‘I didn’t get to say goodbye to Matthew,’ she said, blowing her nose.
‘Yes, you did,’ I said. ‘Surely you did. You were in and out of that room with me.’
‘Yeah, but on the day of the funeral, when I went in to say my real goodbye, it was too late. The funeral directors were there.’ She started to cry again.
Worried about her, realising I wasn’t the best person to see her through this, I organised counselling for her. I asked the school for support to provide a school counsellor but they were unable to assist. That meant I had to take her outside school during school times, which caused stress all round. I was disappointed that they didn’t offer her that much needed support. After all, Annie Jean was only 8 years old.
I offered Natasha counselling too, but she refused it. Yet, in my mind, she was the one who needed it most. One day, clambering into the car, throwing her schoolbag down, she noticed that I was wearing Matthew’s socks, and told me it looked stupid. I explained that I wore them in order to feel closer to Matthew, but she wasn’t listening. Shouting at me, her anger escalating, she said, ‘You’re a rubbish mother.’
That shook me, but I tried not to take it to heart, because everything made Natasha angry back then. She was young, and she was scared. And besides, it was true; I was too traumatised to be the greatest mother right then, but I was doing my best. I watched my children’s emotional behaviour, often expressed through music or the games they played, and I tried to give them space to talk about Matthew. Did I really deserve her abuse?
She was silent for the rest of the journey home, but when we arrived, and entered the kitchen her anger exploded. ‘You wish it had been me, don’t you?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You wish I had died, instead of your precious Matthew!’
‘That’s just not true – you know it’s not!’ I reached out to her, wanting to give her a hug, and tell her how much I loved her, but she didn’t give me a chance. Stomping off to her room, she slammed the door behind her. I sat down, covering my face in my hands with despair. When I took them away, there was a cup of tea on the table, made for me by Annie Jean. She was the strong one. Perhaps she had to be.
Natasha’s mood failed to lift. She spent most of her time, up in her room, hidden away, thinking dark thoughts. And when I went into her room to collect her dirty washing, I stopped dead, horrified. She had written messages all over her white walls in black eyeliner. Messages of hate to me, and to Matthew, cursing him for dying. ‘I wish you were here with me, Matthew, and not Mum,’ she wrote. And worse still, ‘I wish I was dead!’ It was like a scene from a horror movie and was beyond my worst imaginings.
I looked for help from social services, and after a week, they called out. But when they learned that I’d spoken to Natasha’s friends, asking them to lend their support – and spoken to the children’s form teachers asking that the girls could have time out, if things got too tough, they said I had already done the things they would advise me to do.
‘Have the girls received counselling’, they asked.
‘Annie Jean has, but Natasha’s not keen,’ I told them.
They left some leaflets detailing what grief is and listing on-line sites for counselling. They suggested that Natasha might feel more comfortable with that. ‘Don’t worry. You’re doing the right thing,’ they said. ‘You’ve clearly got a good relationship with your daughters. Give Natasha time.’
Those words haunted me. I’d heard them before. Many times, before, when I was being reassured about Matthew. And look where that ended? And it wasn’t just that. I’d read the research, and I knew that the risk for girls of completing suicide was higher, if their brother had already done so.
Shortly afterwards things did improve. Natasha began to go out again. She’d hang out with Matthew’s friends, trying to hold onto the brother she’d lost. I was pleased at this sign that she was ready to face the world again. I was pleased, but I was anxious, too. Would she be safe? I’d watch the clock, worrying if she was just one minute late. I worried when she was at home, too.
One Saturday, though, when she was out, I got a call from my nephew Terrell warning me I was in for a shock. And when Natasha walked into the kitchen, some hours later, I was glad of the call. Half of her beautiful long dark hair had been shaved off, and without the warning, I would have reacted with horror. Instead, I was able to hide my distress, and say, ‘You look like Rhianna!’
‘Do you want to feel it?’ she smiled, presenting me with the shaved half of her head. Then, noticing my puzzlement, she said, ‘It feels like Matthew’s hair.’
