Around the same time as I was writing my blogs, the charity Mind was setting up something called the Blue Light Programme, which was also focused on raising awareness of mental health issues and improving support in the emergency services. I got involved with those guys, and there seemed to be a growing realisation that things needed to change. Meanwhile, me and my colleague Rich, who admitted to being gobsmacked when I told him about my PTSD diagnosis, launched our own campaign, Our Blue Light, which was all about encouraging people to talk about mental health and reduce the stigma.
Me and Rich organised several events to raise awareness for Our Blue Light and Mind’s Blue Light Programme. They included a five-month mental health relay, during which a torch was carried by emergency service volunteers across the region, a dance competition, taking part in an LGBT pride parade and a six-day, 150-mile walk, during which we visited police, fire, ambulance and RNLI stations across the country and discussed the importance of opening up about mental health.
Four of us did the walk from start to finish, and it was the toughest thing I’d ever done, walking 25–30 miles a day, before waking up the next morning and doing it all again. But we got an amazing reception at the stations. People seemed genuinely chuffed that we were doing something to raise awareness, and some of them shared their stories of mental turmoil with us. On the final day, about 100 people walked the last 20 miles with us, which attracted journalists, who relayed our message to the public through TV, radio and newspapers.
About a year after I’d attended the lady bleeding in the bath, I received a letter from family court. The authorities wanted to take the toddler we’d seen in the house away from its mum and for me and Paul to give evidence.
I’d never given evidence in family court before and didn’t know what to expect. I turned up in my uniform and wiled away the hours in the waiting room making small talk with Paul and a police officer involved in the case. But while I looked calm, I was churning up inside.
An usher came in, said it was my turn and asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine. She led me into the courtroom and said, ‘See that chair over there in that box? Go and sit yourself down.’ So I wandered over and plonked myself down behind this big pile of files. Suddenly, someone shouted from the back of the courtroom in this big, booming voice, ‘Stand until the judge tells you to sit!’ That certainly told me. And it got worse from there.
I am not at liberty to say exactly what went on in the courtroom that day, except that nobody seemed to care that I was a nice young man who saved people’s lives for a living and most of my answers were ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t recall’. I felt really guilty for not being able to remember, because it felt like I wasn’t helping anyone, prosecution or defence. But I’d had no guidance, no one had told me what I might be asked. What else could I do but tell them the truth, which was that – over a year later – the job was little more than a smudge on the memory?
On my way out of the courtroom, me and Paul passed like ships in the night. About ten minutes later, Paul was back in the waiting room, looking as cool as a cucumber. Meanwhile, I looked like I’d just been given a going over by the Spanish Inquisition.
Paul said, ‘All right, pal? That wasn’t much of a problem. Was it?’
I’ve no idea why I was given a sustained grilling and they went easy on Paul, other than to say that it was typical: Paul had a habit of making life look easy, however different the reality.
Afterwards, the copper told us that the guy who was in the house had taken his own life. I can only guess that he cut the umbilical cord, placed the baby in the plastic bag and admitted it before killing himself, which is why the case was never processed through criminal court. Why he decided to do what he did I’ll never know. Meanwhile, the toddler had been placed in social care. The court hearing was to decide whether the woman would lose her child for ever. I never found out what happened, and I decided it was probably best to reserve my opinion. The mind naturally craves answers, but I was quite happy not to have them, especially while I was still going through my recovery process. Maybe that was something I’d learned to do, on an unconscious level. It wasn’t my job to play judge and jury.
That job was strange but also quite typical. One minute we’re on our way to a run-of-the-mill PV bleed, the next we find a woman covered in blood in a bath, the next we find out there was a dead baby on the scene, the next I was in court giving evidence about something I didn’t even see.
What I haven’t mentioned is how overwhelming it was to see that woman alive and well. I played a part in saving her life, and that’s all that mattered. I took great comfort from the fact I’d done my job well. I could only hope that the right decisions were made for her surviving child and he or she goes on to live a happy and healthy life.
As with the case that had triggered my PTSD, I didn’t really discuss the job or the subsequent court case with Paul. He was a guy who seemed happy just plodding along and I took that to mean he was a stronger person than me. We’d actually stopped working with each other nearly as much as we had done. We remained great mates but had both decided that we’d become too comfortable in each other’s company and that there was a danger of us becoming complacent on the job. We also thought that spending so much time together in work might adversely affect our friendship out of it.
Not long after the court case, I found myself running around a nightclub, helping set up a reception to raise even more awareness. I was still working full-time for the ambulance service, and I’m not sure how I found the hours to organise it. But I desperately wanted it to be a great night for everyone. It was while I was scurrying around, tying up various loose ends, that I received a phone call from my manager. Paul, that immovable rock who had been by my side during some of my toughest moments, had taken his own life.
At first, I thought it was one of Paul’s sick wind-ups. I wouldn’t have put it past him, given some of the stories he’d told me. Then I thought my manager must have got it wrong and that another Paul had ended it all. When it finally sunk in that it was true, I was stunned. I also felt incredibly guilty and hypocritical. Paul knew what I was going through, because I decided to talk about it. But nobody knew what Paul was experiencing. When I asked him how he was coping, he said he was fine. When I told him I’d started a campaign to raise awareness of mental illness, he wished me well and said he didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t argue and I didn’t probe any deeper. I told myself that he’d processed what he had seen and was simply a tougher man than me. But the whole time I’d been pouring my heart and soul into raising awareness of mental illness in the ambulance service, encouraging people to talk, my old mate had been sinking into an abyss which would eventually engulf him.
Why wasn’t I a better friend to him? Was there more I could have done or more I could have said? I knew he had domestic problems and had been through some turbulent times, but he always appeared so unflustered and I just assumed he’d settle down eventually. I certainly didn’t notice any warning signs. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough. It’s so easy to get stuck in your own little bubble and forget to look out for those around you. That’s what I told myself, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the last time I’d seen him, in the corridor at the station. He said to me, ‘Mate, we need to get breakfast club back up and running.’ And I replied, ‘Definitely, I’ll drop you a text next week.’ I never did. How often does that happen? So often, something else is going on that seems to be more important. I wondered what he would have told me over that fry-up. Maybe if I’d given him the chance to offload his problems, he wouldn’t have gone through with it. I had a million and one questions to ask, but now Paul wasn’t around to answer them.
Paul’s death hammered it home that the necessary help wasn’t there. As I understand it, his mental illness wasn’t entirely down to what he saw on that job and he had a great family around him. But if a medical professional had reached out to him and asked if he was okay, they might have got him to talk. Instead, he felt so isolated that taking his own life seemed like his only option.
I spent a few moments scrolling through the many pictures of me and Paul on my phone. Paul smoking where he shouldn’t have been smoking. Paul posing in front of his ambulance, marooned on someone’s front lawn. And then I had no choice but to put my grief to one side, put on a smile and get on with organising the ball.
When I spoke that night, I wasn’t just speaking about me and my experiences of mental illness, I was speaking about Paul and all the other emergency service workers who had been let down by a complacent culture.