Statistics, reflections and revelations

Today the chief coroner released suicide statistics for the last year.   I suppose that's how it goes - in birth and death, you become a statistic.  But for most, the death part isn't a report that is publicised in the media.  This report was unprecidented in its detail, particularly regarding methods of suicide.  This time last year, I never would have imagined that this report would have any particular significance to me.

The media in this instance mostly discussed the suicide rates in earthquake stricken Christchurch, and the continuing high incidence of youth suicide.

Mum's is reflected in tiny numbers.  One of two women in her age group. One of two who used methods described as 'other.'  Always in life what I would have described as a quiet conservative radical, this obviously stands right to the end.

Discussing suicide is controversial.  It has only been in the last year that statistics this details have been made public.  There are restrictions on reporting suicide 'methods' for fear of copycats.

Most of what you can find on suicide is about youth. And a loss of youth to suicide is a terrible thing.  But elder suicide is rarely discussed, rarely makes a statistical dent, yet can be very controversial in a different way.  The report was released as it is felt it's time to re-evalute the role information plays in suicide prevention.  Young people aren't supposed to die.  But elder suicide is different, and more of an ethical minefield.  Is it acceptable because they are elderly, or is it still selfish when they have loved ones they stand to hurt when they go?  I would have described Mum as a Humanist, but even Humanist thought is a little conflicted, considering it a right to have autonomy, which might include deciding your time of departure, but then reminding us that, with suicide,other people are impacted, hence this may be a contradiction.

Our family found one of the difficult things about Mum's death was dealing with other people's expectations, other people's assumptions, and other people's reactions. Those who didn't know how she died were simply shocked she had.  Some who did know were shocked how. 

Which is why I wrote this and read it at Mum's funeral. [excerpts only]

Before Mum died, she was just carrying on life as normal. She had done her Friday shopping, including buying another four blocks for her retaining wall in her garden, she had done some ironing, written a cheque to send away to renew her NZ Herald subscription and sent me an email asking me a question. The spade in the garden, newly planted seedlings and a footprint in the soil suggest that gardening was the last activity Mum carried out before she left us.
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We believe that Mum carried out what is known in some circles as ‘rational suicide’ – a weighing up of the pros and cons, with death being the better option. Upon looking back at her life, she saw she had achieved everything she had set out to do, and more. She had been happy when she never believed it possible. A woman of her word, she had done her duty to her husband to the end of his life. Her children had been nurtured to adulthood, safe and successful and happy. She had become a grandmother and mother-in-law. In her own words “In 1972…I hardly dared hope that I would ever be a mother, let alone a Nana.”

Her moved to a retirement village resulted in her having, we believe, a disproportionate amount of contact with old ladies with dementia, old ladies who were blind, old ladies with walking frames who could go no further than the village lounge. We believe this, combined with memories and upsetting experiences of her own parents’ deteriorating health and suffering as a result, saw her looking forward to a future she didn’t want, and wanted to stop before she got to that place. [My husband] said to me, ‘But she was a strong independent woman!’ to which I replied, ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t always be.’ And we believe this frightened her more than death.

In the words of Mark Twain: “Lord save us all from old age and broken health and a hope tree that has lost the faculty of putting out blossoms."

We believe the choice to end her life was a final act of self determination. We believe that she wanted to end her time on earth at the moment she decided was right.

First century philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca said: "Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage, or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life." 

.. we understand such thinking about voluntary death is controversial and difficult to understand. But we are asking you to have faith that we have found peace, and do not believe Mum’s departure was a selfish act or a desperate act.

After a satisfying afternoon in the garden, Mum’s work was done.




If you are worried about yourself or a friend or family member who is depressed or anxious or may be having suicidal thoughts, please call someone who can help. If this is an older person, be sensitive to the fact that mental illness may carry socio-cultural baggage for them,and assure them that seeking help for mental health issues is as relevant as seeking help for physical issues.

Lifeline 0800 5222999
Local District Health Board Crisis phone numbers
Depression Helpline 0800 111 757
Depression in older people - Age Concern

What does grief look like?

I have just been reflecting on grief and loss.  Sometimes I feel like I've had more than my fair share of loss this last eighteen months, and at other times, I'm surprised by how 'well' I seem to be coping.

Grief is a unique emotion that nobody can describe until you feel it.  And even then, how you experience it is as different as you are from the next person.

To begin with, I did surprise myself with how well I was coping.  But grief is sneaky, and I sometimes feel it...sitting there...just behind my heart..waiting for the moment to pounce.

This makes it seem like grief is an unwelcome visitor, but its not really.  I understand I must embrace it and work with it.  Sometimes we wrestle, sometimes we sit and chat.