My heart broke for her.
I felt sad for Daniel too. He had loved Matthew. When his big brother came into a room, the toddler would hold out his chubby arms, ready to be picked up. He was too young to understand what had happened, but he knew that something was wrong. He started waking at night and was hard to settle.
Terry was my rock. He’d look after Daniel in the evenings, so that I could rest. Little did he know that I couldn’t rest. That instead of sleeping, I’d be thinking about Matthew, and researching where he had gone. I searched suicide support groups and looked at his Facebook page messages. Every now and then, I’d leave the screen, and go and check on the girls – just to make sure that they were still breathing.
Looking after Daniel in the daytimes, I’d watch him, and feel sick with worry. He was learning to walk, tottering a few steps before falling – and instead of celebrating his prowess, I watched anxiously, terrified that he would harm himself. It was like walking on eggshells; but I knew, rationally, I had to encourage him to meet his milestones.
And meanwhile, I counted the days, pleased, each night, that I’d managed to get myself through another twenty-four hours. It was like Groundhog Day – every day the same. I had progressed a little. I managed the chores, somehow; dragging myself out, hoping I wouldn’t come face to face with anyone I knew. I was worried they would talk about Matthew – and resentful if they did not. I couldn’t move on from that morning I had found him. I’d see him as I’d found him every time, I closed my eyes.
I managed the shopping, somehow, but I did it in a robotic state. I’d get to the checkout and discover all these bars of chocolate in my trolley, along with Matthew’s favourite biscuits. I’d stare at them, wondering how they had got there, but I never returned them to the shelves. I’d take them home to join the biscuits I’d bought for him the week before, and the week before that. I went out of my way to visit the bakery which sold Matthew’s favourite sausage rolls. It wasn’t logical. Natasha thought I’d lost my reason, but it helped to keep him close to me.
My emotions veered dangerously. I was annoyed with Matthew for dying, yet guilty that I hadn’t done more to stop him. I was angry with CAMHS for not intervening, and I was scared of the night times. Even praying had its worrying side. I’d always asked God to keep my children safe. In taking Matthew, had he thought that he was protecting him? Would he take my other children in order to keep them safe?
At times I saw Matthew. I smelt him, and the smoke of his cigarettes. I could hear his footsteps wandering the house. Was I hallucinating? Was I mad? If I voiced my feelings would I be locked up? This was a constant terror.
I was out more, but hated meeting people, because they didn’t know what to say. Either they avoided me, and walked on eggshells around me, or, not knowing what to say they wouldn’t give it much thought. One friend said, ‘You’ll be all right because mother nature kicks in, and you’ve got your other kids there.’ That was true, but not very helpful. I felt like asking her which one of her children she could live without but managed to hold in the words. In truth, there are no words that will take away the pain, but if someone is genuine, they can’t go too far wrong.
You would think that those working in the funeral business would always have the right words, but one of the women working in the memorial headstone masonry shop showed the utmost insensitivity.
I’d thought lo
ng and hard about the headstone, and what to have engraved on it. The thought of it kept me going in the weeks after the funeral. I was determined to find the perfect words. It was one thing I could do for my son. It gave me focus.
Finally, I had decided.
TRUESDALE
In loving memory of
MATTHEW JAMES
Sunrise 3rd April 1995
Sunset 11th October 2012
LOVED AND REMEMBERED EVERY DAY
I went in to check the spelling, and there was a woman on the desk I’d not seen there before. Hearing my name, she said, ‘Oh, yes, that was the boy who took his own life, wasn’t it? I remember. I was just about to go on my holidays.’
I looked at her, blankly, hoping she’d stop talking, but she continued. ‘It looked like a really big funeral. I saw all the mourners, and there seemed to be a lot of young people.’
I nodded and pointed at the file on her desk. ‘About the headstone,’ I said. ‘I’ve come in to do an amendment.’
