Have you ever loved anyone who is depressed?

I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot lately. Deep, ponderings about suffering. Questioning my own deep seated belief that to take your own life is selfish and weak.

First things first... I’m not suicidal. Not in the slightest. I have always told myself it’s because I’m not selfish. Or weak. I’ve spent time in some very dark places in my years but I always pull through. Because – strong. But I’ve challenged those thoughts recently and I’ve surprised myself.

My father-in-law died a horrible cancerous death four years ago. A tumour was discovered in his sinus. Mucosal melanoma. The oncologist told him his best chance was to remove it and all that surrounded it... which was half his face. This may give him some more time. More time than the 80 years he had already lived. He was scared to do it and spent many hours deliberating. Discussing with his loved ones. With his family who all urged him to do it. “You HAVE to fight” was the message he got loud and clear. “Don’t let this beat you”. And so, bravely, he decided to go through with the procedure. He did fight. He fought hard. But he confided in me, not long before he passed that he wished he had never done it. Because it did beat him and it did not buy him time and we buried him with half his face missing.

When he died, like the countless others that I know who died at the hands of a debilitating disease, the people he left behind [us] were relieved. “Thank goodness his suffering is finally over” “He fought so hard but the pain was just too much for him” “He was so brave”.

Far too many of us have watched someone we love suffer intensely before dying. We watch disease ravage them. We watch them change before our eyes. We remember brighter days when they weren’t sick. When we could laugh together and have fun. When their body was fit and healthy. When all hopes and thoughts of the future included them. We watch them waste away before us as their illness takes hold. As their appetite wanes and their ability to put on a brave face become less frequent. We watch as the light dulls in their eyes from medication to help them ease the aching. We watch and we wait and we empathise because we can’t even imagine the hell they must be living in. Many of us sit by their bedside and hold their hands and give comfort as we assure them that we will be ok without them. That they can go. That they can give up the fight. It’s ok, we say. You have been so strong and so brave to hang on so long. It’s ok, we say.

But what if their disease is not physical? What if their illness is mental? What if the excruciating pain they are feeling is all in their head? Are they not brave too? Is their pain less worthy? Is their yearning for it to end really so selfish? Do they not deserve dignity too? Why do we urge our loved ones who suffer from physical pain to let go yet demand the ones that suffer from emotional pain to hang on?

Have you ever loved anyone who is depressed? And I’m not talking some bullshit down in the dumps or in a slump or a bit flat or sad. I mean bona fide, clinically depressed. Someone who is actually unable to function for weeks, months and even years on end. Someone whose emotional pain is so intense they are unable to maintain a relationship of any kind so that they are deeply alone and overwhelmingly lonely. Have you ever loved someone who is so devastated that they choose to physically harm themselves as a distraction to their internal suffering? Have you ever watched someone waste away before your very eyes and pull away from you so profoundly and have absolutely no way to help them? Have you ever watched someone you love self-medicate and seemingly prefer to choose poison over their relationship with you? Have you ever looked at someone you love, survive a suicide attempt and think “you’re so selfish” or “you’re so weak” or “you’re just doing this for attention”? Have you ever said to someone you love, who can’t seem to get their shit together who tells you they’re suffering and tries to explain the depth of that suffering to “snap out of it”?

As though they have a choice.

I know I’m only one generation shy of “there’s no such thing as mental illness”. I was brought up on “snap out of it” and “toughen up” and “there’s nothing wrong with you, you just need to work harder”. Will our next generation ‘get it’? Will my kids grow up understanding all the different pains in the world? Will their empathy extend to those whose suffering they don’t even understand?

Should it?

I think [hope] most of us are well intentioned. That our insistence that those we love who suffer from depression try harder is because we believe that’s all it takes. Because those of us who are healthy of mind can, actually, talk ourselves out of [and into] all sorts of moods and mindsets. I hope it is our naivety that fills us with the belief that all our suffering loved ones need is more company/stimulation/money/love to drag them out of their slump. I hope we are simply well-intentioned and naive because if we are not, then it is US who are selfish. It is US who are weak. It is US who need to snap out of it.

My truth is, I believe the fight is worth it for everyone. I believe life is worth it. I believe that if you have any fight in you then you should use it to war against any disease you have – physical or mental. I also believe that wars aren’t won without an army. In my family, when that bastard cancer is diagnosed [far too many times] we all suit up and stand strong as we face the enemy. We know that enemy well. We understand it and we hate it. So we fight. Together. Until the end. Because cancer is ok to have at the dinner table. It’s ok to have cancer at Christmas lunch. It’s sad, and sometimes confronting, but it’s there and we accept it – like an uninvited, estranged relative.

Depression, however, is not welcome at lunch. Or dinner. Or at picnics. Or even for coffee. Deep-seated, I’d-rather-be-dead-than-face-another-day depression is not welcome. It’s uncomfortable. It is not understood. It is not discussed. It is verboten. It is not real.

And so I ask you.

How can anyone possibly amass an army against an enemy that does not exist? 

And how can we possibly look our suffering loved one/s in the eye and ask them to stay without first trying to understand the pain that makes them want to leave?

