Karen lives in Belfast; she has been my constant friend. She was there when I was going through my divorce – through all the bad times, and the good. She never tried to comfort me with her thoughts or opinions, but she let me talk. Acknowledging that, yes, I had lost Matthew, she let me say something about him fifty times a day if I needed to. She never changed the subject. She was never afraid to bring Matthew up in a conversation or share a memory of him. She knew this helped me, because I never stopped thinking about Matthew.
If, when she rang, I sounded especially low, she would say, ‘Right, Sharon. I’m coming down.’ She would drop everything, come to the house, and say, ‘We’re going for a cup of coffee.’
I might protest, and say I wasn’t up to it, but she always won. She must have noticed that I wasn’t in good form; that my hair needed combing and I hadn’t slept – she must’ve known, but she never said it. And doing something so normal with her to protect me always made me feel better. And as I started to do more normal things, I was unknowingly beginning to break the bad habits I had gotten into. All that Googling to find out where Matthew was, all that feverish researching through the bible, all the days spent at the grave, in his room – all this gradually stopped.
Roberta lives further away, but she helped by keeping everything normal. She didn’t change. We generally met about four times a year for birthdays, and though she increased the number of times she saw, me, the traditions we’d set up didn’t change. At Christmas, for example, instead of buying us presents, she would get tickets for a show. And, like Karen, she allowed me to talk, or not to talk – whatever it was that I needed. I am so grateful to them both.
Seeing Roberta, though, was a reminder to me, that before Matthew died, I wasn’t the best friend to her that I’d always thought I was. Years earlier when she lost her father, I attended the funeral, but that was it. I had no idea what death means and what she was going through. Did I offer her normality and an opportunity to talk? I really don’t know, but I doubted I’d been as good a friend to her as she was now being to me, and I felt guilty.
They weren’t the only ones to lend support. Matthew’s friends, Gregory, Kenny, Ricky, Stuart and Richard began to appear now and then. That was a surprise. And they were brilliant! They wouldn’t ask how they could help; they simply saw what needed doing. Recognising that our large garden needed attention, they just got on with it, and this wasn’t just a once off – they kept it maintained.
Other friends of his helped too. James Nicholl brought over a bag of coal around the time of the funeral; Kelleigh asked me to go for coffee, and Darren came into his own, later, organising get togethers for Matthew’s anniversaries.
His friends were sensitive to my feelings – displaying a wisdom beyond their years. They kept their distance, anxious not to intrude on my grief, and would wait until I asked them in, to have a cup of tea. I loved chatting to them about their nights out – and I loved the house being full of friendship and laughter again. It helped bring back memories of Matthew. I could, almost, believe that he was still alive. I loved checking out their Facebook updates, proud that they have grown into such lovely young men. Obviously, all this gave me a pang, too. Why wasn’t Matthew there, with them? Why had he been taken?
Matthew was in my mind all the time, yet sometimes I would forget little details. Towards the end of the year I woke one morning in a panic. I couldn’t remember which clothes we buried Matthew in. I rang a friend, Debbie and she said, ‘He wore that red shirt, remember,’ but I couldn’t remember. She had to send me through a picture of Matthew wearing that shirt – one that appeared on Facebook.
If the adults who saw me around the town tended to avoid me, the young didn’t. I’d be greeted by teenagers all the time. I didn’t know all of them, but they knew me all right. They’d say, ‘Your Matthew’s Mum, aren’t you?’
I’m particularly grateful to the young, because Matthew’s death had hit them hard. I heard later, that many of Matthew’s friends had needed counselling.
After a few weeks these strange rumours started circling. I don’t know who was spreading them, but I could hardly believe it when Natasha stomped in one day, and in a fury, said, ‘You know what people are saying, Ma?’
‘Ma?’ This gave me a pleasurable jolt. That was Matthew’s name for me; Natasha always called me Mum.
‘No,’ I said, turning down the TV. ‘What are people saying?’
‘That Matthew didn’t kill himself.’ She flung herself down, beside me, on the sofa. ‘They said he would never have done it. That he was always happy.’
