with his anguish, and we were relieved when he finally emerged, began knocking around with his old mates, moved out of home and, after his divorce, courted Anthea, this interesting girl at Macquarie University.
Stephen was a ski enthusiast and told us he planned to propose on top of Mount Kosciusko.
‘You might drop the ring in the snow,’ Maris had said, ever anxious about Stephen.
Our youngest child, Tim, lived in Melbourne. He had arrived at our place early with his partner Melissa to attend Stephen’s bucks’ party and to prepare for his job as best man. Although we had spoken on the phone, Maris and I had never met Melissa.
Maris loved family celebrations and should have looked forward to Stephen’s marriage with joyful anticipation. She had shared in the planning of Angela’s wedding, and had been just as excited about Stephen’s first wedding.
Instead, she was dreading this event.
Black clouds of depression cast a terrible veil over her life. She had taken her first anti-depressants twenty years previously. Initially she would suffer for two or three weeks a year, but with time, her bouts of despondency lengthened and became a cruel and dominant master. A relentless pessimism plagued her. I felt impotent as I witnessed the power of depression swamp a normally rational mind with terror and anxiety.
‘This wedding’s going to be a disaster,’ she repeated.
‘I’m sure Stephen and Anthea have everything organised,’ I replied.
Maris shuddered. ‘The reception? A cocktail party?’ For her wedding receptions were of the banquet variety where everyone sat down in front of name tags.
‘This way the guests can wander about,’ I said but she remained unconvinced.
I witnessed her daily struggle. Early morning was the worst. I’d wake, look across and see her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, mustering the courage to start the day. I was doing my utmost to accompany her, to support her on her terrible journey.
Maris visited her GP regularly. She was also seeing a psychiatrist and a psychologist, although she was dissatisfied with her psychiatrist and wanted to change. He had increased her medication drastically, but she was getting worse. We talked. She seemed to need me around. We discussed her options.
‘A new psychiatrist might change your treatment,’ I said.
‘He might put me in hospital while I’m being weaned off my old medication and waiting for the new to take effect.’
In mid-October after some careful research and discussion, she chose the names of two psychiatrists. Her first choice was not available until the following year, and the other could not see her until mid November. She was bitterly disappointed.
‘I might be dead by then.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘I’ve never been suicidal before, but I am now.’
I’ll never forget the knot in my stomach. It would be fair to say I didn’t have a clue what to do. ‘Think about your appointment with the new psychiatrist. He might put you in hospital.’
She seemed to relax, but I knew that she would require continuing care.
‘I’ll stay with you all the time,’ I offered.
‘No, you’ve got to continue with your normal interests and not feel restricted. What sort of life is that?’
I had enrolled for a training course for the weekend, a Gestalt therapy course with Lifeline.
‘I’ll cancel the course on the weekend and stay with you instead.’
‘No, I want you to go, Noel.’
We tried to lead a normal life. On Tuesday she dined with friends from our church. Maris let on to very few the extent of her suffering, but one of her close friends asked Maris how she was. Maris replied with typical understatement. ‘I’m not travelling well.’
Wednesday night we went to the Opera House to see The Mikado. She did not want to go but I encouraged her, thinking the outing might make her feel better. She dressed carefully as always. I used to joke that she ‘scrubbed up well’.
The weather was perfect, a fine balmy night. We arrived early and admired the view of the harbour and the bridge. We walked arm in arm along the concourse and stopped to listen to the spruikers. We sat in the foyer with a cup of coffee and watched the comings and goings, something Maris always enjoyed. Maris laughed at the antics of the performers and the pretty how-di-do Poo Bah, Nanki Poo and the rest managed to get into. I glanced across at her frequently. She seemed content as we walked back to Circular Quay, admiring the fairy land created by the lighted bridge, surrounding buildings and boats. I was feeling hopeful as we travelled home.
Thursday morning she had a 9 am appointment with her GP. I expected her home early. As the morning advanced towards afternoon, I became agitated and restless. I wandered about the house, frustrated I could not contact her. She had no mobile. Imagine my relief when she appeared out of nowhere in our backyard.
‘You had me scared stiff, Maris. Where’ve you been?’
‘I’ve been looking for a place to jump.’
I can’t begin to describe my alarm. It was not a particularly warm day, but I felt the sweat in my arm pits and the smell of fear.
‘I checked out the cliffs at Dee Why but I’ve found the perfect place — the Westfield Car Park at Chatswood.’
I was speechless.
‘I’m glad I didn’t jump,’ she continued in her matter-offact tone. ‘Besides, I would want to write a note to everyone in the family and by the time I’d done that, I’d have lost the urge.’ Then she laughed.
This relieved me immensely. I felt the stomach knots unravelling. I wanted to believe we were over the worst. I slipped into denial, I guess. I wanted to share my concerns with someone. My daughter Jacinta was living with us with her husband Rick but she was preoccupied with her baby, Brody, sick at the time. Maris insisted I do my Lifeline Telephone Counselling shift arranged for the afternoon.
While I was away, she decided to clear out Stephen’s room in preparation for my sister Maria and husband Joe who would be arriving the following week for the wedding. Stephen was away with Anthea on pre-wedding visits to country relatives. When I returned home Maris, our daughter Jacinta and I carried his goods to a place upstairs we call the gallery which is used for storage. I checked out Maris. She seemed in good spirits, happy that she had tackled a messy job, the morning thoughts forgotten. She reminisced about the many times she had cleaned up after Stephen, the untidiest by far of our children. I felt optimistic but I was still on edge.
* * *
On Friday morning I woke to find Maris staring at the ceiling.
‘Noel, I’m wretched,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can handle today.’ Our grandson Hugh’s preschool had organised a Grandparents’ Day.
‘Hugh would be disappointed if we didn’t go.’
‘Okay, let’s
