Rich’s story
The night is darkest just before dawn’. My main message to bereaved partners is: it might not feel like it at the time, but there will be a time when everything is OK again, and you won’t need to feel guilty for feeling OK either.
The morning of October 25th 2022, was undoubtedly my absolute rock bottom, the moment when my world caved in. I had no idea how my family or I would ever be able to cope. Before I lost my wife, I used to live by the mantra of ‘everything happens for a reason’, but now I live more peacefully accepting that ‘everything works itself out’. The worries, anxieties, anger and despair you feel, will, in time, become manageable.
The lead-up to that morning was relatively short, and sudden. My wife had had no history of mental health issues. She was the kindest, most thoughtful wife and mum you could imagine.
Our first child, Freddie, had entered the world with some complications; the birth was drawn out and it was a few weeks until I finally felt good about becoming a dad. In spite of what people might tell you, especially on social media, you don’t have to fall in love with your child straight away just because you feel you have to. It can be a scary time for many reasons.
Thankfully Rosie’s birth was much more straightforward. She came quickly, as is often the way with a second child (there was a moment when I worried I’d have to deliver her myself at the start of the road on the way to the hospital!) and within an hour of arriving at the hospital, Rosie had arrived.
We muddled through the first few weeks. Everything intensified four weeks after the birth. Alex told me as soon as I walked through the door one day that she wasn’t well. She’d become extremely anxious, and told me how everything felt exhausting, and she was worried how we’d be able to function. I didn’t really know what to do or say, except to listen, do what I could with Rosie, and speak to Alex’s mum. I slept next to Rosie that night, to let Alex catch up on some sleep in the next room, and we decided to do some low-key activities that weekend with her parents, who were always very hands-on and helpful. We made the decision to stop breastfeeding and move to formula so I could help with the feeding. Alex had a look on her face the whole time which I’d never seen before, it was like she was full of a mix of torture, sadness and despair combined with a look of determination, and yet somehow at the same time she seemed completely vacant. We knew something wasn’t right with her and the next day Alex and her mum visited her GP while I stayed with Freddie. The GP booked her in to speak to a mental health professional that week and prescribed antidepressants, which would take around two weeks to take effect.
That night was stormy, and my sleep was disrupted. It sounded like someone was knocking at the door at around 2am, but I’d not long fed Rosie and just assumed something was banging about in the wind. I also noticed my phone had a missed call from an unknown number. I put it down to a scam call and thought nothing of it, until Alex’s mum came into my room at 4am to tell me. The missed call and the knock had both been from the police but, because they couldn't reach me, they had had to tell her first instead, which I still cannot comprehend from her parents’ point of view.
I often get asked by my friends, as well as people who don’t know me, how did you cope? How did you survive?’ My answer is simple. I survived because I had to. For the sake of my children. There was no other way; I had no other option – my fight or flight kicked in at that moment:
While I spent the next few hours drowning in a flood of disbelief, torment, desperation and devastation, trying to get through to family and friends in the wee hours, I knew at seven o’clock, when Freddie’s Gro Clock turned yellow and he knew it was daytime, I had to be by his door ready for him to fling it open, to be ready to be as normal as possible for him and to go down and play with his train set. I knew that Rosie would need her milk and her nappy changed as soon as she woke. I knew that there were so many practical things which simply needed to happen. Freddie at the time really loved having coloured bath bombs at bath time, and as Alex was always the one who sorted this kind of stuff, I bought some from Amazon – five hours after I learnt that my wife had died – just because I knew I had to.
The worst thing I’ve ever had to do was tell Freddie that Mummy had died. He kept asking throughout the day, ‘Where’s Mummy gone?’ and had obviously picked up that something was wrong with the number of people suddenly in the house. When I couldn’t take him asking any longer (and knowing that telling him ‘She’s gone to work’ wasn’t the right thing long-term because he might then associate the idea of anyone going to work with them not coming back), I whisked him away to his room to tell him. I had to be blunt and make it final and that she wasn’t coming back because I’d been told that you have to be clear and literal with such phrases. ‘Mummy’s died and she’s not coming back. It’s very sad but she loved you very much’.
He didn’t completely understand of course; he knew it was sad, but he quickly became distracted by the Halloween torch he’d noticed under his bed. That made it even harder for me, but I had to (and even now, still have to) accept that this was completely normal behaviour for a young child upon receiving this kind of news. In fact, it’s still very hard now: any time he or I mention mummy, it immediately opens my floodgates, and while I’m comfortable with him seeing me upset, his sadness is only temporary, and it’s still hard for me to get back to normal for him.
The next few days were a whirlwind. I had countless phone calls from the police, from various investigation teams, a guy coming round to take fingerprints, on top of the numbers of friends and family who came round. It just felt like I was in a haunting Netflix drama. It was only after the funeral that one of Alex’s friends suggested that she may have suffered from postpartum psychosis. I’d never heard of it before. On researching it, and discovering APP, it all made sense. Feeling a sense of extreme anxiousness, helplessness and isolation, the sudden chemical balance in her brain made Alex feel like there was no way she could continue.
I could easily beat myself up for what happened and question my involvement in many stages in the build-up to losing Alex. Should I have been more proactive when she first told me she wasn’t well? Could I have given more practical support around the house? Should I have contacted someone – the police, an ambulance? Perhaps, but I’ve since learnt that these feelings of blame and guilt are completely normal for someone bereaved by suicide, as a really helpful charity called BAGS testify. But no one should feel any sense of blame or guilt when they lose a loved one, and I had a real clear sense that no feelings of anger, regret or wondering ‘What if…?’ would bring her back, so I instead chose, and still choose, to channel my energy into as much of a forward-thinking mindset as possible.
I returned to work as soon as possible, after five months, for two days a week, when Rosie’s nursery was able to accept her earlier than scheduled. I wasn’t especially productive, but it was a safe space, a ‘normal’, and so helpful for me to get back into some sort of routine. That word ‘routine’ has helped me in so many ways. Freddie and Rosie (I’m so desperate to tell them this when they’re old enough to understand) were a vital part of me establishing this routine, because I had to be normal for them and I had to be positive for them.
I felt, and still feel, this huge need to be connected to people, to not feel isolated. I was thankful to friends, family and colleagues for always checking in, always popping round (especially if they brought some ready meals with them…). Through no one’s fault, there were (and are) still times when I felt cut off, like those dreams you have when you’re in a race and you see everyone else zoom off into the distance, while you’re stuck in treacle by the start line. I’m so thankful to the team at APP for being so supportive as well as empathetic, right from the moment I reached out to them. Eighteen months after I lost Alex, I attended an APP training event for a bereavement support group, where I met for the first time a group of men who knew exactly how I felt, who had suffered loss either of a partner or a mum, and it was really powerful.
I’ve never put myself down as a religious or spiritual person, but something happened on the two-year anniversary of us losing Alex which simultaneously made me question these beliefs and gave me a huge sense of comfort. From a year after he lost his mum, Freddie had wanted to sleep in my bed. He always sleeps solidly until around 7am and would barely stir. But at 4am on the 25th October, two years to the minute since I was told about Alex dying, he suddenly sprung upright, turned, tapped me excitedly on the shoulder and said, ‘I really love you, Daddy,’ before promptly heading back off to sleep. There’s no way I can’t believe this is a sign that Alex is somewhere, with us, with him, and I take great comfort from that above all else.
