The
first time my husband walked out of our house intent on killing himself I thought,
days later when we were reunited in hospital, that it would be the last.
Seven
attempts later, he finally managed to take his own life. On that first
occasion, after breakfast one morning, Alastair just went out and failed to
return.
At
the time, we were both working from home, sometimes on joint projects,
sometimes not.
Lunchtime
that day came and went. At 6pm, I called his sons (from his previous marriage)
but they hadn’t heard from him.
Worried,
the eldest went driving around London to see if he could spot his father’s car.
I
started to wonder if he’d had a heart attack, whether he was lying ill on a
street corner.
I
switched to efficiency mode and took a tray where I placed three phones: the
landline and my mobile for incoming calls and another landline to use for
outgoing calls.
I
took this tray with me around the flat, fearful of missing that phone call from
my husband. When I called the police, they said they would log his
disappearance but couldn’t take action until he’d been missing for 48 hours.
So
I started to log all the calls I made – to whom I had spoken, at what time.
This copy book was added to the telephone tray.
It
was my way of coping. It was pointless being hysterical, I needed to keep calm
and feel a sense of control.
That
evening, his first wife came up from Kent to keep me company. She was as
surprised as I was – Alastair had never done anything like this before.
I
phoned him repeatedly; his phone went straight to voicemail. My voice messages
went from pleasant to angry to desperate.
After
24 hours, I hadn’t slept and I started phoning around my friends – just to talk
to keep myself sane.
I
called the police again and they came over to take information, leaving with
his hairbrush for DNA identification.
There
are no words to describe the torment I felt at not knowing. At times like this,
your mind is your worst enemy. After 48 hours, I decided to keep an appointment
with a friend in an attempt to get a semblance of normality.
As
I tried to sip my coffee, my mobile rang and a strange, small voice at the
other end said: ‘Hello, it’s me’.
After
three agonising days of silence, uncertainty and torture, I learned he had been
admitted to Addenbrooke’s Hopsital in Cambridge.
Alastair
had prepared his suicide with military precision: he had packed a plastic
glass, 2 bottles of wine, a blanket and my father’s morphine tablets and driven
off to Cambridge.
He
turned off his mobile so he couldn’t be located and removed the SW1 parking
permit and the disabled badge from the car which would link him to my parents.
This
was no random act. I was shocked and hurt at the duplicity of my husband whom I
thought I knew.
But
the relief washed over me when I heard he was alive. I took the train to
Cambridge and visited him – he was hooked up to countless machines, cleaning
his kidneys, changing his blood, treating his hypothermia.
In just three days, he – who had never been
overweight – had become skeletal. There was nearly nothing of him left. Even
his voice had changed as a result of the tubes that had been administered in
his coma.

My
first words to him were: ‘Do you want to live?’ to which he replied, ‘Yes,
please’.
As
I write this, I cry – hearing his little voice saying – so politely ‘yes,
please’ – tears trickle down my cheeks.
By
his bedside, I placed a happy picture of us together so that he could be
reminded of the wonderful days we had known.
I
hoped this would further renew his desire to live. Such was the extent of the
damage he did to himself, Alastair stayed three weeks in Addenbrooke’s. But he
was never referred to a psychiatrist.
At
the time, such treatment was rarely deployed to patients after their first
suicide – you have to have had two attempts at taking your life. Some people
say suicide is a cry for help. But there’s no way that Alastair’s trip to
Cambridge was to attract attention.
He
really meant to kill himself but thankfully, a dog and his walker intervened,
finding him unconscious in the woods.
I
hoped that the fact he had nearly lost his life would have brought attention to
the severity of his condition.
I
suggested to him that he should see a doctor but he refused. At the time, I
believed that he would not try to kill himself again.

Alastair
and I met in the early 90s – through The French Chamber of Commerce. At the
time, my role involved lots of events which I noticed he never came to.
One
day I confronted him and, from there, a romance started which led to my first
and only marriage and Alastair’s second.
That
was on 21 May 1994. Six months after his first attempt at taking his life, he
tried again.
This
time I knew he had gone off to kill himself. I find the term ‘attempt suicide’
a funny one because I know from personal experience you want to disappear in
earnest.
I
tried twice when I was in my teens – the result of a domineering mother – but
it’s not something I would have ever attempted again for not wanting to hurt my
husband.
