Pink Carnations Made Me Cry

by Elizabeth Madden
^{(creative writers at www.morewriting.co.uk)}
Looking back, I can see that things hadn't been right with me for quite a while. John's new job had meant a move to London from the rural area we'd both grown up in. Of course, moving house is always exhausting and traumatic: they say it's one of the most stressful life-events, even worse than divorce and redundancy! In addition, I was beginning to feel a bit of a "spare part" around the house! I'd always enjoyed being a full-time housewife and mother, and, unlike many of my friends, I never felt the need for a high-flying career and a "superwoman" lifestyle. Now, however, both our boys were adults away at University and we'd "downsized" to a small flat from the four-bedroomed house we'd lived in for most of our married lives. We couldn't possibly have afforded a similar house at London prices and, with the boys living away most of the time, we could manage without a lot of extra space, just the two of us. We'd both been looking forward to having more time and space to ourselves, especially during those difficult "teenage" times. However, I have to say, when it came down to it, I really missed them being around. John works long hours and, without the boys, the days seemed to be very long and lonely, with hardly any housework to be done and no meals to prepare for the hordes of youngsters who'd always been round our house when the boys were living at home. Back in the village, I'm sure I could've kept myself occupied, but in the city I felt isolated as I really didn't know anyone and none of the neighbours seemed to be around often enough for me to get to know them.

I always say, though, that it was the pink carnations that did it: at least, they were the catalyst for everything that followed. It was a Wednesday morning, around eleven, and I was ironing my husband's shirts; the usual pile had accumulated and the creases were proving even tougher than usual. Drying them on the radiator had been a big mistake, obviously, but it had been raining for several days already and he was down to his last clean one: he'd told me so that morning, as he was racing out the door to catch the early train. Oh, how I wished I could peg out all my laundry and watch them dancing in the breeze, drying crease-free in the sunshine. But no, it was a bleak, wet November day and here I was, stuck in a small flat on the tenth floor of a tower block. When I saw those drooping, pink carnations, slightly withered at the edges, that I'd bought the day before in a vain attempt to "cheer up" the dingy, old fashioned sitting room, I just started crying and I really couldn't stop for several hours.

When John, my husband, got back in from work, he noticed how red my eyes were and asked me if anyone had died. I told him no, I was just feeling a bit depressed, so he gave me a funny look and switched on the telly. A sitcom was on the screen.

"There you go, Mags. It's your favourite. This'll soon cheer you up a bit, love."

John sat watching the programme, laughing at the comic misfortunes of a typical TV family. Usually, I'd laugh, too, but that night, it was impossible. Seeing those people, hearing their voices, listening to John chuckling away without a care in the world whilst I felt so lost, so lonely, so afraid: well, it was impossible. The pink carnations were drooping even lower in their vase on top of the television. I got up abruptly and told John I had a headache and was going to bed.

"Sure you don't want a cuppa first, love? I was just going to have one ..."

"Huh. I'm sure you were," I said. "And expecting me to make it for you, as usual, weren't you? Well, not tonight. I've done enough for you today already, ironing your blessed shirts and cooking your dinner and cleaning this horrible flat. I'm exhausted. I'll see you in the morning."

And with that, I stormed off into the bedroom, leaving John speechless. Later on, he told me he'd been shocked by the unaccustomed anger and aggression in my voice and expression and, having no idea what had caused my strange mood, he'd decided the best thing for both of us was to leave me alone to sleep it off, so he'd just continued watching the TV and laughing at the stupid gags.

Meanwhile, I lay in bed, tossing and turning. Although I felt exhausted, I couldn't get to sleep. I just kept hearing his laughter and those voices on the telly, getting louder and shriller and setting my teeth on edge so I wanted to scream. But, of course, I didn't. I stuffed the edge of the duvet into my mouth and burrowed underneath, trying to lose myself in the warmth and the darkness and the nothingness of sleep.