I looked at her, open mouthed, thinking of the times he had tried before; thinking of all his problems. ‘I suppose they only saw one side of Matthew,’ I said, cautiously. ‘The fun loving, party going popular side. The Matthew everyone loved.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘So how did he die then? What are they saying?’
‘You won’t believe it,’ she said, flicking her eyes upwards. ‘They’re saying that he fell out with his friends.’
‘Oh. And?’
‘And that they murdered him. I know!’ she said, seeing my shocked expression. ‘I told you you wouldn’t believe it.’
‘Surely nobody believes that?’ I said. ‘They couldn’t.’
‘Yeah, well other people are saying that he did kill himself – but only because he was as high as a kite and didn’t know what he was doing. But he wasn’t, Ma. Was he?’
I shook my head. ‘Poor Matthew,’ I said. ‘Life just got too much for him. And no, he wasn’t high. Far from it. He was scared and troubled.’
As I said this, I wondered, for the hundredth time, why Matthew hadn’t confided in me. He knows my door is open to him 24 hours a day, yet he’d stayed away. Come to that, why hadn’t I gone to him?
It was a question Mum posed every time I saw her. She had taken the death very badly. She never left the house. She lay on her sofa, all day, crying. Matthew had been her boy. She’d say, ‘I loved him more than my own son.’ And she wasn’t averse to telling me that it was my fault. ‘You were there,’ she said, time and again. ‘You could have done something.’
The terrible thing was, that I believed she might be right. Why hadn’t I realised how bad he was feeling? I didn’t need Mum to remind me. The guilt was already eating me up.
When Mum wasn’t sounding off at me, she was having a rant about Shanice or Bronagh. And she wasn’t the only one to hold Shanice to blame. Matthew’s friends, grieving themselves, embraced Bronagh after Matthew’s death. She, after all, was carrying his child. But Shanice had become an outcast. If she wandered into a pub all Matthew’s friends walked out. It broke my heart.
‘Shanice is grieving too,’ I told them, the next time they came around to see how I was. ‘It doesn’t matter what you, or I think. Matthew loved Shanice, and he wouldn’t want her treated that way.’ I started to tell them about forgiveness and love and kindness.
Some of Matthew’s friends really surprised me. Take Jordan, the boy who’d ransacked the garage with Matthew. I often blamed him for being a bad influence, but I could now see him as a vulnerable young boy who missed his friend.
He got a large tattoo on his back to remember Matthew by, and he started attending church. It’s as if Matthew’s death has given him a purposeful life, and that thought brings me deep joy.
I have always loved Christmas. It’s such a great excuse for a family get together, and that has always been my thing. As a child, I always dreamed of being part of a large close family – like the Walton’s. After Matthews death this changed. The thought of spending the approaching Christmas season at home, without Matthew, was too hard to bear. Each year, when we’d decorated the tree, it would be Matthew, as the man of the house, to put the star on the top of the tree. I kept remembering the previous year, his face lit up by the fairy lights as we admired our handywork. How could we get through the holiday without him?
Before Matthew’s death, Terry had suggested we should
go away. I’d had pressures at work, and a break, we both decided, was just what I needed. And now, this seemed more relevant. ‘It’ll do you good,’ Terry said. ‘Nobody will know us, so there won’t be any stupid questions or comments.’
Deciding on Lanzarote for some winter sun, we packed silly Santa things, and wrapped presents for each other. But on the day, we couldn’t find a restaurant that sold Christmas dinner. So instead of it being a break for me, I ended up cooking dinner just as I always do. And I’m not the greatest cook.
The whole holiday was awful. You can leave home behind, but your grief comes along with you, as excess baggage. I couldn’t sleep. Since Matthew’s death I had avoided looking into a mirror, but that week, it seemed, I couldn’t avoid it. There were mirrors everywhere! I’d catch of myself, and my eyes – Matthew’s eyes – seemed to follow me around.
That really scared me. It wasn’t just that I barely recognised the bony person I had become, with those sunken black eyes of grief - It brought me straight back to that moment that I found Matthew, staring at me in death. I still can’t look at myself properly. Perhaps I never will be able to again.
