I actually remember very little of what happened the next day. Maybe this is a blessing in a way, because it gives me less to hold onto when I look back and start throwing recriminations at myself. Why did I fail? How useless was I that I could not even get this right? But I do remember a few snippets. It is as though I was taking short film clips of the day.
The first thing I remember is when I woke up at about seven the next morning. Never before have I felt that sick. My stomach felt like it was trying to fold itself into a very small box and the nausea was unbelievable. I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Surely I couldn’t still be alive? What had I done wrong this time? Maybe I needed to just tough it out.
I fought the nausea for as long as I could, but eventually I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I rushed through to the bathroom and only just made it before I started vomiting. The stomach cramps were like iron vices and the retching was strong. Again, I could not figure out what I had done wrong.
After a few minutes, the vomiting subsided and I made my way back to my bedroom, where I think I passed out on the bed. It must have been about half an hour later, that I was rushing to the bathroom again. Had I miscalculated? Had I taken the wrong tablets? By this point I was distraught. Not only could I not live my life right, but it seemed I could not die right either. I felt like a complete failure.
Since the internet had given me the ‘recipe’, I decided to look again to try and find out where I had messed up. And of course, I had missed something out. Too much Paracetamol makes you nauseous, so as a method of suicide, an anti-emetic needs to be taken first! In between rushing to the bathroom to relieve the nausea and cramps, and trying to find a way out of my situation on the internet, another half hour or so passed quickly. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted the suffering to be over – I wanted to die. But I didn’t want to be this ill. The stomach pains were incredible and my back and neck muscles were starting to ache. I hated vomiting at the best of times, but this was truly frightening.
Then I have another gap, though I couldn't say how long. I remember the paramedics arriving. Then there is a great big gap and I was in the hospital. Because I had already started vomiting, it was not necessary to pump out my stomach, but the doctor had set up a drip to try to protect my liver from further damage. Despite the fact that my suffering was entirely self-inflicted, he also prescribed something to stop the nausea. I felt like a total waste of space. A fraud.
Here I was, having made myself ill, taking up the bed space that was needed by someone far more deserving than me. The nurses and staff were absolutely phenomenal. My heart was monitored, as was my liver function. They were so kind and caring and I remember feeling so awful. How could they be taking so much care of me when there were others out there who were genuinely in need of them.
Next, I was in the critical care unit. I don't remember being taken there and there's very little else that I recall of the next few hours. What sticks in my mind for some reason is that the unit was lovely and cool and I was hooked up to all sorts of machines and monitors, which I found really frightening. Probably because I was in and out of consciousness, they explained very little to me about what was going on. By this stage, I wanted to die more than ever - I truly did not feel worthy of all the help I was getting and felt guilty that I was costing the NHS so much. When would they realise that I wasn't worth saving? Couldn't they see that it would just be better to let me go?
Around mid-afternoon, I woke up and I was in another unit and my son, brother and sister-in-law were allowed to come in to see me. Everyone was subdued, as you would expect and I just didn’t know what to say.
The thing is, I wasn’t sorry I had done it, only sorry that I had failed.
How do you explain this to those closest to you, who so obviously care? Especially when you know that you don’t deserve their love?
The nausea reared its ugly head again, and the consultant prescribed something to settle it down. They ran more blood tests and as the level of paracetamol was still too high, another drip was set up to counteract it. I was more aware of what was going on by this stage, though my mind was still a bit foggy. It was then that I realised that I still wasn’t in the clear and there was a large part of me that hoped my system would just shut down.
But that wasn’t to be. I had to face the fact that not only had I failed, but I now had to deal with the repercussions. How do you explain to people the level of desperation you feel when you can see no other way than to take your own life? Is there any way to explain that you do not deserve their love or caring? That you are nothing but a dirty fraud?
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