I saw the wisdom in his words, but still couldn’t believe that professional adults in the mental health service would put a grieving mother through all this stress. ‘I’m not going to sue them,’ I said. ‘That was never my intention. What would be the point? It wouldn’t bring Matthew back.’
‘I know,’ he said, putting an arm round my shoulders.
‘I want to make sure policies and procedures are followed,’ I said. ‘That’s all. I want to ensure that they’re doing the job they were set up to do. If they don’t follow their aims and objectives, more teenagers will fall through the cracks. Especially when resources are so limited.’
Matthew’s case was to be heard on 16th September 2015, in the coroner’s court.
I was pleased. Now, hopefully I would learn the truth, but a week before the court date, the head psychiatrist wrote to the coroner’s office amending his statement. He apologised for being unaware of Matthew’s previous attempts on his life, stressing that he had not read about them in any notes. This simply wasn’t true. It can’t have been, since that information was printed on the first page of Matthew’s notes. Would he get away with, what to me, seemed a blatant lie?
The day came, and friends and family gathered round me for support. Terry came with me; so, did Mark; then there was Karen, Roberta, Darren; my sister Maria came, bringing along a friend, Vicky. And, most important, my solicitor, Niall Small. We faced the head psychiatrist and the social worker, along with the barristers for the Northern Trust.
I had two basic questions. Why did CAMHS not help Matthew and why did the head psychiatrist lie? And lie, deliberately, looking me straight in the eye? The coroner – a new one – felt that my questions were more suitable for a different court. At this news, my solicitor and their barristers got into discussion, and agreed that both sides would come up with statements to be read in court. These were read and rewritten until both sides were happy.
Here is my statement:
Matthew James Truesdale was born on 3rd April 1995. He was first and foremost a loving son. From the day he was born until the day he died family was important. Matthew was not only a son, he was a loving brother, nephew, grandson, friend and ultimately a father himself.
When Matthew tragically died, he left behind a large devastated close family circle.
Unfortunately, Matthew didn’t get to meet his child, but no one who ever knew Matthew would doubt he would have been an excellent father and true friend. Matthew had an excellent sense of humour which he shared with family and a large circle of friends.
He went to Antrim Primary School and then to Cambridge House and Parkhall College. Although extremely intelligent, Matthew didn’t live long enough to achieve his ultimate goal of becoming a chef. He worked hard at school but enjoyed outside activities even more. He was often to be found fishing or in the gym.
Matthew was a beautiful child and an extremely handsome young man to the point that he worked part time as a model. Despite him being a 6ft2 muscular man those who knew him saw past this macho image to the warm sensitive gentle man who was afraid of spiders, the dark, or horror films, and loved nothing more than to spend time with his family.
During Matthew’s short life he was haunted by his own difficulties which he found difficult on occasions to cope with.
Despite these problems he struggled with, Matthew was clearly focused on his future to be a father learning to drive and fulfilling a career.
Matthew had many dreams, hopes and aspirations and his family are devastated at his untimely loss. We note the 19 learning points contained in the Serious Adverse Incident Report and hope the implementation of these will help prevent and support young men in the future.
The Northern Health Trust Statement
The Trust is committed to identification of learning from all incidents so as to inform continuous improvement and service provision.
A Serious Adverse Incident investigation was carried out by the Trust in respect of this tragic death. As a result of nineteen learning points were identified by the Trust and these are attached hereto.
Furthermore, the Serious Adverse Incident investigation, the conclusions and recommendations were subjected to independent review, the conclusions and recommendations from which are fully accepted, and the Trust is in the process of fully implementing those recommendations. The Trust shall keep Sharon Truesdale informed of the progress of this process in twelve months’ time.
I had to be happy with that. And to an extent, I was. As Matthew’s mother, I had done all I could, both physically and mentally, to have Mathew’s death acknowledged, and for the Trust to highlight that they could have done more for him.
How I wished Matthew could come through the court doors and say, ‘Well done, Ma! Now we can continue being a family.’ Instead, I got his death certificate. But at least I now had a chance to grieve without the added stresses the struggle for justice had caused me.
The trust promised they would institute various training methods for their staff, and would let me know within a year, that the training was being implemented.
They sent me the list of 19 recommendations, as promised, but rather than gaining reassurance from the document, I felt horror that these basic safeguards had before now, been neglected. Training had been offered, but many of the staff failed to avail of it.
Reading the recommendations made me think back to the case of Madeline and Lauren O’Neill, back in 2005. Madeline had killed herself and her daughter just weeks after Madeline had received psychiatric care. Had the extensive report on her case been acted on? Or are they filed away and forgotten about?
All the recommendations about training for staff, to ensure they were competent in form filling, using history to identify behaviour patterns could take years to implement, but should already have been standard practice.
When I read that self-harm and suicide prevention training was recommended for staff, I caught my breath in fright. Surely, in this specialised agency that should be compulsory. Then I wondered if the implantation of the recommendations would have made any difference to Matthew. He spoke of his distress in clear terms. We both expressed fear for his future. What more could we have said to convince the agency to get Matthew the help he needed?
