Forever Young: A mother's story of life after suicide

by Sharon Truesdale

  I laughed, then, seeing her shiver, asked her was she cold?

  ‘I’m not cold,’ she said, ‘but the baby is cold’. It’s only got a nappy.’ Then she fell asleep again.

  Natasha and Nancy Louise went home on Thursday evening. They visited Mum before they left the hospital, and although she looked asleep, I know that made her so happy! They needed support the following night, and I said I would stay over with her. The following morning Paul, my brother-in law rang saying he was heading into the hospital, so I went home for a shower, before heading in to see Mum. But before I left home, Paul rang to say she had passed away.

  I was devastated. I should have been there, and when I arrived at the hospital a nurse said they were so sorry I was not there, as they knew I didn’t want Mum to pass on her own. I agreed, and said, ‘I’m devastated.’

  The doctor from Coleraine walked in, and seeing me, offered his condolences.

  ‘And I wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘She was all alone.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t have felt all alone,’ he said. ‘She was the one in control, and she was happy to go because she had seen her great-granddaughter.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  He nodded. ‘It was her time. And she would have wanted you to be with Natasha.’

  He was right. Mum had held on for two weeks. She’d had no food and existed on pain killers. But the minute she saw her granddaughter, and knew she had been named after her, she was at peace.

  I went back to the fortune-teller the following February in Newcastle Upon Tyne. I never say anything to her; never tell her what has been going on in my life, so when she said, ‘There has been a new baby born – a little girl,’ I was impressed. I’d lost that initial scepticism.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Her name’s Nancy. She’s Natasha’s baby.’

  She nodded. ‘She’s been sent to bring you joy, but there’s so much sadness around this child. Your mummy has passed away. You look at the child sometimes, and it seems she is seeing someone beyond you.’

  How did she know these things?

  ‘You think she’s playing with your mum.’

  I sat still, determined not to give anything away.

  ‘But she’s not. She’s playing with your son.’

  I couldn’t speak. Tears were coursing down my cheeks. Because I do feel Matthew around me sometimes. I know that’s not logical. I believe that he’s in heaven and that he’s safe there. But sometimes I feel him and ask for a sign.

  When Karen, Roberta, Tina and I went to Naples for a few days, I was thinking of Matthew. I didn’t want to socialise with the others in the hostel and decided to go to bed early. Lying there, sleepless, I talked to Matthew in my head. I said, ‘Matthew, if you are around me, I want a sign.’

  I’d read that butterflies can indicate someone is around, but I see butterflies all the time. There had been the two pigeons, but they were plentiful too, so, thinking hard, I said, ‘I want to see coins.’

  All weekend, as we walked around, I spied the odd coin on the pavement, but that’s normal – not a sign, and I woke on the last day with a sense of disappointment. Karen and I were standing at the bus station waiting to go to the airport when a taxi pulled up. A man climbed out, and all his loose change cascaded from his pocket. A two-euro piece fell right at my feet. That, I am convinced, was Matthew’s sign to me.

  14

  Today

  It is six years now since Matthew passed, and I’m still grieving. I don’t believe that I will ever stop. Matthew was such a big part in my life, and he still is. He’s there in the lovely memories I have of him. Grief, I have learned, cannot be ‘fixed.’ It has to be worked through.

  I realise that everyone experiences grief differently, and I can’t know how anyone else feels. But I’m sure my experience will resonate with people and help them, because there are bound to be commonalities.

  My faith in God remains central to me. I continue to attend different churches, because I get a message each time I go. Sometimes, when I feel I don’t fit in, or feel the ethos isn’t truly Christian, I stop going for a while, and make my own form of worship, through prayer, reading, and listening to spiritual music. It always helps.

  I wonder now if Matthew prayed. Did I do enough to pass on my faith? Did I talk about God enough? I remember, once, bribing the children with goldfish to attend church. Was that wrong? Did it have the opposite effect?

