Thirty-Four.
When I think about it now, I remembered that my parents had never been happy. Looking back, I really did see that they were simply chasing after what time had taken from them - that love, that spread through their lives like wildfire when they were young, gushing through their veins as part of every drop of blood in their body.
But I was a kid, for God's sake. How was I supposed to notice, or understand? What was I supposed to do but believe what I was told? Who could really expect me to see beyond what was right in front of me? I was always under the impression that they were okay; I held a firm belief that they loved each other more than anything in the world. I remembered them having a fight or two after we moved to Stretford- shortly before they started spending most of their time in Manchester, and left me alone or with the housekeeper a lot. Mum would come home to me more often than Dad would, but I still often complained that it wasn't enough. I never understood why she couldn't live with me all the time anymore.
I realised now she was just trying to protect me, and somehow fix her own life at the same time. She and Dad were still trying to work things out, and she didn't want me in the middle of that. I don't know whether I would've preferred knowing what was going on to now finding out that the impressions, beliefs and attitudes I had that shaped some of my more cherished years of childhood memories, were built on nothing but lies. What I didn't know then, was that I knew nothing. I guess anything's possible when you care enough- and when your kid is naive and innocent enough, to need nothing more than a few words to be convinced she knew the truth; but I still don't know how Mum managed to hide everything that happened in the last few years of her life from me.
She and Dad had become nothing but friends- and not even very good ones at that. Sure, it could've been worse- I could've had parents like Benn's, who couldn't spend two minutes in the same room without being at each other's necks. But what made it hard for Mum, and Dad, I suppose, was that they knew how much more was out there. They'd fallen so in love, and so young, that they knew just how much it was possible to love a person. They knew just how passionate love could be, just how blissful. They knew how someone's smile could turn a rainy day into the new best day of your life. They knew how much they were capable of giving, and how much love they were capable of finding and receiving. They spent their entire adult life aching for what they had as teenagers, and while they knew it was out there, they also knew they couldn't go and find it again.
What made it harder still was that Mum and Dad lost each other together. Other people dumped each other for silly or not-so-silly reasons, they moved apart in anger and rage, or simply an attempt to let go. But when other people fell out of love, they left each other's lives. But Mum and Dad still had each other to remind them of what they had lost- every single day.
Dad dealt with it better, or differently at least, than Mum. I still don't really know what he was like on the inside; mentally, but it couldn't have been as bad as Mum. The big brown envelope, along with everything Dad told me the other night, meant I knew just what went on inside Mum- for years. And just what happened to her in the end.
It was probably about the same time that Dad met Kate that it all started. I still don't know if Mum knew yet then, but I don't think it would've made a difference. In an attempt to get away from the things she was feeling, Mum immersed herself in her work, and devoted herself to loving me with every single bit of her shattered heart. She knew depression was just one step behind her, every day, but she was determined to fight it- she simply ignored what she felt: trapped, lost, and desperate to turn back time. I don't know how you can just ignore that sort of thing; and, as it turns out, it really isn't that easy.
Before all this, I'd never thought of depression as a mental state or an illness, as much as simply an attitude. I thought it was something that everyone went through when they got sad. Sure, as I started growing up I realised how bad it could get. But I still never looked at it as something that was harmful unless you made it so. I never realised that it was a mental state that could so easily get out of hand, and was so hard to fight. I never knew it was something that was always nagging at your conscience. I never knew it could harm you, physically. And to be honest, I never thought the truth about it, and the seriousness of it was something I would have to learn in such a hard way- or at all, I guess.
It all caught up with her one day. Dad began to realise just how serious it was and forced her to go to a doctor. They diagnosed her with depression, and quite severe depression at that. But she refused medication and counselling, and the best Dad could do was get the pills for her and spend hours every day trying to convince her to take them. She still refused though, insisting she could beat it.
But eventually it began to consume her. Dad began to stop her from coming home to see me sometimes then, to keep me sheltered from it all. She never argued much, because deep inside she knew he was right. She too, wanted to keep me well away from it all. I remembered that she changed a lot that year. I was just too naive and unsuspecting to notice or make much of it then. But she lost a lot of weight, and she hardly ever had an appetite. We used to sit together, a spoon each, with a family sized tub of Ben & Jerry's, watching movies on Saturday nights. But that year, it was different. She'd still get the ice cream and the movies, but it would only be me with a spoon. And while she'd take the occasional bit I offered her, I'm pretty sure she only did it to make me happy- and to make sure I remained unwary. I often caught her smile fading into worried, tired eyes when she thought I wasn't looking. She'd smile and be "herself" again as soon as she did notice I was watching her. She still thought she could beat it then.
Sometime early in spring the year after that, she finally decided to take the medication she'd been prescribed. She seemed better for a while, and every doubt in my mind, regarding whether or not she was alright, disappeared in a matter of moments. I was happy in my blissful ignorance again.
What neither I nor anyone else knew or saw was that while she seemed better, mentally, and even physically- she stopped losing incredible amounts of weight, and even developed a slight appetite again- she was far from alright. She started fainting quite frequently, and while alcohol wasn't recommended, she'd been told that a few drinks every now and then wouldn't harm or adversely affect her in any way. But when she did drink- at social gatherings, nights out, what have you - it affected her more than it should have. The doctors said that her body simply had problems digesting the alcohol and getting it out of her system, causing her stabbing pains, killer headaches, and loss of consciousness. They told her to drink less and put her on drugs to help her liver function better.
But no one ever told her to just stop completely- and the amount of medication she was on by then meant she wasn't in a state of mind to figure it out. And Dad just didn't care enough, I guess- or he just didn't know. After all, no one did.
What kills me most about all this is that no one thought to look twice. She saw so many doctors, went to so many specialists, and went through so much. Thing is, if they had thought to look twice, or look more carefully the first time, there's a good chance she would be alive now.
Late that spring or very early that summer, she had some sort of panic attack. It was worse than most the doctors in the emergency room had ever seen. She lost consciousness again, and they rushed her to the ICU. Finally, they realised everything that had been happening to her was far more grave than just a few unfortunate, but entirely unconnected, incidents. The years of battling depression without help had made her body weak, and overly susceptible to illness of any sort. A hereditary liver condition began to escalate. No one even knew she had it. They found she reacted badly to something in the heavy anti-depressants, and that virtually pushed her liver over the edge. The medication they put her on to assist her "malfunctioning" liver only made it worse, because it was the wrong drug. Therefore, it only weakened her body further, taking away any strength it had left to fight what was happening. One day, everything inside her - body and soul - just gave up.
They'd finally figured out what was happening, and the severity of their mistakes. They got the drugs out of her, as much as they could and connected her to all sorts of machines; then gave her proper treatment. But it was too late. She took her last breath about a week after being admitted to the ICU. A week after that, Dad finally managed to come home to tell me she'd left - "for a better place."
I just hope he was right.
