style="font-size:15px;"> Next I forced myself to ring the psychiatrist. I was never happy with him. I found his privacy policy irritating. Even his receptionist didn’t want to know me. I had accompanied Maris to some of her appointments and sat in the waiting room. The psychiatrist never wanted to speak to me.
Maris had looked around for a psychiatrist in June. Although she was happy with her GP, who prescribed her Endep, she felt that if the dose was to be increased, she had reached the limit that a GP could safely prescribe. The psychiatrist increased the dose in stages until it was five times higher. But it gave her no relief. In fact, she got worse.
Since her death I have read articles that suggest some of the newer antidepressant drugs do more harm than good. Maris chose her older psychiatrist because she reasoned he might be happy to stay with Endep, which is described as an old fashioned drug.
I could feel my anger rising, a new emotion to date. I was angry about the privacy policy and that my view, as the person closest to Maris, had never been sought. The receptionist answered. I announced myself as Maris’ husband and began by saying, ‘I assume that doctor would not speak to me.’
‘That would be correct.’
I was angry and responded brutally. ‘Okay, just tell the good doctor my wife took her own life on Saturday, and if he wants to ring back, he can.’
I slammed down the receiver. I hurt my hand but I barely noticed.
The psychiatrist rang back within minutes. I had calmed down and was courteous. He sounded surprised. I asked if others of his patients had taken their lives.
‘It doesn’t happen often,’ he replied with what I thought was a sense of relief. I could almost hear him thinking, ‘This woman has spoilt my record.’ He said he was referring to his notes which indicated he treated Maris for depression, the increase in dosage, etc. She had not told him she had suicidal thoughts. I did not detect any sense of caring in this man. I felt he was more concerned with himself and his own record. I became brutal again and said, ‘With great respect, my wife was not happy with you. She had already made an appointment with another psychiatrist for next week.’
‘I never gained her trust,’ he replied.
That was the extent of the conversation. No hint of regret, no expression of condolence or support. Perhaps I misjudged this man. But at the time I imagined him closing Maris’ file and dusting his hands. Meanwhile we, the family, were left to deal with our despair.
When I rang Caroline the GP I received concern and compassion. She had known the family for many years. Whenever Maris was down, she made an appointment with Caroline and discussed the dosage of her medication.
Then I rang the Lifeline office. I had an overnight shift on Tuesday. On an overnight, you expect to hear from people with depression and perhaps from someone who is suicidal.
‘I don’t think I should do this shift,’ I said to Donna, the supervisor.
‘Absolutely not. Take time out.’ Lifeline has a policy of care for its volunteers. Counsellors must look after themselves. You need to have some emotional resilience for telephone counselling but even the most robust can be fragile and vulnerable at times.
I was vulnerable. Nothing in my experience, none of my training, had prepared me for these overwhelming emotions of grief that surged like waves through my body. I needed the support of those I trusted and loved. I felt like a helpless child, needing to be held, comforted and sheltered.
It was a relief. Instead of being ‘strong’ and independent, I was admitting my limits, seeking help and allowing others to carry my burdens. There was no need to be a brave little boy. I didn’t want a stiff-upper lip. I used to be an ordinary bloke doing ordinary things like putting out the bins and paying the phone bill. But now I was struggling to come to grips with an extraordinary, incomprehensibly tragic event. I was flailing around, disoriented, much like the proverbial fish on the hook gasping for air.
* * *
Despite incessant rushes of emotion like pounding waves threatening to drown me, I found a surprising strength in those first days when I needed to muddle through what had to be done. Sometimes we humans can manage catastrophes better than minor irritations.
The undertaker arrived. Chris Lee was very courteous, had a quiet air of confidence and was a person you felt you could trust. His years of dealing with people at a very emotional time was evident in his manner and the way he went about showing us photos of coffins and accessories. He did not push us to buy the most expensive. I can imagine the temptation to up sell to a vulnerable family who want the best for their deceased loved one. We discussed the options — burial or cremation. Burial was twice the price. But I wanted a place where I could visit her. The cemetery was only 3 kilometres from home, within walking distance.
It was fortunate we had consulted a financial planner some years previously. Maris always trusted Brett because he was a country boy. Maris was a country girl herself, from the Shepparton area in Victoria. Her theory was that country folk are more genuine and honest. I liked and trusted Brett, too. He had recommended maintaining a cash fund for unexpected demands. So I had money immediately available. Using it for Maris’ funeral was as remote from my thinking as it was possible to get. We also had some money for Stephen’s wedding and for a trip. Maris and I enjoyed travelling and we had planned a trip to France and Spain and, had Maris not slid so deeply into depression during 2004, we would have already taken the holiday.
So through good financial planning I had the money immediately available to cover both Maris’ funeral and Stephen’s wedding. It was a tiny relief to know that even though my world had collapsed, I did not have to worry about finance.
Chris Lee put Angela, Jacinta and me in his car and we took a drive to the cemetery. We inspected the lawn and the monument section.
‘Mum among the monuments would have some pretty tatty neighbours,’ I concluded after looking over the ornate graves with their urns and angels. ‘The lawn’s much nicer.’
The girls agreed. So we opted for the lawns, beautiful with bushland sneaking through the neat level grass. The sunny day was full of bird life. The magpies warbled. Some noisy Major Mitchells arrived, their racket making a joke of our human tragedy. We chose a plot near a seat donated by a family in memory of their son.
‘Perfect!’ I said to the girls. ‘In the future I can walk to the cemetery to visit Mum, and rest on the seat while talking to her.’
We hugged each other and shed a tear, standing on Maris’ future resting place.
Back at the house, the flowers began to arrive, and not in small bunches. There were substantial wreathes as well as displays of magnificent exotic flowers arranged on wooden bases. When the dining table was covered we had to find space on the floor.
‘I should say to people not to spend so much money on flowers,’ I said to Angela. ‘They could donate the money to Lifeline instead.’
‘No, Dad. Don’t deny Mum’s friends. They want to show how much they loved her.’
The cards and letters arrived, too. Our letter box, used to receiving one or two letters a day, was too small to handle the volume, and after each delivery we had a box stuffed with mail. We had to recover letters that had fallen into the bushes. Each day the volume grew.
The mail increased so much that Rick offered to build us a larger letterbox. While I was grateful
