Seconds to Snap

by Tina McGuff

  We all went into his room, where the nurses stabilised him, then carefully and slowly, they hoisted him into his bed. We had decided to take it in turns, sleeping in his room on the floor, and had brought in some sofas and mattresses. Katie had even hooked up a massive flat-screen TV so he could watch whatever he wanted. It was cosy and comfortable.

  The nurses were there 24 hours a day in two-hour shifts, ensuring he always had enough morphine to keep the pain at bay. We were emphatically told not to call 999 in an emergency. He was dying and had asked for no resuscitation, so they would not come for him. It was all so very real now, so final.

  Dad was now able to see out of the window and he looked happy. We all sat with him around the clock and, for the first few days, we felt upbeat as he was still communicating. His friend John visited a lot and we all sat and joked around, making sure he was included in every conversation.

  The nurses and carers were all brilliant – and our family doctor came, too, to check on him. It was a very special and precious time for all of us. We sat and held his hand as, every day, he grew weaker and weaker. No longer able to move, he pretty much stayed on his side. He slept a lot and someone always sat on the chair next to him and held his hand.

  Celine stayed as long as she could, but she had to get back down to Cornwall as she was due any day. She said a private goodbye to Dad, knowing she would never see him again. We took her to the bus station and promised to call her every day with updates. We were all worried about her as it was such a long journey. She told me she cried all the way home.

  One day, Dad opened his eyes and started making noises, trying to tell everyone to get out and that he was in a lot of pain. Katy, my sister, and Auntie Annette, who were both there, called the nurses – they calmed him down and increased his sedation. The nurses explained that in the final days, it was common to have strange reactions and pains.

  The next day, Dad woke up and smiled, and started picking at his sheets. It frightened me as I had read on one of the websites that this was a sign that death was close. I cried silently and never said a word. Dad was sleeping more and more, and could not even do the thumbs-up now so, to communicate, we held his hand and he answered by squeezing our hands with his thumb. He was slipping away from us and there was nothing we could do apart from be there, so he could hear us, and give him some comfort in his final days.

  I had a prescription to take to the chemist, which the nurses had left. The pharmacist behind the counter took it from me and, after he’d read it, I saw him look up at me with sadness. When it was ready, he called me over, took my hand and said: ‘I’m sorry.’ This stranger’s sympathy moved me greatly, and I thanked him before leaving, extremely upset but touched by his small token of kindness.

  By 27 March 2011, Dad was not even able to squeeze our hands any more. Now he was in a very, very deep sleep. He did not stir at all and his skin looked different. His nasal oxygen tube was now switched off – there was no point in it being there. We knew it would not be long.

  The following night, I sat next to him, knowing I would never see him again. I couldn’t face the final moment of death and had asked my sisters if they were okay with this. They said of course. I also told them that I would not be able to get involved with the funeral arrangements – I recognised my mental state was now very fragile. I was only just holding myself together.

  Danny and Jock came along that night, as did John, Dad’s lifelong friend. I held Dad’s hand for hours. The nurses came in at about 11 p.m. and told me in the hall that they could tell from his breathing that he was in the final stage. I stayed there until 12.30 a.m. of 29 March and kissed my dad for the very last time. It tore me apart, knowing that I would never see my father again. I did not want to leave – I just kept touching his hand and looking at his skin and fingers and remembering all the times he had held my hand as a little girl – the times he held my hand in hospital when I was younger – and now I was holding his hand to say goodbye for ever.

  Finally, I dragged myself away and we drove home in silence, my mind full of memories.

  I woke at 4.45 a.m. the next morning and lay there for a while, thinking about Dad. At 5.30, my phone rang – it was Katie.

  ‘Tina, he’s gone,’ she said simply. She couldn’t say anything more and neither could I – we were both too upset. I called Celine to break the news and, strangely, she too had woken early – at 4.30 a.m. – and was sitting in her lounge, thinking of Dad.

  After I put down the phone, I fell apart, crying for hours and hours. The pain in my body was unbelievable; my heart ached in my chest. Jock held me and then Danny came through and lay with me, hugging me for an hour. John and Holli also came through and we all cried together.

  I felt numb and, all day, I stayed in bed, crying – I did not want to leave my room to see anyone. Jock let everyone else know, for I was unable to talk to anyone. I could not speak for days without bursting into tears. If ever there was a time my mental strength would be tested, it was now – this was the moment I was dreading.

  I told my best friend Keren that I didn’t think I could cope with going to the funeral – I just wasn’t strong enough. Keren suggested we go to Glamis Castle during the funeral so I could say my goodbyes to Dad in my own way. Alongside my children and my wonderful friend, we walked through the grounds and reminisced together. It was a very special morning.

  The funeral was held at Dundee crematorium, where we arranged to have some of Dad’s favourite songs played: ‘Love On The Rocks’ by Neil Diamond and ‘Lola’s Theme’ by The Shapeshifters. Dad’s great friend Graham gave the eulogy (Jock recorded the audio for me so I could listen to it when I felt strong enough). The crematorium was packed with all Dad’s friends, family and customers, and Graham recalled some hilarious stories – just what we all wanted for our dad.

