Since working with Making Families Count, writing blogs, presenting webinars, helping to run training sessions, even appearing on the radio, people have said to me they don’t know how I do it, even that I am brave to do so. That surprises me. I don’t consider myself the slightest bit brave – quite the opposite in fact.
However, when someone says something like that, you ask yourself: Why do I do it? I came up with these reasons.
- Talking about Tobi and her suicide makes it harder for people to forget her and harder for them to forget what happened to her, which I think is important.
- Along the way I can promote the good work done by Making Families Count and explain how vital it is to make families count. I can tell people about The Compassionate Friends, without whom I might not have made it here.
- I want to encourage Mental Health Trusts to change and improve by talking about how the Norfolk and Suffolk NHS Trust have engaged with me since Tobi’s death and the positive effects that has had.
- I read a quote from Lenin: “The most important thing in any endeavour is to get involved in the fight, and in that way learn what to do next.” Although I’m not a big fan of the word fight in this context (or of Lenin), I have decided to get involved in whatever this is, and this is where it has brought me so far.
- When I was hesitating about giving my interview to Radio 4 about Tobi, worrying that it would not only not do any good, but also that I would be exposing myself unnecessarily to public gaze, Rosi Reed, formerly Development and Training Co-ordinator for MFC, gave me these wise words: “If telling your story helps one other person, then you spent that day well.” That gave me the courage to go ahead, and I think I have spent a few days well.
- I often wonder how I would have behaved or reacted if I hadn’t experienced Tobi’s death. What would I have known? I can’t say with certainty I’d have shown great empathy or the ability to understand what a bereaved parent was going through. Would I have thought: “Isn’t it time they moved on? Why don’t they clear out their child’s room?” I think it’s incumbent on me to explain why moving on can’t happen in the way that some people assume, to help those who don’t know, so that they can be a little more understanding of the reality of what it’s like to have lost a child and encourage them to be more sympathetic and gentle with those people whose situation they hope never to experience. I’m going to keep saying what I say in the hope that someone is listening.
- I was listening to a man talk about the loss of his son when a woman in the audience, a psychiatrist, stood up and said that in her work she rarely heard men talk openly on this subject and how important she thought it was. I thought, I’m a man and have no problem doing it.
- After Tobi’s death, I found myself facing this choice – tell the story of what happened to her or keep quiet. I decided to tell her story. Sometimes it’s painful to do so, but less so than you might imagine. If I had chosen the alternative, silence, nothing will change, and no lessons will be learned. I am not even sure that by telling her story anything will change or that lessons will indeed be learned, but there’s a much greater chance than if I keep my mouth shut. The worst that can happen is that I’m ignored and waste my time, however many years are left to me. And as the real worst thing has already happened, so the remaining worst thing should be easy enough to bear.
- Secrecy killed Tobi; confidentiality was paramount, information not shared, the protective net not widened. I‘m not going to run the risk of my silence leading to another death.
Finally, it helps me. I’m not being completely altruistic. If it made my life worse, I wouldn’t do it. It makes my life a little bit more bearable. I’m not sure why, but it does. Perhaps it’s because, as Vάclav Havel said:
“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something is worth doing, no matter how it turns out.”
Last Updated on 17 November 2025 by MFCount2