Life on the Edge - The true story of the hero who saved the lives of twenty-nine people at Beachy Head. Keith Lane
all the pain and confusion I had about Maggie’s behaviour, and she was on the defensive, telling me it was none of my business. We shouted ourselves out until, suddenly, we threw ourselves into each other’s arms and both broke down in tears. I cried because we’d been arguing, because I didn’t understand how things had come to this, because it was so terrible to see my Maggie in such a state – I still call her ‘my Maggie’ to this day – and because I was so desperate to help. I’m sure Maggie’s tears flowed for similar reasons and I’m sure she was also crying because she knew she was so lost and depressed, because she couldn’t see a way out.
Strangely, afterwards we ended up making passionate love together for the first time in quite a while. Despite the painfulness of our argument, fighting had brought us closer than we’d been in weeks. We both loved each other, after all, and for a few moments the distance that Maggie’s depression had put between us seemed smaller.
We lay in bed together afterwards, holding each other close. The shouting was over. Finally we were talking openly again.
ROAD TO RECOVERY, ROAD TO RUIN
With depression and alcoholism, a person must recognise and accept they have a problem before they can begin to deal with it. The same goes for any illness, of course. Recognition is the first big step to recovery. Maggie was suffering from both depression and dependency on alcohol and as we lay in bed in the early hours, I brought the subject up with her.
‘Sweetheart,’ I began, ‘I love you more than anything and that’s why I’m going to say what I’m about to say. I think you have a problem with alcohol. I think you need help. You need to see someone about your drinking – a counsellor, perhaps.’
Maggie nodded. She seemed to agree. For the first time I was getting through to her and I felt a massive sense of relief. Maggie agreed to go to Alcoholics Anonymous and I was quietly over the moon.
The meetings helped her; I encouraged her and Maggie went teetotal. It was amazing how quickly things began to get back to normal. It was as if the real Maggie had finally returned from a long holiday, and as each day went by I could see her improving. The difference was incredible and obvious. Just as my family had thanked Maggie for coming into my life and bringing me back to my old self, Maggie’s family thanked me for encouraging her to lay off the booze. They cared for her deeply and had been as worried as I was about her downward spiral. We were all so happy to see her nearly back once more to being the bubbly woman we loved. She was still on anti-depressants, but now she was off the drink they were working properly – it’s well known that alcohol will interfere with (and render useless) most psychoactive drugs.
To my delight, she decided she was ready to go back to work, so began temping locally while she looked for a full-time job. It was wonderful to see her flinging herself at life again instead of sitting at home. But there was a problem. For one reason or another, things kept going wrong at work. A job would end, and she’d have difficulty finding another. Eventually she’d find one but then get knocked back again after a few weeks. With the memory of the job she had loved in her mind, Maggie found it hard to find anything to match it and this started to get her down. After several kicks in the teeth, her moods began to dip again. She hadn’t had a drink for three months, but towards the end of that period she must have started to lose faith again. And that’s when she turned back to the bottle.
When Maggie agreed to stop drinking, I felt she’d taken the first big step to becoming well again. Indeed by stopping drinking she had taken a huge step. But what I didn’t consider at the time was exactly why. Looking back, I can see that she was doing it for me, because she loved me, because she could see the damage that it was doing to our relationship. And that’s the point – she was doing it for me, but not for herself. Maggie was still in the grip of alcohol even when she wasn’t drinking. Even though she was sober, she still wanted to be drinking. Giving up required strength – and boy, she could be strong when she wanted to – but when a person has deep-rooted problems, those problems often win out. Maggie’s resolve went because her problems overwhelmed her again.
I began to find booze hidden away again and it was a real blow. I felt we’d come so far. It wasn’t that I was sad for myself. I was sad for my wife and I didn’t know what to do. This time around, Maggie’s drinking was worse than before. It became more secretive and now I’d even find small bottles tucked away at the bottom of her handbag. Maggie began to drink throughout the day and would even fill up water bottles with vodka so that she could drink in public and at work without raising any eyebrows. It was such a sad time, and there was very little I could do to stop her. It was as if she’d resigned herself to being a drinker. Before long she was physically dependent on alcohol and would drink any time, morning noon and night. If Maggie didn’t have access to liquor she would be in a real state – mentally agitated and physically shaky – yet even though it was obvious how dependent she was, she would still frequently deny that she was drinking.
I remember coming home from golf one day and finding what looked like a glass of orange juice on the bedside table. I picked it up and could smell vodka in it. When I asked her about it she was adamant that it was just orange. There was no point in getting into an argument, so I left it. Watching a person in denial is a frustrating thing and I used to boil up inside whenever Maggie lied in such a way, but I would always try and count to ten and walk away – labouring the point would have been destructive and a waste of time. When someone is so deeply in denial they have got to a point where they really believe what they are saying. It’s hard to comprehend, but this is what happened to Maggie.
On occasions, it was really hard to control my anger and frustration. There were a number of times when Maggie would lock herself in the bathroom for no reason other than to be able to drink. I’d be around the house and eventually realise where she was before walking up the stairs to try and coax her out gently. But most of the time talking was no use – Maggie either didn’t want to come out or she was too drunk to respond to me coherently. In the end, I’d have to resort to threatening to kick the door down – sometimes I even began to kick it pretty hard, though I never actually kicked it in – and it was only then that she would open up, fall into my arms and cry. I’d try and be positive, telling her that we could get through this, that things could be OK again, but things only went from bad to worse.
I’d find Maggie really out of it, being sick down the toilet and over herself, and the process of cleaning everything up and trying to straighten her out broke my heart. All the time this was going on I would think back to the woman I once knew and wonder how things had got so bad. I sometimes asked myself whether it was all my fault. Looking back, I think I can say it wasn’t, for I would soon discover that there were more contributing factors to Maggie’s depression than her life as it stood – she had a dark past – and I would soon be given a glimpse into it. But something truly awful was to happen first.
My wife would try to kill herself.
I came home from a busy day at work. Maggie was nowhere to be seen downstairs – as was often the case these days – so I walked upstairs to find her. My first reaction to what I found was complete shock. For a few moments I simply froze. Maggie was in the bedroom, sprawled on the bed, passed out with her head tilted back and her eyes rolled back, an empty bottle by her side, along with an empty packet of antidepressants. The realisation that she had overdosed hit me and after a couple of seconds I leaped into action, rushed down the stairs and dialled 999. The voice at the end of the line told me to leave the front door open, go back upstairs and try to wake Maggie up. Once back at her side I shook her, kissed her and did everything I could to try and bring her back to consciousness. Maggie came round a tiny bit and began murmuring, but it was hard to keep her awake – her eyes were rolling and her body was completely limp. All I could do was hold her and call her name in an effort to keep her with me.
I can barely describe the feeling of being on that bed by Maggie’s side. When I first found her, the adrenaline kicked in and I simply went into a