  Life went back to normal very slowly after that. I could not go to his house for months, and when I did, I could not look in his bedroom. Every time I spoke about him, I would cry. I found my father’s death very difficult to deal with, but I just tried to get on with life as best I could and as I knew he would have wanted me to.

  This was a very frightening time for my family – they told me later they feared I would have another breakdown. Dad and I had grown so close as adults – all the trauma and difficulties of my upbringing were a world away from the close, supportive relationship we had built in later years. Thankfully, my family needn’t have worried: I was grieving, yes – obviously, I was distraught at the loss of my father – but thanks to everything I had been through, thanks to the doctors and nurses who had taught me so much – and with the love and support of my family and friends – I was absolutely fine. I was mentally strong.

  A month after Dad died, Celine and Sophie both gave birth to little boys. It was sad that Dad never got to meet them but the new additions brought some much-needed joy and excitement to all our lives.

  Three years on and I still miss my dad but I am ploughing on with my life, working hard and giving talks to psychology students about anorexia. It was important to me that I put my own experiences to good use. The kids have all grown into fine adults and teenagers, and make me proud every day. Mum is happier and busier than ever; Katie now lives in Dubai, working as a real-estate agent. Sophie, too, is doing well after a long and difficult battle with drug addiction. She is a single parent of two children and is now back at college. Celine is settled in Cornwall with her husband and two kids, and works for a hotel. All us girls have fought our own battles, marked as we were by an unsettled childhood, but we have come through our experiences stronger as individuals and stronger as a family.

  Every day, I look at my life and I feel so lucky. There are moments when I feel grateful that I am here – living, loving and cherishing the special people in my life. It has been a long and difficult journey at times, but also magical and wonderful and, one thing I know for certain, I wouldn’t have missed any of it for the world. Best of all, I know there’s so much more good stuff
to come!

  Epilogue

  Today, I look back at my life and my ‘ill time’ and I can’t believe it was me – I lost so much and gained very little. My pseudo-friend anorexia cost me my friends, family, self-esteem, teenage years, education and nearly my life. Hence the reason I’m so blessed to have what I have now. I wrote it all down in the hope it will be helpful to others with any of the issues I have been through.

  A huge lesson I have learned from my experiences is that beauty truly does come from within. You need to learn to respect and accept yourself for who you are in order to be truly happy. Confidence and contentedness will follow.

  There is huge pressure in today’s society and media to look a certain way – to have the so-called ‘perfect’ body. But no one could ever achieve this, for it is simply not possible. We need to create realistic role models our children can emulate and stop defining ourselves by our looks and bodies. Every day, there are women and men being torn down in the papers and magazines because they have ‘cellulite’ or ‘man boobs’. Who cares? Let us live in peace! We are all unique and our bodies do not define the person we are inside.

  I compare mental illness to an empty vessel that needs water drops to fill it. The advice and counselling I received were all little drops and they filled me with all I needed to become complete and whole again. In my experience, the best way of dealing with difficult situations is to talk. Talking is a massive healer – you may not realise it at the time but a counsellor or someone giving you advice and talking to you is giving you drops to add to your empty vessel. Every time you talk to someone, a tiny drop will go in, and, every time you hear advice, it’s giving you a drop. They may be tiny drops and seem insignificant at the time but they all add up. Don’t be scared to seek help or advice – nothing bad ever came from asking for help, only good. It may take time, but what do you have to lose?

  Anorexia is treatable and does not have to be a death sentence. With the right therapy and support, it is possible to beat the illness. Every single case is different but there is usually a common thread. Often it is sparked by a situation that a person feels they can’t control, whether at home, school or at work.

  It is important to remember that it takes a long time to become ‘ill’ and it can also take a long time to become ‘better’. Therefore, the sooner someone seeks help, the better. Psychological issues can take years to treat. I know there are new techniques used to treat anorexia but it appears the method that was used on me is still successful, so it’s important for others to know this is what they may go through if they become very ill. I’m sure if I’d read my account in that book years ago, it may have stopped me from allowing the illness to take the grip on me that it did. At the very least, I’m convinced I would have asked for help more quickly.

  Friends and family are key but only if they are a positive influence. One of my favourite quotes is: ‘Those who mind, don’t matter, and those who matter, don’t mind. ‘It’s very true. If your family or friends are part of the problem, then they are not part of the solution – get rid of negativity in your life! Positive influences are crucial in aiding recovery.

  You only live once and so you need to appreciate yourself as a person and all you are worth. Everyone is worthy of love and support; the basic requirements of life need to be fulfilled in order for you to become more contented in the world. I learned this when I read Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. To me, it makes sense and I include it here in the hope it may help someone else. The fact is this: mental illness affects 1 in 4 people at some time in their lives. It is common and should be accepted and dealt with in the same way as physical illness, not hidden away. It is part of the human experience – for that reason, I think it should be called something else. Perhaps we should call it ‘a slight blip’, as my granny used to say. It is not ‘another world’ and, therefore, shouldn’t be a taboo subject.