  Matthew has taught me so much and made the person I am today. That’s part of his legacy. He urged me to live life to the full, and to put myself first at times. ‘You don’t have to wrap the three of us in cotton wool,’ he’d say. And, when Annie Jean’s father, Mark and I had separated, he urged me to go and get myself another boyfriend. ‘Or go out with your friends!’

  My pregnancy with Daniel was high risk. The doctors were saying there was no guarantee that he would be born, so it was an intensely stressful time for me. Noticing my distress, Matthew said, ‘What do the doctors know? Just pray, and things will be ok.’ Those words made me feel so much better. And he was right; Daniel arrived safely.

  When Matthew was still alive, I always felt a bit lost in my own life. I was Mum. It was, ‘Ma do this,’ or ‘Mum do that.’ I was always Mum to my children, and a daughter to my mother. I was a sister to my sister, and an auntie to my nephew. I think I lost ‘me’ in all that.

  After Matthew – when I was struggling through my grief – I had to go back to basics, and to listen to my own needs. I had to put myself first sometimes. That could be hard, because people see you as being selfish.

  When, for example, my sister said she was coming around at the weekend, and I said, ‘No, not this weekend. I’m tired,’ I felt was the worst in the world. You’ve been doing something for years, and suddenly, you’re not. People can see you as self-centred, but all you’re doing is looking after yourself.

  I learned there is no shame looking after and putting me first thinking back to the analogy of oxygen masks in aeroplanes. I realised I needed to be ok in order to help others.

  To do this, I had to learn that there’s no shame in getting outside help. And although, sometimes, support groups or counselling didn’t feel helpful, I had to remember that this might be because the time wasn’t right. I learned to never turn my back on the idea.

  Today, my life is good. I am happy! I’m working away. I’ve been working with young people now for 11 years; six of those with the education authority. I volunteer as a counsellor in Antrim and help with suicide intervention during heightened times in our community.

  I think Matthew made me more passionate and a better youth worker. I’m more professional. I’m very strict about policy, and I struggle whenever it’s not being followed. I’m like, ‘it has to be done this way.’

  There are times when the last thing I want to do in the evening is to go to a training workshop. But I remember Matthew and realise that, ethically, I have to go. I have to keep on top of things and I will strive on. I want to stay with the education authority, but I’d love to do more counselling. I would like to specialise in something, but I’m not sure of the speciality just yet.

  I still cry and that’s okay. I have learned to feel my emotions instead of trying to block or control them. I talk about Matthew whenever I feel the need, and I bring him into conversations. I’ve learned that it’s okay to laugh too. When I laughed over the organ player at Matthew’s funeral, I felt so guilty. It felt inappropriate at my son’s funeral, but it was funny, and Matthew would have laughed.

  I still receive a lot of support from my true friends – especially around those special dates, like Matthew’s birthday and anniversary. But those who send flowers or cards on other days lift my spirits even more.

  There’s a lady Pamela who I worked with whose son Kyle knew Matthew. She has, twice, sent me a card saying she is thinking of me, and that meant so much.

  Nothing stops the grieving process or takes the pain away, but it is all these small, kind gesture
s that make me feel valued, wanted and needed. They make all the difference in the world.

  It’s good to see Natasha so settled. And though she still doesn’t see her dad, she has a new and good relationship with Jim – James’s father. He, and his wife Jackie love baby Nancy Louise, and have welcomed her into the family. Natasha calls him Grandad, and, it turns out, Natasha and Jim have a lot in common. Both love horses, greyhounds, and the country life. They have become close, and it’s been good for her, and has lessened the pain from the past.

  It pleases me more than I can say, yet I don’t resent James for his attitude. It’s a choice, and we all have those. In the same way, it was Matthew’s choice not to come into my room that last night and ask for help. It’s something I simply have to accept. We are only in control of our own thoughts, behaviours and feelings.

  My grandson, Matthew’s son Tyler is five now. I look after him every Saturday, and he’s best buddies with Daniel, who is now seven. Bronagh has a new partner, Aaron, and he seems nice. They have another wee boy, so Tyler has a little brother. He has a new family, but he hasn’t forgotten about his daddy.