Dear Dad

Sorry I missed your birthday this year. I’ve always found it ironic that my French Dad’s birthday is on Australia Day and that while I celebrate being an Aussie I always raise a glass of wine and say a ‘salut’ to you too. It wasn’t always that way, of course. We used to celebrate your birthday, just the two of us, at a beach somewhere. It was what I needed for a long time. I’m happy we’re past that now.

It’s been a while since I’ve written I know. I’m sorry for that too. Life is just so busy these days and I am consumed with living every minute to the fullest. Mum reckons I get that from you. She’s probably right.

I know I always told you that I wanted to marry you. Or at least a man like you and sadness would touch your smile when you would say 'No. Not for you ma petite chere'. Turns out you were right. Life with Mark is good. You like him don’t you? I know. What’s not to like? I wish you were here to drink with us. I’m sure marrying a man in the wine industry was more destiny than accident. He thinks so too. Have I told you what a good palate I have? It’s true. Mark reckons it’s in the genes. I don’t argue that. I like the inference. He’s different to you. Considered instead of reckless. Calm instead of passionate. Controlled instead of emotional. Consistent instead of irrational. He’s a good husband. Let’s face it, he’s a better husband than you were. That’s not an accident either.

Do you remember when you used to have all your friends over and Mum would cook French food for everyone and you’d all sit around the kitchen table and drink wine until all hours of the morning singing... and crying? My kids will never have those memories of their Dad and I’m happy for that.

Jason is doing ok. He misses you but keeps his feelings close to his chest. Sometimes he’ll be telling me a story and wave his hand about and I feel as though a younger you stands before me. It’s disconcerting. Mum feels it too and I see that it makes her happy and sad. She’s coming to visit you this year. 45 years after she met you and she’s finally going to see where you’re from. No, she could never be accused of being radical. You two. So different.

So, life is good Dad. Nathan just turned 8 and Stefan will be 6. I can hear you exclaim “Already??” I can’t believe it myself. It only seems like yesterday that I was telling you that I was pregnant and sharing the wonder of growing your grandchild in my bloody huge belly. Nathan is so proud that I gave him your name as his middle name. He tells everyone. Especially Stefan. Just something else to tease him about. I know you are proud of my boys. Do you see yourself in Nathan? I do. His eyes. His face. His mouth. His body. So much of you in him. It makes my heart burst. Stefan is a bit more of a mix of Mum's side and Mark’s side of the family. He’s got your passion though. And your hair. 

They talk about you sometimes. They’re learning French at school and have excellent pronunciation. They love reminding their class mates of their French heritage too. Now that we’ve cleared up the confusion that they are not actually Aboriginal. Don’t ask, Dad.

It’s been a bumpy ride, as life tends to be, but the bumps seem to be in the right places. I’m sorry it’s been so long. I know I promised that it wouldn’t be. I’ll write more often. I promise. Again.

I miss you Dad.

Rest in Peace xx

Let's Dance

OMA xx

I have often spoken about how my grandmother, Oma to me, Willy [short for Wilhelmina] to others, has influenced me. I have learned many, many things from her and she inspires me in so many ways, even now that she has passed. There is a moment in her life that defines her, for me. A moment that showed me and the world what she was about. I regularly draw on the strength of this moment when I feel that my own chips are down – and it gets me through. Maybe it will do the same for you.

Not long after Oma had undergone open heart surgery in her early seventies, she was called to quite a serious meeting with her doctors to discuss the results of some medical examinations they’d taken during their monitoring of her. Despite living here for over forty years, Oma retained a heavy accent which belied her firm and comprehensive grasp of the English language. Her doctors gravely explained that the results showed that she had a terminal and quite aggressive cancer called multiple myeloma. With sensitivity and resignation they advised her to get her affairs in order as they did not expect her to survive longer than twelve months. They explained how sick she would be and talked about the process of care she would require. Oma seemed to take this in and when given the opportunity to ask any questions of her doctors she asked only this “Can I still dance?” Her doctors had experienced this type of confusion and, perhaps, denial from many others before so asked if her daughter [my mum] could perhaps meet with them and her the following day so that they could explain it to her.

So, the following appointment was attended by the same doctors, Oma and now my mum too. The doctors repeated their prognosis to my mum and explained that they felt Oma was not clear about the terminal nature of her cancer and they asked if mum could translate for them, to overcome what they believed to be a ‘language barrier’. Mum, who took the news a bit harder, did as she was asked and translated the entire conversation into the family’s mother tongue, Dutch, to my quiet but unwavering Oma. The story mum tells me is that Oma listened, nodded and then replied, in Dutch “I bloody heard them the first time they told me, I just want to know if I can still dance!!”

She took that news better than anyone I have ever known to this day. Yes, she understood she had cancer. Yes, she understood it was killing her. Yes, she understood she was dying. But… what she did that day is tell cancer to go and fuck itself. She was going to go out the way she wanted, despite cancer’s plans for her. She DID dance. Five nights a week she could be found twirling around in one of her gorgeous gowns. She could foxtrot, tango, waltz, samba and dip like a beauty queen. Once she BROKE HER HIP and didn’t tell anyone so that she could dance on Saturday night. She was a bit slower on the dance floor that night but she went. And she danced. Then she admitted herself to hospital on Sunday morning, smiling. She told me “It’s a miracle Tania. Even if I can’t walk all week – my legs can move on Saturday night”.

She danced her way through EIGHT YEARS more of her amazing life.

Take that cancer.