometimes I feel like I've had more than my fair share of loss this last eighteen months, and at other times, I'm surprised by how 'well' I seem to be coping.

Grief is a unique emotion that nobody can describe until you feel it.  And even then, how you experience it is as different as you are from the next person.

To begin with, I did surprise myself with how well I was coping.  But grief is sneaky, and I sometimes feel it...sitting there...just behind my heart..waiting for the moment to pounce.

This makes it seem like grief is an unwelcome visitor, but its not really.  I understand I must embrace it and work with it.  Sometimes we wrestle, sometimes we sit and chat.

Sometimes it is vivid memories of good times.  Sometimes it is trying to grasp what my brother must have been feeling when he found Mum.  Sometimes it is a smell or image that opens up the door to my heart and lets grief in. But Mum's things all around me give me comfort. I think about my children, and how two of them will have no memories of her.  That is when I start to wonder why... why would you leave them?  But I am not angry, as I know enough to know why she did leave.  I am coming over the crest of a hill, and looking down onto the landscape of my older boy's passage into teenagehood in the not too distant future - how can I face that without her to go to for guidance?

Sometimes grief is a knawing emptiness.  Sometimes its a bottomless sadness.  I am struggling with anxiety and a lack of motivation, and I attribute that to this process.

But most of the time its just trying to understand the world without Mum and Dad - but especially, Mum - in it.  Its not easy.  Mum has always been there.  She was my rock, my safe place.  Her home - which was my home - was a haven of warm tea and idle chat about the garden or the kids.  As a friend once said, 'you're never too old to be an orphan.'  Where can I go to now for that safe haven?

The world has been rearranged.  I will not be the same person ever again.  One thing is sure.  Grief is not an event.  Its not even a feeling.  It is a journey.