I have no doubt that those who worked with Matthew will remember him. My prayers are with those who did not do their job. To them I say, ‘I forgive you, and pray that you can forgive yourself.’
All I can hope is that Matthew’s death may have improved the service. I will never know, but I trust that the staff are following policy and procedures so that no other mum, family, or community will have to suffer the way we have.
I’d expected the coroner’s court to mark the end of my grieving – instead, it brought the horror of the past two years to the fore. I’d sit on his bed feeling stunned – sobbing, my heart aching – hit with the knowledge that Matthew was not going to walk through that door again. Not ever. How could I bear it?
To this day I haven’t heard from the Northern Trust, and I suspect I will never know whether the changes that have been made, made a difference, or whether lessons have been learned.
I’ve had to learn, and accept, that I can’t control what happens. I now know that I only have control over myself; over my feelings, behaviours and thoughts. I know that it’s love, kindness and forgiveness that has got me through my grief. Firstly, showing this to me and then to others. I’m now able to move on and live the rest of my life.
13
Acceptance
I haven’t forgotten Matthew, and I know I never will, but I can think of him with love, and remember the good times, without always focusing on the bad.
We’ve all come to terms with it, as a family. Natasha’s anger has been suppressed by good things in her life. Leaving school at 16, she worked in part-time jobs, before settling at a home for the elderly. She’s happy there; good at a job she takes pride in.
It was funny when she went for the interview. She was surprised t
hat they even offered her one.
‘I messed up the application,’ she told me, on the phone. ‘It said complete it in black pen, and I used blue.’ She laughed. ‘And it said complete in capital letters, and I used small ones.’
If that was bad, she felt the interview went worse. ‘Oh Mum, they asked me such stupid questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘How do you know if an elderly person isn’t well.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘That the person would tell you.’
I laughed.
‘Well they would, wouldn’t they? Anyway, they then asked me how I’d know if they didn’t tell me.’
‘And?’
‘I said they’d be off their food or be pale.’ She sighed. ‘I really don’t think I impressed them.’
When she rang me the next day, saying they’d offered her a job, she was ecstatic. ‘They said they saw something in me!’
I was glad they could see beyond the blue hair, which was shaved on one side, and the tattoos acquired in memory of her brother. But they were right to. Natasha works with people who have dementia, and she loves it! She’s been there for three years, and it’s not an easy job. Often, she goes home covered in bruises because a patient has hit out at her. But she does have a way about her and is good at communicating with difficult patients.
There’s one resident there who hadn’t spoken for two years and known to be troublesome, and, perhaps, for that reason, Natasha, as a newcomer, ended up caring for them a lot – bathing and trying to persuade them to eat. She’d sit with them whenever she had a spare moment and after a while she broke through. Now they talk back. They let her feed them too, without the old battle. They look out for her, and their eyes light up when they catch sight of her.
They needed her and being needed has helped her to make sense of life after Matthew, just as my job, helping teenagers, has helped me.
When Mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer, back in May 2017, I was devastated. At 77 she was too young to die, and I wasn’t ready to lose her, not for years! And how could I go through the painful journey I’d experienced with Matthew all over again?
My grieving started the minute the doctor uttered the word, ‘terminal,’ but when I’d had time to think it over, I thought, at least, after Matthew, I understood a little better how the process of death and grief worked. I held onto this thought hoping it was enough to save me from returning to my unhealthy ways for coping.
Then I realised it wouldn’t be the same. Because at least her dying before me fulfilled an order of expectation. Like, the granny goes first then the mum. I certainly assumed I’d go before my children.
And with my mum we had more time to prepare. We had a lot of talks, and said everything we wanted to say, so when the time came there was no unfinished business. And that was part of Matthew’s legacy. I’d learned, through his passing, all the things I needed to say, and I put all of that in place. Anything I needed to say, I said it. Not only to my mum but with each encounter with family and friends I wanted them to know that I love them and cherish our times together. Mindful that my life could end suddenly and unexpectedly; - in God’s time.
There are still ifs and buts in my head surrounding Matthew’s death. There always will be, but I’m more accepting that I didn’t have any control over him, and I couldn’t have prevented him from completing suicide. I don’t have control over other people, and of how they behave; I only have control over myself.
I still have doubts about the doctors, but I’ve tried to let it all go. My mantra has become, ‘Love and Kindness.’ That’s what I live by now. It’s the lesson I’ve learned through the loss of Matthew. That and the art of forgiveness.
We all hoped that the doctors were wrong; that Mum would live to a better age, but her illness progressed fast, and in October she was taken into hospital. We’d visit every day – me, Natasha, and Annie Jean. And sad though we were, I look back on those weeks with fondness. It was a precious time. We were lucky to have it. The two girls would sit beside their nana’s bed for hours. Annie Jean brought her studies in. She would take her homework in and sit working whilst her nanna drifted in and out of sleep.
