Malignant Sadness. Melancholy. Depression. The Black Dog.

Whatever you call it, depression is a destructive, disabling condition which can drive one to acts of insanity and to death.

13 years ago my brother-in-law-best-friend and I were discussing depression. His paediatric practice focused on behavioural issues and he frequently encountered the condition among children with ADD, or ADHD whose unreliable performance in life made them feel useless and desperate.

He was adamant that depression sufferers must have therapy and must be supported with medication. When I said “Well, it’s not like it’s a terminal illness” he gave me a level look then said simply, “Suicide is terminal.”

It doesn’t matter the cause. A “chemical imbalance” like diabetes or a voice in ones head that says one is useless and beyond hope. The bottom line is the same. Someone unable to see him or herself in a positive light; who can only see hopelessness and failure, needs support and guidance to survive. Without it the outcome can be very bad indeed.

Some of the brightest minds and greatest talents took their own lives in later years. Hemingway, the Nobel prize winning literary giant who suicided at 62 said, “Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.” He used a shot-gun. Aside from paranoia about the CIA and FBI watching him, he had struggled for years with physical pain from a plane crash. He also had a history of heavy drinking and had been treated with two rounds of electro-convulsive therapy at the Mayo clinic from which he was “released in ruins” (Meyers, Jeffrey (1985). Hemingway: A Biography. London: Macmillan).

Is it worse that someone dies alone and desperate by his or her own hand than if his heart went into crisis and stopped? Is a stroke worse? A car crash? Cancer?

However you see it, suicide is a sad end to any life and the rate has been increasing globally, especially among the young. We need to be mindful of those around us in case they are in greater need than they seem to be on the surface.

My brilliant friend and MBA syndicate partner James Filmalter took his life in April this year. Dear James. I’m so sorry we didn’t realise. Rest peacefully, at last.

Our children need our love and patience.

Tonight some dear friends came to my aid.

I’ve had a difficult week which ended a 5 year divorce saga I’ll not go into here – it does hold lessons, but for another time.

We talked about our children, the trials they’ve endured and still must because of the divorces, as well as the trials we  must face as their parents because we’re divorced.

We shared the lessons we’ve learnt . They came down chiefly to this  – children need to know they are loved and respected. Otherwise how can we expect them to do either?

Otherwise why should they feel safe or secure and why should they show love or respect for us as their parents or anyone else?

Some of the best evidence of love and respect that you can give them is not a cascade of presents and pocket-money. It is your time. Your attention. Your interest. Your love and your active listening – the kind where you make sure you understand, and show you understand. Then you act on it.

If you have any doubt, remember how you felt aged 5 or 12. Or even yesterday.

Showing the right behaviour to our children is the best kind of teaching. Recognising and approving when they get things right is the best way to keep the right behaviour happening.

If you have any doubt of that, think how you felt when someone noticed you, listened to you or encouraged you.

Now think how you felt when someone dismissed or belittled you.

We need to be patient with our young ones. They are beginners. They are learning. How often did we get it right first time. Or every time. Even now after how many years of practice?

There’s very little you can’t sort out with patience, love and encouragement.

What Makes Wisdom?

I was talking with my sister two days ago. We got onto how some of us have lots of knowledge but little wisdom. Others have lots of experience but come up equally short on wisdom.

It struck us both that when you combine knowledge, experience and enough time to reflect on both, that’s when wisdom can develop.

Over the past two days I’ve been reflecting on that. I don’t know if it’s wisdom or just common sense, but it makes sense to me.

Constructive Criticism Often Isn’t

I’ve been noticing that most ‘constructive criticism’ is just plain old criticism.

Trying to pretty up judgement as something else doesn’t change what it is.

Often it seems to come from of a sense of superiority – thinking we know better – and we thoughtlessly, even arrogantly, inflict it on friends, colleagues, service providers and worst of all, on our children.

If we really feel we can offer help, we need to start from humility and respect. We need to acknowledge the merit, wisdom, efforts and quality of the person we hope to help.

Then, if we can do it with some sensitivity and kindness, maybe we can offer our helpful suggestion. Not a judgment. Not a criticism. Not a pedantic observation by someone who considers themself ‘more learned’.

From time in Australia and the ‘banter’ between my Brit friends I know a fair amount of rowdy, blunt joshing is considered normal, even desirable in their society. That’s just superficial noise and laddish competitiveness at whatever age. I’m not talking about that.

I’m talking about making a helpful suggestion. Whether the receiver acts on it is purely optional. If we think we can control anyone, or that they are obliged to let us, then we make an even greater mistake.

The outcome tells us how well we did it.

If the person we are trying to help feels better off after our suggestion, it was helpful.

If the person feels judged, criticised or in any way worse off, we got it wrong.