‘This holiday is doing you absolutely no good,’ said Terry, when, waking and finding my side of the bed empty, he found me pacing the apartment in the dead of night. ‘Let’s cut
it short. Let’s just go home.’
I was tempted, but then realised I wouldn’t sleep at home, either. So, we stayed. But I couldn’t settle. I needed to be at Matthew’s grave.
In January I started back to work. Terry was worried that I’d returned too soon, but once I arrived at EOTAS (Education other than at School), it was as if I was a different person. As a youth worker, I compliment curriculum subjects by delivering personal and social development programmes. This was the Prince’s Trust Achieve Scheme and included a selection of preventative programmes based on the needs of the young people. The work suited me because I have a natural empathy with teenagers.
I’m good at my job. My employers have told me so, and so have the young people. They called me a rocket and a Melter, because I was always smiling and greeting them in the morning. If they weren’t feeling the best, they knew they could always come to my room for a chat. They did well in their courses too; achieving 2 GCSE grade Bs from my subjects. At work I was organised, creative, flexible and passionate, but when I went home, in that first year, those skills switched off. It was as if I was two different people.
I’d worried about returning to work, not that it was too soon, but that things were so different. Supposing if, after Matthew’s death, I found it harder to reach out to the teenagers? Would my grief affect that ability? Thankfully, it seemed not. They came in to see me, in groups, or individually, and we sat on comfy red chairs. They’d sit there and talk about everything and nothing, and their secrets came pouring out. I got a bit of a reputation. One lad, coming to me for the first time, said he didn’t want to sit down. ‘I’d rather stand,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ I looked up at him in surprise. ‘The chairs are really comfortable,’ I patted a chair for emphasis.
‘It’s not that,’ he said, shifting from foot to foot.
‘What then?’ I was intrigued.
‘It’s just, well, I’ve been warned,’ he said, carefully avoiding my eye.
‘Warned?’
‘I was told, “Don’t sit on a red chair, because, I don’t know how Sharon does it, but as soon as you sit on a red chair you will start to talk.”’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
He blushed, confused. ‘Yeah? But about everything.’
I had to laugh, looking at his expression of terror. But he did sit down, and he did talk about nothing and everything, just like everyone else.
The weird thing is, that I got the reputation amongst the kids for being, always happy. ‘Why are you always smiling?’ They’d say. They didn’t know about Matthew, and I thought, gosh, I must really be a good actress.
The staff I worked with or came into contact with didn’t comment on my weight loss, or the dark rings round my eyes, and they avoided the subject of Matthew. Like so many others, I think they were afraid of my reaction.
If they did mention him, it would be to say, ‘He’s in a better place now.’ Or, ‘You have to get on with your life – it’s what Matthew would have wanted.’ However, a colleague Mervyn, was different. He would ask how I was and would actively listen. He gave me the space to talk about my son, and that made a huge difference. On anniversaries or birthdays when I went into work, I was able to confide to him, and understanding my grief, he’d sit me down and bring me a cup of coffee.
I didn’t talk to the students about Matthew – it didn’t seem appropriate – until another colleague, Deneen, told me that one of the students had talked of him. ‘He heard about your loss and would like to talk to you about Matthew. He says he doesn’t know how to.’
At first, I recoiled from the idea, but I thought about it further, and agreed that I’d be happy to talk to him and discuss the mental health issues that teenagers like Matthew have – and depression and suicide in general. And we did talk. Word spread. Other students came to me too. Maybe a friend had taken their life or attempted to. I was able to talk about it in a rational way, and I hope I helped many of them to realise the hurt any suicide brings.
After that I noticed that I became a magnet for young people, and adults, who wished to talk about suicide. I didn’t have to mention Matthew – or my experience – and they didn’t know of it. But they seemed to pick up on a hidden, underlying sixth sense.
I liked my colleague, Deneen, and respected her too. She, Mervyn and I had the highest attendees and achievers amongst our students. We were a great team! We called ourselves the three musketeers.
