Phone call on a Thursday afternoon.

Phone call on a Thursday afternoon (earlier today). 
(All names have been changed.)



The phone rings.  Its melodic chime heralds tragedy. 

A voice.  An unfamiliar voice. 

A name … only vaguely familiar:  Linda.

She warns me of bad news to follow. She warns me to prepare for bad news - but I can't place her … Linda?  I know a few Linda's.  Well, I know three.  Which one is this? Or could it be a patient of mine? Or another mother at my children's school?  I can't prepare myself for bad news … if I don't know who is about to give me the news. 

She continues, 'Janey passed away.'

Sadly, I now know the owner of the name and the voice … because I know only one Janey. 

Silence.

Confusion all over again. 

Janey passed way?!  Janey was only nineteen years old. Janey had her whole life ahead of her.  Janey was the childhood friend of my first-born child - Bella.  I have known her since she was a baby - when I first met her mother, Sara.

Silence.

'Are you there?'  Linda eventually asks.

Sadness consumes me.  It takes away my voice.  It stops my heart.  It suffocates me.  I slump to the floor - still holding the telephone receiver. Tears obscure my vision and run freely down my cheeks. Warm tears drip from my jaw - but I feel cold.  So cold …

'Yes,' I reply softly.

Silence.

'How? When?'  I whisper.  Although, I am aware that it is all too late.  It will make no difference now. Janey has gone from our lives.  The horrible fact remains. 

Silence.

Linda is struggling too.  She is an old friend of mine.  Her daughter, Tyler, and Janey, and my Bella have been friends since they were babies.   They first met at a child-care centre - in the baby room - nineteen years ago.  And that is also when we met - as  young first-time mothers. 

Our daughters continued their friendship after childcare.  They met at each other's birthday parties - three times each year - for the first fourteen years of their lives. Lovely birthday parties with clowns and ice-skating and sleep-overs and beautiful birthday cakes. At these birthday parties Linda and Sara and I would chat and laugh and gossip over coffee.  We would compare notes about what our lovely daughters were doing.  We'd comment on how much they had each grown since we last saw them. We acknowledged, to each other, how blessed we were to have such beautiful, sweet and lovely girls. 

Eventually, our daughters decided that they were too old for birthday parties.  So, Linda and Sara and I arranged other get-togethers for our daughters -  at family bar-b-ques and family picnics. 

Actually, now I think about it,  the bar-b-ques and picnics dated back to a time when our girls were toddlers, as well.  At these family affairs our girls progressed from skipping through the front gates in pretty little dresses, and carrying their favourite dolls - to arriving in jeans and dark lipstick and purple hair,  and discussing boys and careers and high-school.  However, while their appearance and behaviour changed - their sweet natures and lovely souls remained much as they ever were.

Linda and Sara and I were so proud of our girls.  We loved them … and we will always love them.

Life, however, gradually pulled us further and further apart.  I moved from the suburb, where we had first met, to another suburb far away near the beach.  Our daughters went to different schools.  Our daughters also, later, mixed in different social circles.  Linda, Sara and I tried to meet  - when we could.  But, eventually, even those get-togethers petered out. We were all busy with our work, and our other children, and our busy lives.

However, something else had happened, during the intervening years, which tied Linda and Sara and I together in a way that friendships with other mothers never could.  When our daughters reached the age of thirteen,  they each developed a mood disorder (anxiety and depression).  Our other children didn't suffer a similar fate.  Strangely, it was only our first-born children who did.  (Mood disorders existed in all of our families - and it is known that mood disorders are highly inheritable - with at least 50%  concordance in monozygotic (identical) twins. So none of us were completely surprised).
  
But, that is how I knew that Janey suffered with anxiety and depression during her teen years; and Linda and Sara knew that my Bella suffered with anxiety and anorexia nervosa (although Bella has been now recovered from the eating disorder (ED) for two years). 

Linda, and Sara and I had offered each other words of encouragement and support - whenever we spoke.  We understood all the problems and the pain of mothering a child with a mental illness. We understood the frustrations and sadness and hospital admissions and medications and the patience required. We understood the long duration of these illnesses. Years. We understood the limitations of modern medicine to adequately treat mental illness. We understood … so much … that other people didn't.

As these thoughts flood into my mind, I realise that Linda is still talking to me. Only moments have passed since the beginning of our conversation on the phone. Yet, in those moments my memories and my feelings about Janey have hit me like a tidal wave. 

I also realise how much time has passed -  since we all last spoke in person. 

It has been over a year. 

We had intended to catch up.  I told myself that I would catch up with my old friends, Linda and Sara, when I could manage to find the time:

I was going to send a Christmas card to them. But, this year, for the first time in nineteen years - I didn't. I was so busy  - and then it was too late.

I was also going to send an e-mail to them - to arrange a summer bar-b-que for us all at my place - but I didn't.  I was so busy - and then it was too late. Summer was over and the weather had grown too cold - I told myself. 

