My wife died by suicide on 30^th October 2004. I lost my Maris, my beloved wife of 42 years following years of struggling with depression. She tried everything to relieve her suffering – medication, counselling, acupuncture, hypnotherapy, meditation, innumerable self-help books. She was seeing both a psychiatrist and psychologist at the time of her death. Treatment was a hit-or-miss affair. It was a sad irony that I was, and still am, a volunteer with Lifeline, a telephone counselling service to people in crisis. I had spoken to many suicidal people, have undergone the suicide intervention training provided by Lifeline and like to believe that I have helped many people poised on the edge between life and death. I could not save my own wife.

How I missed my Maris.

How I missed the little chats at the end of the day and all the routines that two people develop over 40 years. How I missed her greeting as I came home – usually, ‘How did you go?’ As I walked around our home, up and down the stairs, I could feel Maris’ presence everywhere. Her clothes hung in the wardrobe. The kitchen was complete with the homeware items gathered over the years. The family photos she had gathered over the years hung on the walls and sat on top of the sideboard. I lay in our bed at night and thought of her constantly. The curves of her body were just as exciting to me as when we were first married. She was attractive rather than beautiful when we first met, but she matured into her beauty and elegance. I remember with pride and even a pang of jealousy some of my male acquaintances referring to her as ‘the beautiful Mrs. Braun’.’ How I missed our love-making. I had fantasies of her running her soft hands over every part of my body and me in turn moving my hands over and around her. I experienced a strong need but had no means of expressing it. It was my Maris that I desired and no one else – her body, her lips, her kisses. I felt myself caressing my own breasts, stomach and my hands descending further, imagining they were Maris’. I had a terrible duality between the body and the spirit. This is what every widower must face, I thought – a tug of war between the spirit and the flesh. I wondered around the house naked, looked at my body in the mirror and said to myself, ‘I’m a fit man, I’m healthy with all the healthy appetites that God had given mankind, but I’ve lost the means of expressing them.’

[Extract from my book: ‘No Way to Behave at a Funeral’]

Maris’ death was like a firestorm bringing desolation and destruction into my life. I could not imagine how I could ever cope. Here I was, an ordinary bloke who paid the telephone bills on time and put out the bins on garbage night, faced with an extraordinary event. I was standing on the cliffs of despair. I decided that, although I had no choice in Maris’ tragedy, I did have choice in how I responded. I could have fallen off the edge, succumbed to despair and futility, taken to alcohol or to womanising to distract me and deaden the pain. I could have withdrawn into myself in isolation. They would have been no solutions. The relief would have been very temporary indeed and created other problems. There was no way around my anguish. I met it head-on.

Instead of slumping into despondency and inertia, the sadness that I experienced led to a passion that gave me tremendous energy and restlessness. I wanted to build something more constructive, of benefit to myself and to those bereaved by a similar tragedy. I focused intently on my writing and was driven in promoting my earlier books. I travelled around New South Wales and Victoria, seeking interviews with radio and newspapers and speaking to any group that was prepared to listen about the insidious nature of depression. I was desperate to avoid insularity and to reach out to others.

My restlessness led to undertaking a round-the-world trip in 2005 and again in 2006, part of my efforts to rediscover myself. I spent five months in France. In their attempt to find themselves, some people sit on the beach or go trekking in Nepal but I chose to learn French in France.

My restlessness is still with me. Last year I walked the Pilgrims’ Way, known as the Camino, an ancient pilgrimage route that people have followed for one thousand years. I walked 760 kilometres through France to the border with Spain. This year I plan to return and continue the walk from where I left off through Spain to Santiago, another 700plus kilometres. I dedicate my pilgrimage to the memory of my wife Maris. She is a continuing presence and influence in my life and continues to inspire me.

I wanted to share my story. Writing my story was therapeutic, a way of processing the agony of my own grief. It was very painful to recall the details of Maris’ depression and the events that led up to her death. It was a challenge that I had to face. I wanted to honour my wife for the 41 years we shared together. My book is a love story, a little different from what you would normally find in bookshops or watch on TV.

My hope, too, was that my story might give some comfort and support to those whose lives have been shattered by a loved one’s suicide. I know how suicide permanently alters the lives of survivors. My heart goes out to them. My bereavement has brought me vulnerability, but it is a vulnerability that has become a gift for me and for others, through sharing it. By sharing my pain, my loss, my emptiness, I hope that others will find they are not alone in their pain, their grief, their anguish, their guilt, their feelings of inadequacy and inability to cope. There is always hope in the worst of situations.

Most books on post suicide survival are written overseas, mainly by women. It is rare for men to write about such intense emotional issues. I hope that the blokes who read my book will give themselves permission to feel and to weep. Men tackle grief in a different way, often totally avoiding it. Some men build a fortress around their feelings. The pain of loss is just as intense for men as for women, but society praises those who ‘hold up well’, who maintain ‘a stiff upper lip’, who adopt the strong, silent stance that males are supposed to display. ‘Real men don’t cry’ or are not seen to grieve. The belief that pain can be overcome by biting your lip is tied to the fear that it is the only thing that can be done, short of letting down and expressing true feeling, as if the stoic mask provides some protection. On the contrary, instead of shielding against pain, the mask hurts. In hiding pain from others, it has to be carried silently and alone.

I’ve continued my involvement with Lifeline. As well as my work on the telephones, I have been involved in facilitating groups for people who has been bereaved by suicide. They find the experience of someone else who has been through a similar experience invaluable. They can truly understand the shock, the depth of loss and the complexity of emotions felt by family and friends. They find that having a sense of community and support can help relieve the intense pain associated with suicide bereavement. I like to think that I contribute to these groups on two levels. First, I am trained as a facilitator, and second, as I am bereaved myself, I have a vulnerability to share. I have a tremendous admiration for our members, for their participation in a group they would never have wanted to belong to, and for their courage in sharing their stories.

Noel Braun’s book No Way to Behave at a Funeral is available through his website, www.noelbraun.com.au

Noel Braun commenced his working life as a country school teacher in Victoria then moved into a corporate career which took him from Melbourne to Perth and Sydney. He has had a lifelong passion for writing and wrote the first words of his novels over thirty years ago. He has found the time in retirement to fulfil his long-held ambition to see his work in print.

Noel has published two novels Friend and Philosopher and Whistler Street. He wrote a memoir No Way to Behave at a Funeral which describes his journey following the death by suicide of his wife Maris, following years of suffering depression. He is working steadily on other manuscripts and on developing a new career in writing.

Noel lives on Sydney’s northern beaches.