‘Yes,’ She said, looking at me with wide eyes. ‘But did you find him?’ Your son?’
I looked at her in astonishment. ‘I really can’t talk about this now. I have to go out to the car. My children are there.’
‘You have others? That’s lucky. What do you have?’
‘Two girls and a boy.’ I stared at her, willing her to shut up.
‘What ages are they? Oh!’ She put her hand up her mouth. ‘Did they find him?’
Her eyes were on stalks. She’s really enjoying this, I thought. Here she is, working in the headstone business – dealing with bereaved families every day, and she has absolutely no empathy.
When I didn’t answer, she said. ‘Or, did they see him?’
Did this woman believe it was normal practice to ask such questions? Not even my friends, or relatives, has been so insensitive. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I can’t go there.’
It’s different when a good friend asks questions. My friend, Amy, had supported me from day one. She had encouraged me to return to college and take a degree in youth work, and after Matthew’s death she sent regular text messages encouraging me to meet up with her yet understanding if I felt unable to do so.
When, one day, I showed her into Matthew’s room, she asked me how, exactly, he had died. I happily spoke to her about it, because she knew Matthew, and was affected by his death. I told her how I had found him, what he had done, and I told her that, from my research, I knew that he would have lost consciousness quickly, and then died. It was good to be able to talk about it and to someone so genuine, and, allowing her to understand was much better, for her, than keeping her at the mercy of her worst imaginings.
When two weeks had gone by, I decided to get the ironing done – anything, I thought, to occupy my mind. I was enjoying the peaceful rhythm of it, when, picking up a pair of jeans, I noticed they were Matthew’s. His favourite pair. I dropped them, back into the basket in shock. And that was it. I unravelled.
Since Matthew’s death my chest had hurt. It felt as if my heart was, literally, breaking. But at that moment, I felt I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to be with Matthew, to know that he was ok. I couldn’t take the pain anymore – and I thought I would end my life.
I remembered hearing of a boy, who had taken his life some years before. His father had set up a suicide prevention agency in Belfast, in his memory. I longed to know how he, the father, had kept living, and decided to ring the helpline to find out.
A woman answered the phone and asked how she could help.
‘My son died two weeks ago,’ I said, through my tears. ‘It was suicide. I’m thinking of taking my own life.’
She asked me to tell her, exactly, how I was feeling and when I did so, she said, ‘Yes. That’s normal.’
‘Normal?’
‘Yes. It’s natural to think life isn’t worth living. It sounds like you could use some herbal bac remedies to calm you down. Can you come to Belfast to pick them up?’
I nearly dropped the phone in shock. ‘My son is dead,’ I said, again. ‘I want to die too. Please can I talk to your founder? I want to know how he felt – how he got through.’
‘We don’t have government funding,’ she said, failing, utterly, to answer my question. ‘We rely on charitable donations, but the remedies will help.’
I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. I imagined I would be helped, counselled, or at the very least, listened to. But I hadn’t been heard. It took a lot to make me turn to them for help. A lot of desperation. And this was their advice? I just couldn’t believe it.
One thing. Their lack of response had made me angry; and it was this anger that stopped me from killing myself. And I lived another day.
Support came from unexpected places. When the parents of Matthew’s friends from early childhood, Corinna and Andy got in touch, I was surprised. I hadn’t known Matthew had kept up with their sons James and Josh. Corrina’s sister, Kelleigh was a support, too. Her frequent text messages always brightened my day. She understood my need to know where Matthew was.
‘He’s still around you,’ she said. As a fervent Catholic she was convinced of it. I would have loved to believe her, and to have such a strong faith, but if she was right, why did I not have more of a sense of him?
Kritti told me to stop crying. She said, ‘you are holding him back here. Let him go.’
Kritti is Hindu, and Karen believes in Angels. And as for my mum – through her Christian faith she believed that Matthew would be in Heaven, but her Buddhist background taught her that Matthew would be reborn and would stay around his body until after the funeral. Her words took me back to my grandmother’s funeral in Singapore. She was cremated, but beforehand, monks had prayed over her body. We all offered her gifts – by burning money and clothes at the temple – and by offering food.