  Recently Tyler said, ‘I wish I had seen my daddy, Matthew,’ and I said, ‘You know your daddy Matthew did see you?’

  ‘How did he see me, nanny Sharon?’

  ‘When you were in your mummy’s tummy, daddy Matthew went to a scan and there were photos of you.’ He was pleased with that.

  He knows that his daddy is in heaven, and he talks about him to Daniel. The other day the boys were in my car and Tyler said, ‘My daddy says I’ll be doing jujitsu soon.’

  Daniel said, ‘What? Your Daddy? Who is your daddy?’

  ‘Daddy Aaron.’

  And Daniel goes, ‘But he’s not your daddy. Your daddy is Matthew and he’s in heaven.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Tyler. ‘I have two daddies Daddy Aaron and Daddy Matthew.’

  A few months ago, he asked me how his daddy died. I wondered how I should answer that. I said, ‘He wasn’t well.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take him to the doctor, nanny Sharon?’

  ‘I did,’ I said, ‘but the doctor couldn’t help him.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what Mummy said.’

  I say the same to Daniel, but one day I will have to tell them exactly what happened to Matthew. I don’t want them hearing from anyone else. I hope that Bronagh and I will continue to work together with an agreed narrative so that we are all saying the same thing to answer their questions as they grow older.

  There were times when I really did not want to live. When the struggle to stay alive seemed just too great. But now I appreciate life and want to be around to see Daniel and Tyler growing up and to see baby Nancy Louise married.

  There have been many people who have helped me through this difficult time, and some entered my life as a result of Matthew’s death. All those people – the ones who I still see, and the ones I don’t – have a place in my heart.

  Last July, (2018) I had a health scare. Roberta my good friend and Rea, my sister in law had been diagnosed with cancer, and then Terry’s sister in law died 14 weeks after a diagnosis. It was terrible. I saw an advertisement for free screening for bowels, breast and cervical cancer training, and, when a cruise I was due to go on was cancelled, I saw that as a sign that I should go. And I found it really valuable.

  The following weekend, Roberta offered to take me to a hotel for the weekend. Before changing for dinner, I had a shower, and, remembering the course from the day before, I examined my breasts. And there it was. This lump.

  The following morning, I rang the doctor and spoke to the receptionist who said someone would ring me back. We were in the car, driving home when the doctor rang, and I spoke to her in a kind of code, because I didn’t want to worry my friend with my troubles – not when she had just been through her own cancer.

  The doctor asked me to go in the following day. She felt the lump, but said she was confident that it was nothing to worry about. ‘But I’ll flag it up as urgent,’ she said. ‘You’ll be hearing from the hospital within two weeks, or, if you don’t hear soon, you could ring them in a week.’

  The hospital rang as I was walking through my front door. ‘Can you come in next week?’ the receptionist asked, and I said I could. But I was sick with worry, and my mood sank into my boots. I didn’t talk to anyone about it, but I planned how I would, later, tell everyone my terrible news. Because I was convinced, I had cancer. They would tell me so at my appointment. If they didn’t strongly suspect it, why had they rung so soon?

  I had a mammogram, and then a biopsy. Then I was called in for a diagnosis. The doctor was smiling. ‘It’s swollen glands,’ she said, and I breathed out, the tension leaving my body.

  Driving home, feeling a lightness, I thanked God that I didn’t have cancer. Then a sense of annoyance took over. Why had I convinced myself the news would be bad, and wasted all those hours in worry? Worry about dying, but anxiety at my unpreparedness too.

  It taught me a lesson. I would plan for my death, so that if I had another scare, I wouldn’t face any unnecessary worry. I reviewed my will, making sure Tyler and Nancy Louise would be included, and I planned my funeral. And then, in September, we were in a car accident. We were, thankfully, all right, but it shook me.

  I really want to live now. I tell Daniel I will live until I’m 100, because I love certificates, and want to get one from the Queen.