Often our content may be right, but our delivery may be totally wrong.

We need to remember that the message received is the message we sent. What we ‘meant’ doesn’t count.

I wrote this today because I’m a father, a friend and a colleague who makes this mistake and many like it all the time. I have to remind myself of this to help me do better.

I am posting this to help myself. I hope you find it helpful too.

Bad Dreams

In the dark hours of this morning, well before dawn, I felt a movement on my bed. Too heavy for Kitsune, our cat. Too light for Nick, my eldest who at 12 is 51 kg of rugby-toughened muscle.

It was Chris. In a soft voice that trembled slightly he said ‘Dad, I had a really bad dream.’

‘Come and cuddle’ I said.  ‘There’s nothing to worry about, my darling. It was just a dream and everything’s fine’. He snuggled against me, his head on my shoulder, my arm around him.

In a minute or two he gave a few little twitches and was asleep.

Chris is 9. Creative, with a vivid imagination. Funny, deeply loving and remarkably considerate. For nearly a week the nightmares were a problem. They were started by a murder-movie trailer on TV at his mother’s home. Two days later Chris phoned to ask if he could sleep at my house. The boys divide their time equally between their divorced parents. Chris said he kept waking his mother and she was now so sleep-deprived that she needed a break from him and his bad dreams in her bed.

While I collected him from his Mum’s my housekeeper laid out his pyjamas, put on the light on “his” side of my bed and a glass of water there so he knew he was welcome. That first night he woke twice, trembling. He managed to sleep through the next. The third night he went happily back to sleeping in his own bed, just as long as I cuddled him to sleep in it. The nightmares were gone. Today’s was an anomaly.

At Chris’ age I had nightmares too. I tossed, turned and talked in my sleep as well. In one nightmare I was falling from a high cliff that a school bully had pushed me off. I was falling at a terrible speed and knew I was about to die on the rocks rushing up at me. I braced for the impact, the pain, the end.

Then I stopped falling and awoke in my father’s arms. They were warm, strong and smelled of family. Of safety. Of love. He had heard my restlessness, came to check and caught me as I fell out of bed.

Since my sons were born I too have slept like my father, one ear tuned to the sounds of my family. In the beginning it was the anxiety of a new dad. That and listening for the fussing that called me to give a night feed when I was back from travelling and giving their mum a break.

These nights I listen for Nick on his phone at an hour when he should be asleep and for Chris’ occasional nightmare. As I do I often remember the night my father saved my life. Thank you, Bruce. Always. For everything.

95 years is a good innings

“Doll” Crane died 3 weeks ago, in Johannesburg.  She was 95.

Bill, her husband, died in the early 70s. When last I saw her she was bright as ever, her thoughts quick and clear. She was tired of her body letting her down though, and it was time to be with her darling Bill whom she missed with all her heart. She said all this calmly, with a smile.

While I was growing up, Doll was “Gran” Crane to all the neighbourhood kids from 3 years old to 13 and some beyond. My own parents brought me up to use people’s first names if they allowed it. Mr, Mrs or Ms if they did not. “Gran” was always Doll to me.

Her youngest, Patrick, was a year or two older than me, and a friend. Doll had a cascade of older sons and daughters. She nurtured them all, along with whichever neighbourhood kids had wandered in. Her kindness and equanimity made her a refuge for anyone who had clashed with a sibling, argued with a parent or simply wanted to be somewhere warm, kind and filled with love, light and delicious home-baked cookies.

On the winter afternoon I last saw Doll, she made me smile by calling her nurse to laughingly ask why her medicine – a whisky – was late. She had never been one for alcohol, she said, but her doctor had said a few years ago that a single good whisky at 5:00 each evening would do her good as she aged. As she sipped it, and as the colour rose in her cheeks, I admired her doctor’s wisdom.

Doll helped anyone and everyone. Young, old, sick, sad, lost, found, human, animal. Even those who didn’t know they needed help. The only requirement seemed to be that you needed a hand and that she knew you did. It didn’t matter what you’d done. She never had a harsh word for anyone. Only smiling love and gentle wisdom.

When Doll sold their house across the road and moved to the apartments Bill had built as their retirement plan, our neighbourhood lost a priceless treasure. Worse, the Cranes had sold to a bitter, childless old couple who seemed to dislike everything Doll had loved and laughed over. Especially the neighbourhood kids.

Now, after 95 years of her boundless love shared generously with all around her, Doll has finally left us. I wish I had her photo to show you. I have only miles of mental video of her and a deep joy in my heart for having known her. Sadness too that she has gone.

Good-bye Doll Crane. You made the world so much better for so many. All those whose lives you touched will never forget you and we’d all do well to follow your warm examples. Thank you, dear Doll, dear Gran Crane, from us all.