it sent me down a spiral. I did not want a new letter box, however beautifully made. I was happy with my old cedar wood box. It used to be quite adequate, but now it was ill-equipped, like me, to handle the emotional turbulence that swept through my psyche, my whole being, or to face the enormous void that had opened in my life.
More visitors turned up with casseroles. I was stunned at people’s generosity. Maris had made many casseroles herself over the years, so it was now our turn to benefit. I repeated the story of Maris’ depression many times. I did not mind. Talking helped me. I didn’t fit the male stereotype of being the strong silent type.
I wanted Father Peter to be involved in the funeral because he was our former pastor and a close friend, but it wasn’t so simple. There was tension between him and Father Brendan. Brendan reminded me of a young MBA graduate in his first management job, keen to demonstrate he was in charge. Father Peter was a maverick and somewhat unpredictable so I could appreciate Brendan’s discomfort whenever Peter was around. I wanted the two priests to concelebrate Maris’ requiem Mass. That would require a little negotiation. I rang Brendan.
‘Brendan, I’d like a concelebrated Mass with the two of you, if possible, as our present and previous pastors.’
That’s no problem,’ said Brendan. I was preparing myself to ask the next question, but Brendan beat me to it.
‘Would you like Peter to be the main celebrant?’
Exactly what I’d hoped for! I felt jubilant as I hung up the phone, out of proportion to the event, a tiny piece of good news in a week of disaster.
* * *
Stephen and Anthea came and went, arranging the final details of their wedding. I was worried that they might be missing an opportunity to grieve.
I may sound logical and rational describing these arrangements, but all the while my emotional side was playing havoc, doing a great job of undermining the fragile surface structure. A battle between light and darkness was raging underneath. Intense apprehensions rushed towards me, not as an orderly crowd, but as disorganised, random, pugnacious and destructive hordes. I was frequently in tears, those pervasive guilt feelings were never far away, and the thought that we shouldn’t be doing this was always in mind. At one point, sitting alone at the kitchen table, I exploded.
‘Mum should be here with us now, looking forward to your wedding,’ I said to Anthea, who happened to come into the room. ‘She should be showing off the beautiful silver scarf she’s bought to wear. The ladies of the family should be discussing what they would be wearing and showing off their finery, offering to loan this or that accessory.’
Anthea put her arm around me. I was learning to accept support from others.
That morning Chris asked for a photo to place on Maris’ coffin and for a bookmark he provided as part of his service. I thought of a photo which Angela had taken. About a month before Maris died, Angela visited. She had her camera.
‘Let me take a photo,’ she had said.
We cuddled, heads close together.
‘Now, act like you’re sixteen year olds.’
We turned to each other and kissed. For a brief moment, Maris’ load seemed to lift. She enjoyed the fooling around and joined in the laughter. Angela gave us copies. I liked the first photo because of the smile Maris had managed despite her intense pain. I had my arm around, cuddled in close. Our hair was mixed.
I showed this photo to Chris.
‘I can cut you out and reshape Maris’ head so that you would never know you were there,’ said Chris.
Simple, well-intended words, but what an impact. The photo was cut in two. We were separated. Once we were one. Our lives were shared. Now my image had been amputated and Maris was on her own, just as I was.
Yes, I was amputated. I had lost half of me. I felt dismayed, as if part of me had been cut away. Maris was always at my side — at dinner, in the car, at church, in bed. We were one, but now we had been hacked apart. It was as if the arm I placed around her had been severed.
I had Maris’ appointment with Fiona that afternoon. I had a special relationship with her. About 10 years previously, she contacted me as a psychologist she found in the regional phone book. She had emigrated from South Africa and was keen to find out more of the local scene. She had contacted a number of people but I was the only one to respond. I gave her some local knowledge and over the years referred a number of inquiries to her as my practice at the time was industrially rather than clinically based. Back in June Maris had suggested she should see a psychologist, and I thought of Fiona. Maris saw her weekly and more often if she felt the need. Although patient and professional, they became friends.
Fiona burst into tears as soon as I entered. Our meeting was for the benefit of us both. I did not expect her to tell me much because of the professional relationships and privacy requirements. However, she mentioned that Maris had spoken highly of me and the support I gave her. This reassured me for I continued to think I was a bastard for letting her down.
‘I failed Maris by not responding,’ I said through tears. ‘I know from my knowledge of grief counselling that it is normal for the bereaved to have guilt feelings, but I’m really, really guilty.’
Fiona made three points, similar to Brother Damian. ‘If you had taken her to hospital, they would have noted her calm manner, perhaps kept her overnight and discharged her.’ She handed me a box of tissues and kept talking. ‘Second, Maris had probably already decided to take her life. On her last visit, Maris bought me a bunch of flowers and made a special point of saying thank you. Thirdly, think of all you did for Maris, not what you didn’t do.’
Fiona’s comments did wonders. I needed to be told over and over that I had done everything that was possible. The deep wounds of regret would probably continue to ache and never heal completely but at least the sharp bitter edge of my guilt was being blunted. Even now my guilt is like a mob of wild demons watching me from the darkness, unmanageable, ready to goad me at any time with malevolent intent.
Chapter 6
Dear Noel,
I can’t begin to understand how you and your family are feeling or what you are going through at this time, so I will only talk about my own feelings. I spoke with Maris last Wednesday at Mass. She explained that she hadn’t been at meditation because she had been caught up with things at home. She went on to talk about the photos I had taken at the fete and other ordinary things. She seemed so calm and normal that the news on Saturday was just totally unbelievable.
The shock and grief suffered by so many of us is a testament to the beautiful person that Maris was. I will remember her for so much — her calm presence at our Wednesday morning meditations; her lovely, warm and empathetic sharing at Time Out where she talked a bit about her struggle with depression — but didn’t give away very much; the warm comfort of her hugs at the Kiss of Peace.
Your Maris was a beautiful and loving presence in my life whose calm face belied her pain. For her to end it the way she did, she must have been suffering terribly. My faith tells me that she is safe in the warm embrace of our loving God and that she is totally at peace. I take much comfort from that and my memories of Maris will be precious ones of the very special person she was.
Noel you are a wonderful man and I hope and pray that you may find much comfort in our God and in the loving prayers and support from
