“This is the very definition of meaninglessness” is a phrase that has been repeated since we had to say goodbye to one of the finest people in Southern Norway. Losing him to the darkness is an indescribable and senseless loss. First and foremost for the husband. For the two children. For all those closest to you. And also for all of us who knew, admired and were so happy for Petter. At the beginning of May, Petter N. Toldnæs ended his life, aged just 44. Both as a politician, municipal manager and fellow human being, Petter lived a life of openness. Therefore, the family has chosen to be open about how he died, and has also wanted me to write this chronicle in the hope that it can help others get help when the darkness takes over. I hate that darkness that comes and whispers, “Your problems can never be solved. You are all alone. And you are doing everyone a favor if you leave life now!” We so often talk about suicide as if it is a choice. Personally, I don’t think suicide is a choice. No one chooses to get cancer. And no one chooses mental illness. Suicide is a disease. A disease that can creep in. Over the night. Or like lightning from a clear sky. We drill and drill on first aid. Plasters and bandages. Cool down burns. Stop bleeding. CPR. 2 puffs. 30 compressions. But we don’t play mental first aid. Not learning to bandage weariness fractures of the soul. Mental first aid must enter schools, workplaces and emergency rooms. We have to practice like Harry Potter and his gang what to do when the darkness and the desperation of hopelessness come to suck the life out of us. The most demanding subject at Hogwarts wizarding school is mental first aid. The students drill and drill to call up bright memories strong enough to keep the deadly, cold darkness at bay. Likewise, we must all trick ourselves into remembering that the darkness is wrong. Remember that there are always solutions. Because we are not alone when every cell in our body screams that we are. All the people who attend a funeral would much rather attend to prevent a funeral. We must remember to say it to each other: “You are not alone!” And mean it. Because if the words are to mean something, we must dare both to stand up and to speak out loud about the bad. Dare to ask for help. Dare to give it. Men are most prone to suicide. Gender roles remain in the body long after they are written out of the constitution. Men should be strong. Fix. Tolerate. So this week I had the conversation with my sons: “If you ever feel like life isn’t worth living, if you ever think about killing yourself, remember this conversation. You must call me. And we will solve things. Together!” We can all get better at seeing and tolerating ourselves and each other. Dig below the surface. Bottomless despair is taboo in our society. We don’t talk about it. We keep the facade. As fellow human beings, we can do a lot about this. But we also need a healthcare system that takes suicide more seriously. A healthcare system that dares to show care. “Suicidal thoughts” was listed as a side effect of a medicine one of my relatives was recently prescribed for his epilepsy. I call him Ola. During the escalation, his thoughts grew darker and darker. He notified the doctor, but received feedback to hold out. It was supposed to get better. It got worse. One day he muttered, almost as if he didn’t want me to hear it: “I’m so scared! I have sat with the knife on my wrist twice this weekend. I don’t want to die, but the medicine inside my head says I will.” This is where the struggle to get help began. The neurologist referred to a psychologist the moment he heard how serious the situation was. Waiting time: Three months! The neurologist sent a new referral. Emphasized that this was an emergency situation. The hospital (the same hospital from which the neurologist sent the referral) held its own. Three months waiting time. It took three (!) referrals and countless phone calls from healthcare personnel before Ola was able to speak to a psychological team for one hour. When the team finally arrived on the field, we still got no help – only instructions to hide all sharp objects and to keep Ola under supervision 24 hours a day. At home. Alone. A person with a knife on his wrist was asked to wait three months for treatment. When he finally got through the eye of the needle, the first five meetings with a psychologist involved filling out statutory forms. Not to talk or receive care. The psychologist found it as frustrating as the patient. Ola reduced the epilepsy medication and the suicidal thoughts disappeared after a few weeks. He was “lucky” and knew the cause was chemical and that it would go away. In addition, he had relatives who were there. Every minute. Day and night. An acquaintance of mine lost her husband to suicide while she was taking a quick drug break. So here we kept the door to the bathroom open. And night watch. With the drugs out of the body, the epileptic seizures returned. And the doors of the hospital opened again. Our family has lived with physical illness for a long time. When a child becomes acutely physically ill, an ambulance arrives or I drive to the emergency room, a whole team welcomes us, and we see the very best side of our healthcare system. Everytime. Also when it is a false alarm. “It is better that you come in once too much than once too little”, we are told. No matter how often we visit. The times I have been a relative when life-threatening mental illness has struck, I have seen a completely different side of our country. Then everything is about forms and cost efficiency, not about care and quality of life. If we think we have nothing to lose, we have to do better than this! 40 people die from epilepsy in Norway each year. That is why it is taken seriously if someone calls 113 in the event of a seizure. Over 650 people take their own lives in Norway every year. That we as a community still do not take mental health care more seriously is unfathomable to me. To think that we are saving money, as a society, by reducing mental health care and letting people just suffer, is both inhumane and ineffective. On 16 May we said goodbye to Petter. With music. Speaker. Flowers. Community. Had Petter himself been there, the day would have been perfect. He wasn’t. The main character was missing. His death will forever be meaningless. The void left by him cannot be filled. But maybe… Maybe Petter can be the person who turns our words into action when it comes to suicide prevention? Perhaps the openness Petter held onto for so long could pave the way for a new openness? An openness about what we still cannot achieve. As a society. And as individuals. I hope so. Because none of us can face the darkest darkness alone. At least not if we don’t talk to each other about it. From the memorial service for Petter N. Toldnæs after the funeral in a packed Lillesand church. Photo: Private Do you need someone to talk to? If you need to talk to someone, you can contact these: Mental Health Helpline: Call 116 123 or write to sidetmedord.no. Kirkens SOS: Kirkens SOS is the country’s largest 24-hour crisis service on the phone and internet. Call 22 40 00 40 or chat with someone on the website. The VO line: A helpline for those who experience violence or abuse in close relationships. Call 116 006 or chat with someone on the website. The helpline for sexually abused people: 800 57 000 Cross on the neck is the Red Cross’s service for you under the age of 18. Telephone: 800 333 21. Write or chat on the website. The alarm phone for children and young people: A free phone for children and young people who are exposed to violence, abuse and neglect. Telephone 116 111. Acute risk of suicide? Call 113 when it is urgent and your life is at stake. Call the emergency room on tel. 116117 for emergency assistance. You can also talk to your GP.
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