Gathering as a family, we stayed with my grandmother’s body, praying. It was a hot day, yet there were no insects around – despite all the food on display. But when we sat, having a meal, I saw a particularly beautiful butterfly. ‘Look!’ I said, pointing it out to my auntie.
She smiled. ‘Some people believe that is your grandmother, Sharon, come to join us.’
I loved that idea. It seemed so apt.
One friend, Joanne, visiting me a few weeks after Matthew had died told me that the devil had got into my house and taken Matthew. I was so shocked. For weeks, afterwards, I wandered around in a daze, wondering what I had done that was so wrong to let the devil into my house. Clearly, I was a bad mother – a bad person – who needed to be punished.
I went around the house like a woman possessed, anointing each doorway with oil. I repeated a prayer. ‘God, please can you protect our home,’ I chanted, then did the same for the car, the dog, and for Natasha’s horse.
I believed that Matthew was in heaven – a place where there were no tears, no bullying and no girlfriend troubles – but I needed to be sure of it. When I was pregnant with Daniel it was a high-risk pregnancy. I had to have balloon therapy to treat irregular bleeding. The lining of my womb had burned away.
The doctors were worried. They said there were no guarantees that Daniel would be born. I googled the condition and was not reassured. I read of cases where pregnant women had miscarriages, or a haemorrhage.
Noticing my concern, Matthew said, ‘What do they know? Just pray, Ma, and things will be ok’.
I wondered did Matthew pray. Did I teach him enough about God? I’d talked about God. I’d reminded Matthew to pray and I’d played religious and spiritual music. Was that enough?
And if it was, was it enough that Matthew believed in God? Would he have to ask for forgiveness? Had he done so? These thoughts turned into an obsession. I’d talk to Matthew in his room, and at the graveside and ask him. And I googled all these different sites, reading people’s accounts of near-death experience. I envied the people who had experienced such things. I began to pray to God asking him to let me die for a few minutes, so t
hat I could see Matthew just one more time.
After that one call to the suicide prevention agency, I didn’t confide in anyone. I couldn’t. Not really. But when Terry asked me how I was doing, I’d give him a sort of answer – a one liner. That was enough. If I said, ‘I was at the grave all day,’ he would hug me, but know that I wasn’t keen to talk. When, during the worst times, I told him, ‘I don’t feel good,’ or, ‘I don’t want to be here,’ he would say, ‘It’s early days, Sharon. It’s grief. And its normal.’
Normal. I began to hate that word. I know there are meant to be stages of grief, but nobody talks of the utter desperation. Wanting to die could not be normal. And there were still days when I contemplated suicide; it seemed the only way I could stop the pain; but something always stopped me.
I thought, if something happens to me, Annie Jean will be all right, because she can live with her dad, Mark. Daniel will be happy with Terry, but Natasha doesn’t have anyone, because she hasn’t a good relationship with James. I had to live for her.
9
Denial
Whilst I sleepwalked through my days, concentrating on simply getting through, I showed a brave face to the world. Not even my family guessed how I was feeling. My friends didn’t either, yet they were the ones who knew how to help me. I don’t know how. They seemed to know instinctively.
I liked that. Because when people ask, ‘is there anything I can do,’ they mean well. But the problem is that it’s hard to ask for help – or to admit that you need it. Especially if you don’t know what you need. It’s one of my worst traits. And when I was in that place where I wasn’t thinking logically, my real friends gave me glimpses of logic and of what normal life was.
Many people told me that I had lost weight, and that annoyed me. It’s not as if I was trying to diet - I didn’t care what I looked like and hadn’t even realised that I was thinner. I never looked in the mirror because I couldn’t stand seeing Matthew’s eyes staring back at me. Good friends instinctively realised this and they didn’t comment. They simply brought me a sandwich, making sure that I ate it.
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 8