Christmas is a difficult time for many. But there is always hope

This time last Christmas my family was standing on the edge of a deep drop. We just didn’t know it. 

For several months, my wife had been going through the mill with physical ailments that lingered. It was beginning to take a toll on her mental health. But Christmas was coming, she loves Christmas, and we thought a boost might be delivered. It was a period of trying to help her find light.  

Then came the hard descent. As January ticked through things got much darker. I’d read about the physically debilitating impact of mental illness, but until I witnessed it I never really understood. When that anguish grabs tight, and there is a sense of utter hopelessness in the person, it is an almost impossible thing to handle. 

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There is such a desire to help your loved one, and a gnawing knowledge that there is little you can do in the moment, you begin to feel adrift.  

We got the doctor out to the house – twice. There were attempts to alter meds. The mental health support team began to call. There was a reality looming that, initially, I rejected. And then there was an appointment with the consultant psychiatrist. By the second visit, it was obvious that Jane would be hospitalised.  

On that Friday afternoon, they wouldn’t let me take her as she was now sectioned under the Mental Health Act. We waited for several hours for the ward nurses to collect her, not quite sure of anything. 

Jane would spend three months in a psychiatric hospital. Such was the extent of her illness, that a key part of her treatment was ECT. She had to undergo 18 rounds of this. Twelve is considered a lot. 

As her named person, I learned the language of mental health. There was a hearing, when the section order had to be extended. I had meetings with psychiatrists who had to sign off on additional ECT. I met social workers and nurses, other doctors and healthcare professionals. I became the interlocutor between Jane, the professionals and family. Only very close friends knew what was going on.  

For the early period of Jane’s illness I was driven by anger. I was angry that this card had been dealt her, angry if I felt the care wasn’t as it should be, if I felt there had been a misreading of her med needs and she was given the wrong ones. But it became clear over time how kind, caring and brilliant the staff were. 

I don’t remember exactly when I decided to move the tree, but I knew the tree had to be moved. Several years ago, I’d planted a little apple sapling in the front garden. It had grown hugely. Apple trees bloom late, especially further north. If I can get the tree moved, I thought, it’ll be outside the bedroom window, so when Jane returns, it will be in blossom, and in the mornings when she looks out she’ll see the blossom. Though there was still no timetable for her return, it became about hope.  

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Turns out it’s not easy to move a maturing tree. I press-ganged my son and father-in-law in to help. They were unsure about the operation. But the tree was moved. Then came the wait. Initially, there was no sign of life. I’m a rational man but I do get a bit peculiar with old Irish superstitions. My great friend Martín told me that in Irish lore apple trees signified health and rebirth. I thought I’d killed the tree. Given the symbolism I’d loaded onto it, this was not good. Every morning, I sought signs of life. Every morning, none came. 

Then, on Easter weekend, I discovered a bud in leaf – one little solitary, green burgeoning bud. If you think it’s impossible to get emotional about a tree bud, think again. It knocked me over. 

On Easter Sunday, I had planned to take our children in to see their mother. They had become incredible sources of support for me, even when it should have been the other way round. It would be the first time we’d all be together in weeks. It had taken a while to sort out, to get agreements for her to be off ward. We’d all walk the grounds, I planned, with our dog. There was no guarantee that it would happen. But the tree had come into bud. The walk happened, and I knew then that things would get better. 

Jane is recovering very well. There has been no relapse and there is little chance, we are told. She, very bravely, shared her story when she was discharged, because she wanted to reassure others that there was no shame in mental ill-health and that recovery could come.

And that is why I’m writing this now. Christmas is not easy for so many people. Whether it is mental, or physical, ill-health, money worries, fear about a loved one who is lost, or feeling lost yourself, things get compounded under the glare of Christmas lights. But things DO get better. There is always hope. Those nights when you’re unable to sleep and you’re anchored in the kitchen, tied down by the dark and fears that you do not know you can conquer – you can. The sun also rises.  

There are people to help, as I discovered, to help you put that one step in front of the other. If you are suffering, or if somebody close to you is, reach out to those people. It may take time but allow hope to carry you. 

The tree is thriving. This Christmas, we are lacing bright lights between its branches.

Paul McNamee is editor of the Big Issue. Read more of his columns here. Follow him on X.

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