Natasha helped in more ways than one. She was pregnant with a baby due in November. Her partner, JT and she are well suited. They’ve been together now for years, and I knew they would make good parents. Mum was excited, and I knew would do everything in her power to stay alive long enough to meet her new great grandchild.
The doctors didn’t see it like that. Whenever I saw one, as he checked Mum, he would take me to one side, and say, ‘It’ll be any day now.’
‘It’s all right,’ I’d say, as if they were the ones who needed comforting. ‘She’ll be hanging on for the baby.’
Asking when the baby was due, hearing there were 16 days to go, the doctors would shake their heads in doubt. At least most of them would. But there was a lovely doctor from Coleraine who would always stop, and chat, as if he wasn’t overworked, and didn’t have to be in three places at once. When I told him my theory, he nodded, sagely.
‘It doesn’t make logical sense, but in my profession, seeing what I have seen, I would have to agree with you. I’m not making any promises, your mother is extremely unwell, but I would not be surprised if she hangs on for one or two days after the baby is born. She will be able to die content then. She will give herself permission.’
Every day I asked the nurses should I stay with Mum, and one evening they said that I should. ‘We feel she might be near the end,’ a nurse told me. ‘She told the doctor that when she closed her eyes her bed was being pulled fast into a beautiful forest. And she mentioned ‘seeing’ the family and friends that she’s lost.’
She was asleep when I arrived on the ward. I sat beside her, and after a while, I noticed that her eyes were open. ‘Sharon,’ she said. ‘Who is that little boy with the blue shoes?’
Sitting up straighter, I looked around. Nobody was there, but Mum’s eyes were fixed on a point beyond the foot of the bed, and I decided to humour her.
‘I don’t know, Mum. Who is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, as, slumping back on her pillow, she closed her eyes again.
The night went on. I sat there, beside Mum, dozing, when her voice rang out again. ‘Sharon!’ I jumped. ‘Will you move out of the way.’ She sounded angry. ‘That lady needs to get behind you.’
I stood up, moved around for a while, then sat back down. I waited for her to object, but she’d moved on in her imaginary world, and was laughing and cajoling as if she was playing with someone.
‘Mum? Who are you playing with?’ This was bizarre!
‘It’s Alfie! The boy in the blue shoes is Alfie!’
I’d never heard of Alfie. But whoever he was, he had made my mum happy for the first time in days. She was wreathed in smiles, and I was pleased for her. For a while, I was pleased. But an hour later, when she began to tire, I felt that the interaction was bad for her. Besides, even if she didn’t need her sleep, I did!
I began to silently pray. ‘God, I don’t know what is going on here. I don’t know whether my mother is hallucinating, or whether she really can see somebody but please, this is not good for mum. Can you do something?’
Mum interrupted my prayer. ‘Sharon, can you get me a tissue?’
I leant over, plucked one from the box on her locker, and passed it over.
‘No, Sharon, I need three.’
Sighing, I plucked out two more.
‘Alfie and his wee friends are crying,’ she said. ‘They say they need to go.’
I dropped the tissues in shock.
‘You know who Alfie is?’
‘No, mum. I don’t.’
‘That was my son,’ she said. ‘My stillborn son.’
Over the next few days, as she drifted in and out of consciousness, there were more incidences like that. She’d excuse herself and say she was in a meeting and talk in such a
matter of fact way ,
‘They told me last year,’ she said, as if in response to a question. ‘They said I had a diagnosis, and the diagnosis was cancer, and I didn’t believe them. I said, ‘Doctor, you’re having a laugh!’
One time, she was talking in Chinese, something that we rarely witnessed unless in the local Chinese restaurant, to a favoured uncle who had passed a few years back.
It all seemed so plausible. So, when she told me that Matthew was there, standing beside me, I was open to the idea. I don’t know where Matthew is, but I’m not scared anymore.
Natasha’s due date arrived. She was admitted to hospital and given a pessary to induce her labour. We were all excited, but days went by, and nothing happened. On the Thursday, two days after the failed induction, they broke her waters. I was worried about leaving Mum, but when I popped up to the maternity ward, and took in the situation, I could see that JT needed a break.
He was deathly white, and was clearly distressed to see the state that Natasha was in. The contractions had begun now, and she kept vomiting. Her heart rate was rising, and the nurses seemed worried. I sent JT off for half-an-hour and took over. JT was back in time to see Nancy enter the world, at six and a half pounds. It wasn’t a straightforward birth – the cord was round Nancy’s neck, and Natasha subsequently had a post-partum haemorrhage.
When the danger had eased, I went back to Mum’s ward to tell the nurses I could now sit with Mum, but they took one look at me, and said, ‘Sharon, go home!’
‘It’s a wee girl,’ I said, and congratulating me, they said they already knew – they had heard from their colleague on the maternity ward.
The following day Mum was awake. I told her about little Nancy Louise, and showed her a photo, and played her a recording of the baby being born and crying. Then I showed her the video recording and she laughed.
‘She’s really beautiful,’ I said, and she agreed. When I mentioned that she didn’t look like her daddy, who has ginger hair, but was dark, like Natasha, mum said, ‘Thank God!’
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 12