But whilst work was going well, and I was able to help the students in my care, no supports were put in place to help me. My loss was virtually ignored. I didn’t take days off for anniversaries for fear of letting staff and young people down at a time staff resources were scarce due to budgets. I did, sometimes, voice my need for time off – but support was not there. I was living as two people in a vicious circle where I’d leave Annie Jean to school and put my Christian CD on in the car. I’d have a word with God and I’d cry. I’d cry all the way into work – a journey that took 35 to 40 minutes. Then, when I arrived at
work, I’d wipe my tears. When I left work, the same thing happened. I’d cry until I reached home, then I’d become Mum.
Terry could read me. He seemed to know, instinctively what I was feeling. His way to help me was to look after Daniel. Night times were the worst. That’s when I felt scared. I couldn’t close my eyes because that’s when I saw Matthew, staring at me.
On 3rd February 2012, Bronagh’s baby, Tyler Matthew Truesdale Gallagher came into the world. He was beautiful – the spitting image of his father, with swarthy skin and dark eyes. I can’t count the number of people, who, seeing this, said what a comfort he must be to me, that it must be like having my own piece of Matthew.
And Tyler is a blessing. Of course, he is, but it’s wrong to think of him as a replacement for Matthew. He’s his own wee person with his own identity. Of all people, with the work I do, I’m aware of the importance of accepting everyone as themselves.
I dreaded Valentine’s Day. It brought back such memories. Matthew loved it, but the date always seemed to take him by surprise. I’d get a panicked text from him when he was at work, saying, ‘Could you pick up some flowers, or maybe chocolates?’
When the day came, I wanted to be near Matthew, and I went to his grave. I don’t know why that day should be harder than any of the others, but it was. I was distraught! I was in such a state of despair, that I crouched down, on my hunkers, and started to scrabble in the earth. Screaming, out of control, I tried to dig him up, with my bare hands. It sounds crazy, and I think, for a minute, I had lost my mind.
I don’t know what would have happened had a car not approached, but the sound of t
he engine brought me to my senses. I looked, in shock at the mud on my hands – the soil deeply ingrained in my nails. As I rubbed my hands together, trying to rid them of the worst muck, and began to tidy up the grave, I felt the weight of sadness. I sobbed until my chest hurt. Then, eventually, I rose to my feet, wiped my hands on my jeans, and walked towards my car blinded by tears.
If Valentine’s day was bad, Mother’s Day was worse. My mum bought the girls a card for me, and they signed it, and included Matthews name. That was such a lovely gesture, and I valued it – but even more precious was the card I found that Matthew had made me the year before. He’d written, ‘To Ma. Happy Mother’s Day, love Matt.’ Simple words but now priceless.
I don’t know why I chose that day to clear Matthew’s room. But it felt like the time to sort his clothes ready to give to charity. Crying, as I sorted through his T-shirts and jeans, I planned where I would take them. I’d travel to towns a distance away, I decided, because how would I feel if I bumped into someone in Randalstown wearing my dead son’s clothes? It didn’t bear thinking about.
I did this task for the best of reasons; I felt the girls would cope better if these signs of their brother’s existence were removed, but in retrospect, it was the worst thing I could possibly have done. I’ve regretted it many times since. And the act of doing it brought me to a low, dark place.
I fetched the tablets I’d found in Matthew’s room a fortnight after the funeral and had decided to keep them. Looking at them, with desperation in my heart, I thought how easy it would be to take them, and to end it all. I poured myself a glass of water and put the tablets in my hand. I was crying. Tempted. So tempted, because then, I was as convinced that I would see Matthew again as this pain in my chest would leave me
Thinking of our meeting in heaven, turned my mind to God – the God I prayed to. I collected my bible and stood on it. Then I began to talk to God. I said, ‘Blessed are those who mourn, but I do not feel comforted, your word says I can find rest with Jesus, but I am exhausted. Your words promised you would make my pain better, and you’ve let me down.’ I don’t know how long I stood there. Minutes? Half an hour? But eventually, exhausted from all the crying, I walked into the en-suite and threw the tablets down the toilet and flushed it. I lived for another day as I took out my bible and stood on it praying ‘father I put my trust in you I am standing on your every word, please help me’
Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide Page 9