Just
like the first time, there was no note and it was three days before I heard
anything.
This
time, I was at a friend’s house when the police rang me on my mobile to tell me
they had found him. This time he went as far as Scotland. After admitting to it
being his second attempt, he was placed in a psychiatric ward.
As
before, he had prepared everything to the last detail – including staying
overnight in a B&B which he paid in cash.
He
had taken himself to Royal Troon Golf Club where he used to play golf with his
father as a young boy.
And,
while he did take an overdose with ample quantities of wine, he was not able to
carry it through, walked back to his car, reassembled his phone and called for
an ambulance.
He
was escorted back to London by two nurses, where he was admitted to the
psychiatric hospital in Vincent Square.
That
time though, I could not find it in myself to forgive him nor could I find it
in myself to touch him, let alone hug him.
Alastair
received care from a wonderful psychiatrist, but he wasn’t given any
anti-depressants, as they believed he had undiagnosed mild Asperger’s – not
depression.
Alastair
had also come up with the notion that he did not want to be a burden to me or
his two sons from his previous marriage.
He
witnessed his mother disintegrate into Alzheimer’s, my mother with Parkinson’s
and ultimately my father with dementia – and he didn’t want to do that to us.
When
he was in the psychiatric hospital, he was allowed out for short visits but I
have to admit I was frightened of him. I thought I knew my husband but this
secretive side of him has been revealed.
During
that time, I only met him in public places. Though I didn’t disagree with the
Asperger’s diagnosis, the authorities seem satisfied with his condition and
eventually he was discharged.
At
first, he kept up his visits to a psychotherapist but, eventually, he stopped
those too. We managed to settle back in some kind of routine. Alastair was made
redundant which was a huge financial blow to us.
But,
we could cope. However, he was suffering from anxiety attacks so his GP
prescribed beta-blockers, but no link was established with his former attempts
to take his life.
So,
life returned to its normal pace – except, occasionally, I would raise the
subject of how his actions had hurt me and his sons. I would ask whether he
understood that and he would say he did.
I
so wanted to believe him and continued to hope he’d never do it, ever again.
But, one day, he took himself off to one of his favourite childhood spots – the
Isabella Plantation in Richmond Park.
I
can no longer recall what happened on this occasion. It’s all a bit of a blur
now. Perhaps my memory is sheltering me from the pain. I do remember, however,
it was after this attempt that we started sleeping in different bedrooms.
Then
there was a fourth attempt – this time he burnt his foot badly. He wouldn’t
tell me how this happened but I slowly learnt that he had jumped on to a train
track. From that day on, he had a limp.
I
could no longer bear the torture of seeing him leave the flat and not knowing
if he would ever come back.
Distrust
had settled in. And, with the distrust, the respect I had for him had gone. It
was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done, but I asked him to move out. I
hoped that he would understand that actions have consequences.
In
my own way, I was trying to save him. He found himself a flat in Balham and
changed his surgery, but he wouldn’t tell me the details of his new doctor or
surgery and I suspected he hadn’t told them of his desire to take his life.
We
would meet regularly – at least once a week – but when you love someone, as I
loved Alastair, you develop a sixth sense about them. One Friday afternoon, I
called him but the phone went straight to voicemail.
I
tried repeatedly but couldn’t get hold of him. Again, I tried the next morning
and left yet another message. But, at this point, I also called his younger son
and, together, we agreed to call the police.
Because
he by now had a well-established history, they immediately went round to his
flat. This time there was a note.
Ultimately,
it took my husband seven attempts before he finally took his life. That was
four years ago and it still hurts just as much to think about it now.
For
a while after his death, I would stand in the kitchen doing anodyne tasks, like
chopping onions, looking around, wondering where Alastair was. We would often
cook together, so much so that a friend called us ‘The Cradocks’ after the
early TV cookery couple.
It’s
strange, because I was not so aware of his absence when he was still alive, but
living in Balham. Somehow, there is something in my conscience that reminds me
that I will never see him again.
Only
recently I have started to think about dating. I have come out of a
self-protection ‘retreat’; I have been shielding myself from getting hurt
again.
In
my heart-breaking experience, I know my husband became incredibly deceptive,
something which I’m certain other families mourning the loss of lives through
suicide will have encountered with their loved ones when they piece together
those last days or weeks. For Alastair, I can only hope he now rests in peace.
Source: Metro.co.uk
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