  Epilogue

  This is the first time I have opened up and spoke about my real experiences. I am a private person and the inspiration for writing my story is the hope that it will provide comfort and support to anyone affected by suicide, grief or mental health. And to help break the stigma.

  I’d like to end this book with a summary of all that Matthew’s death has taught me. The tragic loss of my son has caused me ‘a broken pain’ that follows me in life. During this journey it felt my life was overwhelmed with people including the police, doctors, taking over. Together with ‘grief’ I was lost.

  A low mood which resulted in a loss of interest in doing things that I enjoyed, unable to sleep because of flashbacks and nightmares, forgetting to eat because I had difficulty remembering or concentrating, doing things that didn’t make sense and hearing and seeing things no one else can led me to believe that I was going mad and if I shared this with anyone they would lock me up and throw away the key.

  If I had to give just one piece of advice, it would be this; talk to someone. During times when I was feeling really low it helped me to talk to my friends even if I had to drag myself out of bed, it was important not to be alone.

  Good friends were a godsend to me. Especially the ones who gave me practical help; who did the shopping or turned up with a cooked meal or sandwiches. The best friends listened to me for hours but were never judgemental. They were patient and understanding. Some talked through the things that had helped them in times of distress; like breathing exercises, or walking. They encouraged me to break the cycle of grief and establish a better routine. They reminded me of the things I had liked to do before Matthew’s death. I appreciated every form of contact. Even a text message could lift my day and show someone was thinking of me.

  The old confident Sharon Truesdale who spent her life never showing real emotions to anyone, the logical one, the friend who you go to for advice found it difficulty to be truly honest and open to friends. I didn’t lie but I didn’t share the whole truth how I was feeling so finding a counsellor was really helpful. As the trusting relationship developed, I could be my true self sharing my real feelings, thoughts and behaviours. The process allowed me to make sense of what was happening and helped me to start take back control of me and my life. It was shocking to realise that it took nine months of weekly counselling before I accepted my son had died.

  I had never been on anti-depressant medication before, and the first time I tried them they made me sick. But after a month, using an online meditation tool too, my sleep began to improve. I slept for five
to six hours a night and began to feel okay. I am still taking an anti-depressant today.

  There were days that I wanted to stay in bed; when the thought of getting up, let alone dressing and making the dinner felt like a step too far. I pushed myself to shower, dress and look presentable each day, whether or not I was going out. I kept a diary and made myself accomplish something every day. It could be, simply opening a letter, and I made myself eat three meals a day, go for a walk, and go to bed, even though that meant facing my fears. After a while I felt a sense of achievement in that and my mood improved.

  I read books and started to learn about mindfulness, living in the here and now. That was hard. I’d walk to get away from my grief, but my mind would keep returning to Matthew, and I’d relive those terrible first weeks. I’d watch films with friends but find my thought drifting. But with practise, I learned to stay tuned with nature, or with the film.

  I learned to listen to me by showing myself love, kindness and forgiveness. By listening to my thoughts, feelings and noticing the behaviour I attributed to them I was able to make positive changes which allowed me to take control. During times of panic I would colour in books and practice breathing exercises. And when life was really bad, I’d voice my suicidal thoughts. I’d say, to Terry, ‘I feel as if I don’t want to be here.’ Just being able to tell him made me feel better.

  I made myself get out and be social. I accepted that I was grieving and I needed time to deal with the loss of my son and take time to look after me and my family. I’d take Daniel to the park and get out and visit friends. I’d remember the old Sharon Truesdale and try and act the way she had although I know that part of her died the same day as Matthew.

  I made myself get up at 7.20am. I started watching the films and programmes I’d once watched with Matthew, doing all the things he would like to think of me doing. I watched Breaking Bad, and Dexter on Netflix,

  I now talk about Matthew without shame. If someone asks me how many children, I include him, and then explain the situation if appropriate, no longer scared of being defined as the mother who lost her son through suicide because I am so much more. I discuss the special memories I have of him. When someone mentions Matthew, it helps me. I am thinking about him all the time, and it’s good to know that others are thinking of him too.