When patients are prescribed steroids, they can develop psychiatric symptoms such as depression, delirium and psychosis.

My Dad suffered from an acute form of leukaemia that was so aggressive that leukemic cells infiltrated his brain during the first night that we spent in hospital. This caused swelling in the brain so consequently he endured excruciating headaches, and it seemed no amount of morphine could ease the pain. I resorted to massaging my Dad’s head in an attempt to comfort him, to which his response was ‘your hands help’, and so of course I stood at the head of his hospital bed for over an hour massaging his temples until a nurse came to collect him for an MRI scan, relieving me of my duties for a short while. He was soon administered steroids through an IV drip with the intention that they would reduce the swelling and therefore stop the headaches. Thankfully the steroids did the job, and the pain gradually became lesser and lesser.

Initially my Dad responded really well to chemotherapy in the sense that it killed all the leukemic cells and the doctors thought that he was going to make a slow and steady recovery. There was improvement every day and it was for this reason that I felt I could leave my Dad and the hospital for a few hours under the watchful eye of his sister Mary, to attend university. My education and future was of the utmost importance to my Dad, and despite the chaos that had so drastically overtaken our lives in a matter of days, he had still expressed concern that I was missing lectures. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel any form of guilt or responsibility for my lack of attendance, and so off I went to learn about all things medical; it was a welcome distraction.

I returned to Whiston hospital to find my Auntie in the waiting area with her head in her hands and tears in her eyes. She told me, ‘He is saying the most horrible things.’ Before entering my Dad’s private room, the doctor pulled me aside and explained that my Dad was experiencing psychosis induced by the steroids. At this point I really underestimated the emotional toll that this would take on me, thinking that I could ignore anything negative that my Dad might have to say, knowing that it was due to the steroid psychosis.

Within 5 minutes of greeting my Father, I was in tears. Thanks to the steroids he was no longer in much physical pain, but it was at the expense of his mental state. Despite the warning from my Auntie and the doctor, I was unprepared. Nothing could ever have prepared me for the moment when my Father stared directly into my eyes with pure desperation, and begged me to end his life.

“Take all of my things out of this room. Go and get Ken. Tell him to bring his shot gun here in the middle of the night when no one else is around, and he needs to kill me.”

The more I told him that he was in fact getting better, the more distressed he became. At one point he was almost crying because my dismissal of his suicidal strategising was making him think that I wasn’t ‘on his side’. I never wanted him to think that I had let him down. I needed him to feel that he could trust me no matter what because I was the only bit of hope he had, and so I decided to falsely entertain the idea. It made me sick to do so, but I told him that I had made the arrangements with Ken, a life long friend of his, which was of course a lie. I thought that this would pacify him for some time, but the relentless pleading continued because he was desperate for me to go and get Ken myself. The last thing I wanted to do was to leave my Father’s side but the longer I stayed, the more insistent he became. Leaving him on a false promise that I was on my way to arrange his death was one of the most harrowing things I have ever done, however it was the only thing that seemed to satisfy him slightly. In that moment he truly believed that he was never going to see me again and it was soul destroying.

Out of the month that my Father was in hospital, I spent a total of 4 nights away from him, that night being the first. Every other night I spent on a camp bed next to where he lay. I felt the need to appear strong and positive in front of him and so I was determined to never let him see me cry (although I wasn’t always capable of this). That night, uncontrollable guilt and hysteria overwhelmed me the moment I stepped out of his room. Steroids or no steroids, I just couldn’t deal with the fact that he was hurting so much that he thought ending his life was the only answer.

Life has shown me some things that I never wanted to see. I try not to let traumas of the past haunt me but realistically I have no choice. Alas we have no control over the horrors that visit us in our nightmares.

by Laura-Jane Worthington

 

‘Look on not back and up not down, whilst it’s sunny make the hay.

The silver lining of a cloud is never far away.

Keep smiling when it’s hard to do and follow this simple creed.