And, later, I was going to send an Easter card - to make up for the missed Christmas card and the summer bar-b-que which didn't happen.  But, by then I felt awkward … and guilty … about all the time that had passed. And so - I didn't.

Linda mentions a funeral. I tell her that I will be there.  I will see her and Sara then.

The phone call finishes soon after this.  There are no words to say.  I put the phone receiver down.  

I am alone in the house.  My daughter, Bella, is off doing her year twelve exams this afternoon. I will wait until her exams are over before I tell her about Janey.  My other children are not yet home from school.  

I abandon my stoicism - which I have struggled with while talking to Linda on the phone.  My shock gives way to grief.  My tears flow.  My eyes become red and swollen.  It hurts so much.  So deeply. The grief is so deep and painful.

Soon after, I  pick my children up from school.  I stop at the shops on the way home to buy Sara and her family a sympathy card.  I write on the card and I post it.  Just like that. A task which I had told myself I was too busy to do. I discover that I am not so busy after all. Another regret on this sad afternoon.

The overwhelming emotions I  feel now - much later on the same day … are sadness and regret.  I type this blog entry through my tears.  I cannot sleep.  It is the middle of the night  and I know that I must go to work in only four hours time.

But dear sweet Janey is gone.  I wish so much that she wasn't.

I have watched her grow up over the last nineteen years.  I can still see her as a baby - in the baby room at child-care - with my daughter, Bella,  and Linda's daughter, Tyler.

I have photos of our girls taken at intervals - like stepping-stones - along the pathway of their lives:  

Sitting on my front verandar, wearing summer shorts and brightly coloured t-shirts, and eating ice-creams. 
Grinning at the camera during family bar-b-ques and picnics in public gardens. 
Playing at birthday parties with balloons, fairy-bread, and coloured wrapping paper all about them.

However the photos don't compare with my own memories of our girls.  My memories are more vivid and rich in colour than any photos; and my memories are filled with wonderful conversations, laughter and happiness.
  
My love for Janey will never fade.  Nor will my memories of her. Not for as long as I live.

I sit here thinking still. I can't think of anything that wasn't done to try to help Janey during her illness. Her parents are the most wonderful parents in the world.  Fact.  They did everything that they possibly could to try to help her. Over many years.  They never gave up.  The doctors tried very hard too.  As did the nurses, and the social workers, and friends, and relatives. 

It was a battle that was too hard ...

I think about Janey:  If only she knew how wonderful she was.  How the world was a better place with her in it.  How much we all loved her - and continue to love her still.

Regret will do no good.  I will ask Sara what I can do to be supportive and helpful to her now.  I will try to be more of a friend.  I will not make excuses, to myself, about how busy my life is and how I have so little free time.

My patients tell me that when tragedy happens - or when serious illnesses occur - other people often don't know what to say or do. My patients tell me that words of sympathy and support are always welcome.  They say a kind ear, a warm hug, a home-cooked meal, and a friend who visits them - even long after the tragedy is over -  or for the duration of a chronic illness - is what they hope for.

I will heed the advice of my patients. 


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And, to anyone reading this who suffers with a mood disorder (anxiety or depression) - please ask for help.  See your local doctor, talk to a friend, talk to someone you trust … and find help. 

Please know that I have had a mood disorder during my life, as have at least one in six people (15% of the population) - and recovery can be found.  Bad times don't last forever.  The sun comes out - and mood disorders can be treated and managed. But help from others will often be required. You will need to seek help and also allow other people to help you.  I know that can be hard - but it is necessary.  And it is so worthwhile putting in the effort to recover.


I have been spending the last few months writing a blog series about 'Eating disorders (ED's)' and recovery.  I was working on a blog for that series when I got the phone call today.  I have said that even if the blog helps just one person - it will be worth all the months and hours that I've put into it. 

(Note: It is all a bit slow - as I work five days per week currently - and I get limited time to write the blog).

In my ED blog series I have discussed mood disorders, seeking help, and working towards recovery.  If anyone reading this blog has a mood disorder (depression or anxiety or both) - you may start to work towards recovery by simply reading one of the ED series blogs.  It might be a beginning for you to find happiness and health again.


I have said over and over in my blogs - to everyone reading them: 

You are loved - and you are incredibly valuable (priceless) - even if you can't see that yet. And, even if you're in a lonely and sad place right now - things will get better - eventually.  Bad times don't last forever. You might need to be patient.  But never lose hope. You are meant to be here - in the world.  

Other people do understand how you feel.  

I understand how you feel.  I've been there.  

In fact, many people have suffered with depression and anxiety and they have recovered - with the help of other people and with hard work and hope.  I ask you to trust me when I tell you that things will improve for you.  The first step is to talk to someone - and ask for help.

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Note:  In Australia if you need someone to talk to:

Life Line (telephone crisis support). Phone: 13 11 14
                        − available 24 hours everyday