  I hope that, in relaying my experiences, others, perhaps friends and family members, can become more aware of those potentially suffering. In short, let’s all pay attention to each other. If someone gets the flu or a sniffle, they are straight to the doctor. It should be the same with mental illness – in fact, more so, as ‘a slight blip’ can have fatal consequences, unlike the common cold. Approximately 1.6 million people in the UK are affected by eating disorders. It is my great hope that in my lifetime this figure will drop significantly. This book is my way of helping to achieve that.

  I leave the last word to my lovely mum:

  I didn’t realise what was happening to Tina until it was far too late – and, because of that, I nearly lost my daughter. In those days, anorexia was still a relatively unknown illness. All I knew was that my daughter had lost weight very quickly. A magazine article about Karen Carpenter made me think she might be anorexic but, knowing so little about the disease and how to handle it, I simply confronted Tina and she denied it, of course. I didn’t understand what was going on in her head and had no way of getting through to her.

  Before she was first admitted to hospital, I was on the phone to the doctor every week, but he said he couldn’t do anything until she asked for help herself. Eventually, when she had a pain in her stomach and asked for the doctor, I was so relieved. He was there with the ambulance within half an hour, having organised a hospital bed. But she refused to go. I was devastated. We had to wait again. A week later, she collapsed in agony on the floor and called for help. This time, she went to hospital.

  We got to the hospital and they took her in and explained that nobody could visit her until she had put on a certain amount of weight. She wasn’t allowed to listen to the radio or to watch TV. She would be escorted to the toilet, to make sure she wasn’t sick. There was a whole host of rules.

  I was so grateful and relieved that she was in hospital, but it struck me as very cruel that she wasn’t allowed to have family visits. It upset me to think she would assume we had abandoned her and didn’t care. It was also hard to explain to her sisters why we couldn’t visit her. Nevertheless, I was completely in the dark about this illness and I knew I had to follow the doctor’s advice to give Tina the best chance of recovery.

  She didn’t know it at the time but I visited frequently, taking things up to the hospital in the hope of catching a glimpse of my daughter. But they wouldn’t allow me in. The first time we were allowed an official family visit, we were told to keep things light and happy. It killed me having to say how great she looked and how well she was doing – it was clear she was a wreck; she was dying! Her father and I left the hospital completely heartbroken.

  There were many setbacks during the years of Tina’s illness and some truly terrifying moments – it took a long time but, finally, she beat her anorexia and we were all so proud of her. Today, I am brimming with pride for the person she has become – she is a wonderful woman, a wonderful wife and mother. I am proud, too, that she has written this book to help others.

  In hindsight, I look back and blame myself. I put my children through more than they should have seen in their young lives, but I didn’t appreciate at the time the impact of our changed circumstances on my daughters. We didn’t even think about getting counselling for the girls or any help whatsoever. It wasn’t suggested to us either. Back then, these things weren’t an option but, if I’d given them counselling, I am certain Tina wouldn’t have become anorexic.

  I know I put too much on her shoulders. I should have realised, as her mother, she wasn’t coping with her life and that she was very unhappy. I regret letting this happen to her and for being the cause of her trauma. I just hope that she will forgive me for taking that time out of her life because I will never forgive myself.

  I say to all mothers, even though you love and care for your children, if there is ever any kind of trauma in their lives or any kind of change in your child, take them to counselling. Get some help before the problem escalates and takes a young life. Anorexia, like a great many mental illnesses, can kill. I wish I knew then what I know now and can only hop
e that, in sharing this terrible experience, Tina and I can offer at least one child the chance of a better life.

  Support and Advice

  www.thenewmaudsleyapproach.co.uk – The New Maudsley Approach is a resource for professionals and carers of those with eating disorders.

  www.b-eat.co.uk – Beat provides helplines, online support and a network of UK-wide self-help groups, to help adults and young people in the UK beat their eating disorders.

  www.nbp-eating-disorders.co.uk – No Bodies Perfect (NBP) provides support, information and awareness of eating disorders in Scotland.

  www.samaritans.org – The Samaritans is a confidential crisis organisation, offering support to those in need.

  www.mind.org.uk – Mind offers information, support, advice and local groups to help anyone experiencing a mental-health problem.

  www.childline.org.uk – ChildLine is a confidential, free counselling service on the phone and online for any child wanting to talk about issues affecting them.

  www.seemescotland.org – See Me Scotland is a charity whose vision is to end mental-health stigma and discrimination, enabling people who experience mental-health problems to live fulfilled lives.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you so much to all the nurses who looked after me and kept me alive against the odds. You will never know how thankful I am to you all.

  Posthumous thanks to an amazing woman – Dr Barbara Ballinger, OBE, MRCP, MRCPsych (1941–2010) – I owe you a depth of gratitude and wish I could have told you this in person.

  Thank you to my friend Keren and her family for always supporting my family – we love you, guys.

  A massive thank you to Graham, who gave me hours of help and encouragement going forward. Without this, I may never have got to print.