Never let them see you hurt, don’t let them see you bleed.’

 

This verse forms part of the poem Forty something Philosophy written by my Dad.

It’s no secret that under any circumstance, I hate crying in front of other people. I find myself either trying my best to hold back the tears, diverting the conversation or disappearing into private. Of course I know all too well that we do not choose to cry, but generally I will only be seen in uncontrollable hysterics if escaping isn’t an option.

My Dad’s motto – ‘Don’t let them see you bleed.’ I’ve seen Dad shed a tear only on a couple of occasions in my whole life. Twice I have seen him doing everything in his power not to burst out crying. Dad never specifically told me that he saw this as a sign of fragility, however when he spoke the words ‘Don’t let them see you bleed’, it became apparent that this was in fact the case. I know he didn’t view other people to be weak if they were crying; however he was afraid of sharing emotion in case it altered our opinion of him, and I have absolutely no idea why.

I believe it requires a great deal of bravery for someone to wear their heart on their sleeve, lay the cards on the table in a situation when they’re the most vulnerable and admit to the world, ‘I am broken’.

Although I don’t necessarily believe in my Father’s philosophy, I realise that I may have unknowingly tried to adopt this aspect of his personality. I think it is for this reason, that on the day of my Father’s funeral I didn’t cry in front of anyone. Sometimes the impossible only becomes possible when you’re doing it for someone if you love him enough.

Until October 2015, I had rarely seen a grown man reduced to tears. I find it the most difficult to hold it together when I see men cry for the loss of my Dad, their best mate, their brother. In a situation that at the time seemed so surreal, this confirmed for me that I was actually living and breathing this nightmare. But Dad’s motto still bounces round my head, and so I hold it together.

 

John Worthington well and truly earned the nickname ‘Rhyming Ringo’. The following poem was written by my Dad for and about his best friend, Joe Lynch.

Forty something Philosophy

 

Life’s been good and life’s been bad,

but seldom do you see me sad.

Life’s been up and life’s been down,

but rarely do you see my frown.

 

The secret for my contentment, an enigma it is not,

I’m satisfied with what I have, happy with my lot.

I’ve been through all the striving, for more and better things,

I’ve paid the price for material wealth, it cost two wedding rings.

 

Look on not back and up not down, whilst it’s sunny make the hay.

The silver lining of a cloud is never far away.

Keep smiling when it’s hard to do and follow this simple creed.

Never let them see you hurt, don’t let them see you bleed.

 

Don’t worry what’s round the corner, or what fate has in store.

If we knew what would happen, life would be such a bore.

Be aware of this thesis, and don’t get too involved.

“Life’s a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved.”

 

 

J.M.W.

Spring 2002

“perspective

pəˈspɛktɪv/Submit

noun

1. a particular attitude towards or way of regarding something; a point of view.“

 

Friday 13^th November 2015 – Following the passing of my Father, I drive home alone from Whiston hospital. I arrive home, the television is on and showing the news. Terrorist attacks by suicide bombers and gunmen in Paris leave 130 dead and hundreds wounded.

All I can think about is how I have never felt pain like this before and certainly there is no possible way that I could feel worse than I do right now. For a moment I listen to the news reporters on the TV, and I begin to imagine how I might feel if my Dad had died along with the other 130 innocents at the hands of terrorism in Paris on that very same night.

With this thought comes the realisation that I would assuredly feel considerably worse at this moment, had that been the cause of my Father’s death. My Dad died surrounded by his siblings and myself. The last vision he saw was his beloved daughter by his side. I said ‘I love you’ over and over again to ensure that was the final sound he heard. My hands locked into his hands and in those final moments, John Michael Worthington knew more than anyone else on this earth that he was loved an indescribable amount by the most important people.

In their final moments, I would guess the victims of the Paris attacks were terrified and surrounded by strangers. They were deprived of the company of their families and instead of love, they felt petrified.