Over the next few weeks, my mood went lower and lower. I kept waking at about two in the morning and couldn't get to sleep, however exhausted I felt. I'd try to watch TV or read, but I couldn't concentrate for more than a few minutes. Then I'd start to feel irritated or edgy or just plain sad and weepy so I'd take myself off into the kitchen and stuff myself with biscuits or chocolate or anything I could find to stop my stomach feeling so queasy and empty.

In the daytime, I'd plod through my various chores, getting slower and slower as the weight I felt on my shoulders weighed me down a little more each day. I spent most of the day looking forward to those blessed hours when I could curl up under my bedclothes and sleep. I started going to bed for a nap in the afternoon and rarely got changed out of my nightie and housecoat, finding it just too much bother to get dressed or fix my hair and make-up.

Of course, John noticed that things were sliding downhill. I forced myself, most days, to do a basic tidy-up and to keep on top of the washing, ironing and cooking, but he saw that I was permanently in my night attire and slopping about, looking exhausted despite the hours I was spending in bed so finally he asked me, one evening, if I'd thought about seeing a doctor.

In response to his genuine concern, I'm ashamed to say, I was furious, because it had taken him so long to realise that something was badly wrong. I told him that I'd already seen my GP several times over the past few weeks. I'd been to talk to him about my constant tiredness: he sent me for blood tests and, when I asked about sleeping pills, he told me he was reluctant to prescribe anything so potentially addictive and why not try taking more exercise in the daytime and having a warm, milky drink before bedtime. I went to see him about my queasy tummy and my constant headache and he put me down for tests, warning me it'd take a while as the hospital consultants' lists were so long these days, and meantime suggested I should keep a food diary and get more fresh air and exercise. As if! The only time I went out these days was to go to the doctor's surgery. I was too tired and too unmotivated to go anywhere or do anything else. I'd found out that I could do my weekly shop on the internet, so I set up an account, although sometimes even finding the energy to sit at the keyboard and type in a list of groceries was all but impossible.

John listened, incredulously, as I ranted on and on. Finally, when I paused for breath, half choking with sobs, He put his arm round my shoulder and steered me to the sofa.

"My goodness!" he said, as I sat there, still crying as if my heart was breaking. "I honestly didn't realise it had got as bad as this, Mags, love. I've been so busy thinking about things at work, what with the new job and all, I just haven't noticed how dreadful you've been looking and how far you've let things slip."

Hearing those words caused my fury to flare up momentarily again, but then the sense of bleak depression took hold and I just sat there on the sofa, feeling numb, with that awful, heavy weight pressing down on me and the room looking dingy and ugly and grey all round me. Those blasted carnations were still in their vase on top of the TV,almost completely dried out and withered, drooping and dreary as I felt myself to be just then. They were dead, I thought. They were lucky. I wished I was dead, too. What was the point, anyway? What was the point of dragging on like this, day after day? There was no point. I wished my GP had prescribed me some sleeping pills, so I could get to sleep in my safe, warm bed and never have to wake up.

Just then, the front door was flung open and Ben, my younger son, walked in. He was dressed in a ragged old pullover, several sizes too big, his hair was a too-long mass of unbrushed, wild curls and his face was unshaven, but believe me, at that moment, my son Ben was the most beautiful thing I'd ever set eyes on. I stood up to welcome him and he hurried over to give me a big hug. Several moments later, we let each other go and Ben took a good, long look at me. I could see the shock in his eyes.

"Mum," he said, "What on earth is wrong? You look terrible! Are you ill? Dad, she's ill, isn't she? Why didn't you call me? I'd have come down far sooner ..."

"Oh, Ben," my husband sighed, "I've only just realised myself that your Mum's not well. I feel awful, not noticing sooner, but we're going to do everything possible to make sure she gets the best of care from now on.

