reacting to shock, but I now know what the poets mean by a broken heart. I could not believe I had lost my Maris, the light of my life. I could not grasp I was no longer one of a couple.
I was alone.
Chapter 4
A young police woman, Catherine, appeared and asked some questions. Through my tears and running nose I blurted out the story of the last few days. I was surprised how logical and fluent I was. I seemed in control, as if I had detached myself from reality. I’m sure the calm that possessed me was shock as if someone had injected me with an anaesthetic or given me a pain killer.
Members of the hospital staff were present, although I wasn’t sure what their roles were, whether they were performing some function or there out of curiosity to know something of the beautiful woman who had arrived dead on their doorstep. They made supportive comments on what a strong, united family we were. I suppose we were. None of us raved or fired blame at whoever was in the way like some mad gunman shooting at random.
‘Could I see Maris again?’ I asked.
The social worker led me back into the room. I placed the pansy that Rick had brought from the house in Maris’ hand. She loved her pansies. Even in the bad times, she managed, like a glimmer of hope somehow, to care for those little plants.
‘I want her to take a tiny part of her garden with her to the Coroner’s Court,’ I said to the social worker. ‘Could I keep her wedding ring?’
A nurse removed it. ‘You might like the cross and chain she was wearing.’
The chain was broken but the cross was intact. As I write this, my hand traces the outline of that cross beneath my shirt.
* * *
I made two decisions as Tim drove me home. The first was that I would bury Maris at the Frenchs Forest Bushland Cemetery. Reducing my beloved Maris to ashes in cremation insulted the sacredness of her memory. I couldn’t bear the thought of her ashes in an urn gathering dust on an empty shelf. I wanted her to be in a special place, a place I could visit and sit in communion with her in the years to come.
The other decision was to tell the world. I had no sense of shame that Maris had died of suicide. For years, suicide was spoken of in whispers. A stigma is still attached to taking one’s life. Some families are reluctant to speak about their loved one, or use euphemisms such as dying ‘in tragic circumstances’.
I was outraged. I wanted the world to know that an insidious disease had driven my beautiful Maris to this tragic ending. She had lost confidence, hope and the will to live. I wanted everyone to know of the toll depression inflicts. The demons of despair had ensnared the mind of a peaceful, gentle woman, robbed her of peace and replaced any joy with a daily anguish which nothing, nothing could alleviate.
Inside I was crying but the logical part of my mind kept on working. I guessed I slipped into automatic. There were people to tell. I rang the family — my sister Maria and brother Tom. They made me repeat everything as if the news was too shocking to take in at one go. I left a message on Father Brendan’s answering machine. The children were on the phone, too. The terrible news spread rapidly.
For a while I was numb where the anguish had roared before. But then an awful battle began to rage beneath. A new sensation emerged. At first it was in the background like the roar of a distant football crowd or a roll of far-away thunder. It grew in intensity until the noise erupted in a new torment. It was my own voice in accusation, a whisper at first, but eventually screaming.
‘Why didn’t you listen when Maris needed to go to hospital? Why didn’t you stop her when she took her car keys? Why didn’t you stay with her if you knew she was suicidal?’
Over and over these accusations raged, causing havoc like an army running amok. I was overwhelmed. Guilt was undoing me. In desperation I tried to set up barriers and suppress the questions but they refused to be vanquished and kept breaking the ramparts and bursting into my thinking. If I wasn’t questioning, I was scourging myself.
‘I failed you, Maris. If I’d been more vigilant, you’d still be here, instead of in the Coroner’s freezer. I’ve killed you by my own neglect.’
Which was worse, guilt or grief? I’m not sure. Take one serving of regret mixed with a heavy dose of guilt and you get the bleakest cocktail of mental pain guaranteed to blight the strongest.
All that afternoon the noise of battle rolled around as one accusations vied with the other for the high ground, my rational self forced into dark retreat. I was losing the war. I was succumbing to despair.
Brother Damian, Father Brendan’s assistant and the proverbial knight in shining armour, came to my rescue. Damian is a member of the Passionist Congregation. They are an order of monks who administered our parish of St Anthony’s. A person of great compassion, he has the benefit of counselling training.
I remember removing my glasses, smearing my wrist over my eyes, squashing the tears, although I felt an occasional stray escape and slide down my cheek. ‘I should have taken Maris straight to hospital,’ I cried to him.
‘Sure, you could have taken her,’ he said, ‘but, with limited resources so overstretched, they would have taken one look at Maris, who presents so calmly, and either sent her home or just kept her overnight.’
I told Damian of my conversations with Maris.
‘It’s sounds as if she’d made up her mind to go. If she was intent on suicide, nothing would have stopped her. You could have done nothing.’ After a pause he added, ‘Perhaps God told her it was time.’
Damian’s reassurance banished those horrible demons for a time, as if he had administered another anaesthetic to deaden a pain that I knew was bound to return and counterattack with reinforcements.
‘Would you like an announcement made at the weekend Masses?’ he asked me.
‘Yes, I want our total parish community to know.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘Maris was loved and respected. Many people would wish to attend her funeral.’
We were fortunate, if that is the right word, that a weekend was intervening between Maris’ death and her funeral. The word would spread easily.
I thought of our Stephen. Poor bugger! His bucks’ party cancelled, his wedding plans wrecked. What a tragic lead-up to what should have been the most joyful day both for him and Anthea! How we protective parents hope to shield our children from sharp arrows.
I had flashbacks of little Stephen trying to play sport. When God lined up the children of the world to hand out sporting prowess, He stumbled as he passed Stephen. I remember the jeering of the St Ives parents as he swung his skinny five year old legs at the soccer ball and tripped, the impatience of the head teacher at his primary school, the irritation of the tennis coach at Stephen’s claims that his tennis racket had a hole in it. Fortunately, God handed Stephen a few brains which he made good use of at secondary school and university.
I could see how happy he was with Anthea. I wanted them to have a great day, to shield them from Maris’ suffering but my efforts were a devastating failure. If there was any good news that day, it was Stephen and Anthea’s decision.
‘Dad, we’re going to go on with the wedding,’ Stephen announced later in the afternoon.
I was so relieved.
