Wasn’t sure how to post this in the most readable way possible but this is a thread about the summer my auld fella, out of nowhere, had a pretty scary nervous breakdown. Apologies if it goes on a bit but, for the day that’s in it... #worldmentalhealthday2020

Was only in the door after a holiday in the US when my mam pulled me aside and told me “Your dad’s not well. He says he’s depressed”. He seemed okay to me, a little quiet but considering he had been waiting to do a biopsy for prostate cancer, I expected he was a little anxious.

What I didn’t realise was that the biopsy had been delayed a couple of months and, very quietly and very unassumingly, he was beginning to unravel. He was terrified of dying. And even though the doctors thought he didn’t have it, his nerves were quickly beginning to fray.

He was retired a couple of years at this stage and had plenty of time to think, so that definitely didn’t help. But the situation disintegrated very quickly. This happy-go-lucky fella, with no prior mental health issues that anyone knew of, just went.

A postman for 40 years, he was always an early riser. Now we couldn’t get him out of bed. He’d just lie in bed crying. One morning I remember coming into the living room and he was lying on the couch in the foetal position just sobbing.

I asked him what was wrong and he told me he just couldn’t do it anymore. He’d repeated it over and over, rocking back and forth, whimpering like a child. To watch your dad fall to pieces like that in front of you was pretty scary. Thinking back, it was almost surreal

We talked and talked and I tried to get some perspective into him. It helped but the next day he’d be in bits again. I rang St John O Gods to get him in and explained it was urgent. They told me there was a three month waiting list. Shite.

I got him to his GP and they prescribed him relaxants for his anxiety. They did half a job but they only helped him sleep a little more. He was still waiting to do the biopsy at this stage so I took him to counselling to see if that helped. A little bit, but not enough.

In the meantime, I’d managed to get his biopsy expedited. He couldn’t wait to get them done. I’d gone with him to the Beaumont. He was still in a bad way, but every day closer to the biopsy was a day he wasn’t worrying as much. A few weeks later, he’d got his results.

I was at work at the time when he rang to tell me. I’ll never forget it. I’ve never felt someone so relieved to have been diagnosed with cancer. It was highly treatable he’d been told, and he’d have a huge chance of survival. It seemed like, immediately, a dark cloud lifted.

He’d said that, despite everyone telling him to the contrary, he was convinced he’d had cancer and he was going to die from it. It was the sheer relief of knowing, of being back in control. Every day past that, he slowly got back to his old self. The cancer treatment was a doddle

It was his 74th birthday back in August. Still going strong, still playing golf, still annoying my mam. I guess the moral of the story is that the mind is a fragile beast and a bad case of anxiety can quickly spiral out of control. And it can happen to anyone.

Our mental health services are still woefully inadequate. Our health care system is in terminal decline. We need to do better.

Ends.