I'm going to take a few days' holiday from work and, since you're here as well, we can both look after her. I'm sure it won't be long till she's as good as new again, don't you, love?" he asked me, hopefully. Poor John. He really hates it when he's around illness: I think it terrifies him. I knew he was making a real effort and I was grateful to him for that. Still, I was glad Ben was back home, too. We'd always understood each other, Ben and I. I knew it'd be easier to talk to him about how I was feeling than it was with my husband.

Well, if this was a fairy story, I guess everything would have come right there and then. Being real life, though, it has been a long struggle with many obstacles in the way but I'm glad to say that now I'm much less depressed and even beginning to actually enjoy life a lot of the time! The pink carnations I see as I write this now are lovely: not drooping and sad, but standing tall and cheerful, brightening up the living room that isn't dingy and old fashioned anymore since John and Ben did a bit of decorating during their holidays.

I saw my GP again and explained how low I'd been getting. This time, he spent at least 30 minutes talking to me, going through my various symptoms and then discussing the options for treatment that are available for depression. He said that at least one in every four people suffers from anxiety and depression at some time in their lives and that most of them will have experienced similar symptoms and been treated effectively for them. I was surprised, but also a bit relieved, I have to say: I'd been worried I was abnormal, feeling the way I did, and at my worst I'd feared I might be going mad, but knowing that so many others have been/are depressed and manage to cope with it and even, in many cases, get over it, has been incredibly helpful and encouraging. There are lots of websites on the Internet with discussion forums where people can talk about their experiences, medication and the various therapies that are available. I've visited several: you might think they'd be very gloomy places, but in fact nearly everyone is sympathetic, encouraging and, best of all, they know how depression feels and how hard it can be, but also how important it is to get support to get through it.

The doctor prescribed a course of anti-depressants for me to take and, at the same time, referred me to the local mental health centre, where I would see a clinical psychologist. The doctor was referring me for a series of cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) sessions, to help me to cope with the panic attacks I'd been having and to challenge the negative ways of thinking that were causing me to become depressed. He warned me it might take about six weeks for the anti-depressants to start having a positive effect and that I might even suffer a few unpleasant side effects, until the correct formulation and dosage were sorted out. Also, the mental health team were short staffed and it might be a while before I could get into the system, so I'd have to bear with them. However, I was so relieved to start believing that there did seem to be some hope for a way out of my depression that I didn't find the mild side effects (a dry mouth and slightly blurred vision, which soon eased off as my body got used to the medication) at all problematic and before long they started to work on rebalancing the serotonin in my brain and lifting my depression.

A few weeks later, I met the clinical psychologist and started CBT, attending weekly, hour-long sessions with a group of people who were also suffering from depression and anxiety symptoms. At first, we were all a bit nervous and awkward but, before long, we all began to relax a bit and to encourage and support each other through the various tasks our therapist set us to help us learn strategies for coping with our mental health problems. As well as our weekly session, we've exchanged phone numbers and email addresses so we can get in touch if we're going through a bad spell: we all know what depression feels like and so we can be there for each other when times are tough.

My family, too, have been playing their part in helping me to cope with depression. John, Ben and Adam, my other son, made a big effort, keeping me company and doing the chores during the first few weeks of my treatment, when I was still feeling very tired and low-spirited, then, when the medication and CBT began to take effect, they encouraged me to get out and about a bit so I wouldn't feel so isolated. I go to yoga sessions at the gym now: it really is relaxing, and not at all difficult, once you get used to it. I've also taken up knitting: you wouldn't believe how positive I felt just because of the sense of achievement after finishing the first few squares of a patchwork throw. The bright colours my sons chose helped too, of course ... Now I've joined the "Knit and Natter" group which meets weekly in a local cafe and I'm starting to get to know a few of the neighbours at last. Quite a lot of the women there have suffered from depression at least once, so there's always sympathetic advice when needed, though most of the time we chat and laugh about all sorts of things and I really look forward to our get-togethers. I'm knitting myself a new sweater, now the throw is finished and guess what the motif on the back is? Yes, of course, pink carnations, standing tall and proud and beautiful, just like me.