The Things We Didn’t Know

This World Suicide Prevention Day (10th September) reflection, shared by one of our Odyssey kaimahi, discusses suicide and suicide bereavement. It recounts something that happened nearly 30 years ago. Her friend’s name has been changed, but the story and the impact she had on our kaimahi’s life are real. Please take care while reading.

One of my closest friends was Katie.

Katie was quite traditional in what she wanted from life. She wanted to marry, have children, create a home and perhaps work part-time while raising her family. She married young, at 22, not long after qualifying. She had the house, the husband and, while she waited for the hoped-for children and dogs, a much-loved cat.

She was proud of her home and excited about the life she was building.

Five of our original group eventually found ourselves working together in an acute mental health admissions unit. I was the charge nurse.

Over time, we watched Katie become increasingly sad.

She had experienced repeated miscarriages. There were many late-night conversations, and we watched as people around her announced pregnancies and began families of their own. After seven miscarriages, Katie became seriously depressed and suicidal.

She needed intensive support. Rather than being admitted to hospital, those of us who loved her wrapped ourselves around her. We checked in, made sure appointments were kept, helped her stay on top of medication and took turns making sure she wasn't alone.

It was hard. We were working our own rosters while trying to support our friend. But we had been through a lot together, and this was what you did for one of your own.

And slowly, things seemed to change.

A change in medication appeared to be helping. Katie became future-focused again. She started talking about plans. We saw glimpses of the person we knew returning.

At our work Christmas function, we celebrated. It felt, in many ways, like a celebration of life.

Katie wanted to return to work. Mornings were still difficult because of the effects of her medication, and she asked for some flexibility around her start time. I argued for it, but the view from management was that if she was fit to work, she was expected to start at the same time as everyone else.

So the team quietly covered when she was late.

We didn't resent her for it. She was a great nurse, a good friend and part of us.

Then came a Saturday morning.

I saw Katie as our shifts crossed over. She was looking forward to her weekend. She and her husband were going shopping for a replacement wedding band because hers no longer fitted. They had planned a romantic meal. On Sunday, after he had been to his camera club, they were going to drive south to stay with her parents.

She had plans for the week ahead too. I went home from night shift feeling hopeful. Katie seemed more like herself again.

On Sunday morning there was a knock at my door.

My manager was standing there.

I looked at him and somehow knew.

“Katie?” was all I could say.

He burst into tears.

We simply stood there holding each other, completely lost.

Katie had gone home on Saturday. She and her husband hadn't found the ring they wanted, but they had enjoyed their evening together. She went to bed at her usual time while he stayed up watching sport.

The following morning he left for camera club, expecting to be home around 11.

When he returned, the house was quiet and the curtains were still drawn.

He went upstairs.

Katie was still in bed.

She had died by suicide.

There was a note for her husband and another for us, her friends and colleagues. There were seven of us now.

What followed was devastating.

We were mental health professionals. We were experienced at recognising risk. Between us, we had helped many people through suicidal crises.

Yet we hadn't saved one of our own.

The questions were relentless.

What did we miss?

Had something happened that we didn't know about?

Why hadn't we seen it coming?

Had we failed her as nurses?

Had we failed her as friends?

I wondered whether I should have fought harder for the flexibility she needed at work.

And still, we had to go back to work. Back to the ward where Katie had worked beside us. Back to supporting other people through the very crises we had somehow been unable to prevent in our friend.

We were nurses, but professional knowledge didn't protect us from grief.

For a while, I lost some of my own spark. It took time to understand that no one person could carry responsibility for what had happened. Eventually, the reminders became too much and I moved to another role in another town.

Over time our group drifted apart, although one of those friends and I remained close. Both of us stayed in mental health, and we still talk about Katie.

Sometimes we still wonder what she would be doing now.

Nearly 30 years have passed.

I don't think you ever completely get over a loss like that. The grief simply finds another place to live. Eventually you become able to talk about the person with warmth and laughter again, rather than allowing the way they died to become the whole story of their life.

And perhaps that is what I most want people to understand on World Suicide Prevention Day.

A suicide never affects only one person.

Its impact moves through partners, parents, friends, colleagues, workplaces, health professionals and communities. It can leave questions that may never be answered and people carrying what if? for years afterwards.

Katie taught me something I have carried throughout the rest of my career.

Professional knowledge doesn't mean we will always know.

Recovery can look real and still be fragile.

Someone can be making plans and still be struggling.

And asking for help must always be made easier, not harder. We need to be able to talk openly about suicide, ask for help and respond without judgement. We will not always have all the answers, but listening, staying connected and helping someone reach the right support can make a difference.

But I don't want the way Katie died to be the thing that defines her.

She was my friend.

She was a nurse who cared deeply about people. She wanted children, a home full of family and, eventually, those dogs. She loved her husband, her family and her friends.

She mattered to an extraordinary number of people.

At her funeral, you could see the ripple of her life across the room. Patients, nurses, psychiatrists, family and friends were all there.

No words were needed to explain her impact.

Nearly 30 years later, on the other side of the world, something of Katie still travels with me in the work I do and in what I believe about people, recovery and support.

That is part of her ripple too.

And that is what I choose to remember.

If this story raises anything for you, support is available. Free call or text 1737 at any time to speak with a trained counsellor. If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 111.