I recognise what my Auntie and Uncles are going through and what my Dad previously went through when it came to my Grandma Molly. Dementia has stolen the memory of this beautiful lady. The more I think about it, if I was in their position or it ever got to the stage where my own Father couldn’t remember who I was anymore, I think this would cause me to be more broken than I currently am.

Perspective. It’s all about understanding that regrettably, worse things have happened and will continue to happen to other people every moment of every day. Perspective forces me to acknowledge that no matter how distraught I feel, I am still more fortunate that countless others. I find myself creating horrendous scenarios, or analysing others heart breaking experiences and comparing them to my own in order to put things in perspective. Some people might find this unsettling. These thoughts don’t necessarily comfort me, however they act as a coping mechanism that seems to have helped me get this far.

Today my wonderful Grandma Molly turns 95 and so this evening I will visit her in the care home where she resides. She has now suffered from dementia for almost 8 years and this barbaric disease has stolen the vast majority of her treasured memories.

My Grandma became very distressed and understandably upset for all of 15 minutes, after she was informed that her Sister had died. Then the memory was lost and her Sister remained alive and well, as far as she knew. It is for this reason that my Grandma remains blissfully unaware of the death of her Son and therefore did not attend his funeral. What would be the point of tearing her world apart for it all to be forgotten 10 minutes later?

The developing smile is true rather than polite when she first sees me. She doesn’t know me by name, but the sparkle in her eyes assures me that she is genuinely happy to see me, whoever I may be. She does not partake in conversation, she simply listens to what I have to say and responds with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and I am fully aware that a few minutes after I leave, she probably has no recollection of my visit at all.

Do I look forward to visiting my sweet, kind-hearted, selfless Grandma? The honest answer is no. I was once the apple of her eye and now she is no longer able to know who I am, which is sincerely incredibly painful. Its difficult to watch a loved one forget how much they love you, and to know that she can never remember the moments that I will never forget.

Despite not finding the experience enjoyable, there are 2 reasons why I continue to visit Grandma Molly. For me it is important to live without regret knowing that I have done the right thing for someone that I love, even if it pains me to do so. I do it to make her happy and enrich her life, even if it is only for an hour or so until she forgets that I even exist. 

Reason number two… Her eyes. My Dad’s eyes. When I look into those shining blues I am reminded of what it is like to see my Father again. At the age of 95 it is presumable that Grandma’s time left on earth is limited, and therefore  I intend to make the most of this precious opportunity until they blink and close for the very last time.

Friday 13^th November 2015. On this day at 5:45pm my life changes forever and I begin to experience what most people might call ‘grief’ for the loss of my Father.

For multiple reasons I have opted to ignore the truth to some extent. Over the past 7 months I have been occupied with full-time University, exams, refurbishing a house, a part time job, the list goes on. The daily fight against my instincts telling me to lock myself away and hide from the world, has allowed me to ‘get the job done’ to the best of my ability. Finally I have reached the end of the tightrope, and it is time to step off. The balancing act is over. It’s time to sit down, take a breath and realise.

I fear now that my mind is no longer distracted 24/7, in order to refrain from descending into complete madness (assuming that I haven’t done so already) it is necessary to trial a new coping mechanism. I have been accused of avoiding conversation about my feelings. This is because I hate crying in front of people. Hence another reason why I have decided to blog is to inform my family and friends where my headspace is at.

Whether anyone reads this or not does not matter to me, as I am using blogging principally as an outlet to help me come to terms with what has happened. This is my opportunity to be incredibly honest with myself. My aim is certainly not to offend others, although if anyone finds content disagreeable I simply do not care. I am not doing this to seek for compliments, I’m already fully aware and more than proud of myself for the actions I have taken since October 2015.

If blogging doesn’t help this healing process, I will stop. However if it helps me, I will continue to blog until I no longer feel the need to do so.

by Laura-Jane Worthington