Sometimes it is vivid memories of good times.  Sometimes it is trying to grasp what my brother must have been feeling when he found Mum.  Sometimes it is a smell or image that opens up the door to my heart and lets grief in. But Mums things all around me give me comfort. I think about my children, and how two of them will have no memories of her.  That is when I start to wonder why... why would you leave them?  But I am not angry, as I know enough to know why she did leave.  I am coming over the crest of a hill, and looking down onto the landscape of my older boy's passage into teenagehood in the not too distant future - how can I face that without her to go to for guidance?

Sometimes grief is a knawing emptiness.  Sometimes its a bottomless sadness.  I am struggling with anxiety and a lack of motivation, and I attribute that to this process.

But most of the time its just trying to understand the world without Mum and Dad - but especially, Mum - in it.  Its not easy.  Mum has always been there.  She was my rock, my safe place.  Her home - which was my home - was a haven of warm tea and idle chat about the garden or the kids.  As a friend once said, 'you're never too old to be an orphan.'  Where can I go to now for that safe haven?

The world has been rearranged.  I will not be the same person ever again.  One thing is sure.  Grief is not an event.  Its not even a feeling.  It is a journey.

A picture says a thousand words

In 2009, my Aunt became ill with lung cancer, and began the process of moving from her large family home to a granny flat at my cousin's property.

As part of her move, she began to distribute some of her belongings amongst the family.

I have always been the one who saw value in kitschy things, and in the past my receipt of family heirlooms has been things like a souvenir shell lamp from Naple, Italy or a teapot shaped like a house.

As a part of this transfer of treasures, my mother received boxes and boxes of family photographs, most with records of who and what faithfully written on their backs.

Once Mum passed away, I have found many treasures, but this one has a special place in my heart.

This photo is of my mother, aged 4 weeks old, so would have been taken in 1933.  Her eyes turn towards the light, and one has to wonder what intriguing play of light has caught her eye.

Motherhood is a powerful thing that binds the generations.  This photo might not mean very much to you if you aren't a mother.  It might just be a nice photo of a new baby.  But to me it says everything about being a new mother.  It is almost as if this photo can tell me what my grandmother was thinking.  Marvelling at this new life...gazing on her in wonder at this beautiful creation.  What will her personality be like?  What will she grow up to be?  Can I look after her and love her enough?
Even over 70 years later, this photo tugs at my heart, because it could have been taken yesterday - it could have been a photo of my first baby taken nearly ten years ago.  Mothers have the same sense of awe and wonder now as they did then.

In October 2010, my friend Paula took this photo of a wee baby named Orion and his moments after birth.  I don't know Orion or his Mum, but I don't need to in order to feel what this photo means.  And because Paula is a Mum too, I can bet there was a buzz of emotion swirling around when she took this photo.  I can feel it.

Nearly eighty years on, it makes no difference.  A photo captured at the right moment says everything.  It can be impossible to describe.  It isn't just what you see.  Its what you feel.

Check out Paula's website and blog
http://www.secondnaturephotography.co.nz/
http://secondnaturephotography.co.nz/blog/?p=21

Would my mother have been a blogger?

Wednesday 5 June 1996.
There was a thick fog this morning and when the sun finally won through the grass was sparkling with dew. When I took Peanut for his walk we went across the reserve up by the top shops. He was trotting along with his head down and when I looked closely, I saw he was lapping up the dew as he went.

These are the sorts of treasures that we found when clearing out Mum’s house after she passed away. Diaries dating back to 1949. Much of it was accounts of the day – and even at the time probably seemed more than a little mundane. But mundane things take on a sense of history with the passage of time – they reflect social norms and trends of the time.

Thursday 20 June 1950
Work. Typing. I had to type a telegram for Mr Newton at work. Went with Miss. Sweet to do the banking.

Diaries with references to the ‘new’ fountain at Mission Bay, with work colleagues referred to by their titles, movies that were seen, books that were read, news that made headlines (‘Princess Elizabeth had a baby girl’) all point to things that were a priority to a 17 year old girl in 1950.

At the end of the day, we don’t change an awful lot. How we communicate does.
Yesterday my Facebook status said ‘Going to the park without sunhats is a bad idea.’
Mum’s diary on the exact same day sixty one years ago said: ‘Wet day. Did some of my map. Went for a swim after dinner in the rain. It was good. Washed my hair. Listened to the games. Drew.’

Time may have passed, but whether its 2011, 1996 or 1950, and whether they are immortalised on thin lined paper, in an Anne Geddes diary, on a blog or Facebook page wall, they are still words and they still tell a story