Читать книгу No Way to Behave at a Funeral - Noel Braun - Страница 12

My husband, My Love, My Best Friend

You’re a wonderful husband, and I love you

For so many reasons

That it’s hard to know

Where to begin

You’re loving, supportive and sensitive

And I find comfort in knowing that

No matter what happens

You’ll always set aside time for me.

You’re a wonderful father,

Patient and understanding,

And I can tell by watching you

How much you enjoy being a parent.

You’re my partner, my lover and my best friend…,

And everyday that we share

I discover more and reasons to love you.

Happy Father’s Day

Black thoughts of regret darted through me again that night. They swooped out of nowhere and flashed away just as quickly, chattering with a voice that accused me of neglect, stupidity, ignorance and indifference to Maris’ suffering. Somehow I survived the tormenting hours.

The kookaburras began their day with their derisive laugh. I glanced across the bed, then closed my eyes, trying to put off for a few seconds the vacuum of Maris’ absence, willing her back. I opened my eyes. Still an empty bed.

I got up to face the day.

A lot had to be done. Remnants of that calmness that comes with shock once more took over. Certain people had to be contacted. The first was an undertaker. I rang Chris Lee, recommended by Father Peter, and we arranged to meet later that morning.

I rang Fiona, Maris’ psychologist.

‘Maris won’t be keeping her appointment tomorrow.’

When I told her why, I could hear the distress in Fiona voice.

‘Maris tried to ring you Saturday.’

‘I was with one of my boys at his sport. But I had my mobile with me. I would have certainly seen Maris that day.’

Maris had only rung the home number. That missed opportunity sent a sharp blow to my chest. ‘Maris kept saying she wanted to go to hospital but I wasn’t sure of the procedure for admission,’ I said.

Fiona sighed. ‘It’s just a matter of turning up.’

Her reply sent me spiralling. I felt as though my ship had struck a rock and I was thrown into the water, drowning in a sea of regret, heavy splintered beams striking me on the head and crushing me. If only I had taken Maris straight away to the hospital. If only…

I felt the vice-like grip on my heart — that broken heart sensation. I could hardly breathe. I will torture myself with this regret for ever, I thought. And I deserve such torture because I failed Maris through unforgivable ignorance.

I guess Fiona knew I needed help. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ she said calmly. ‘You take the appointment instead.’

I accepted. I needed to talk and I figured Fiona wanted to talk as well.

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 for his generous action, and knew he was trying to be useful in the midst of a family in crisis, 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.