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This I Believe

By Barbara Z. Murphy

Following the death of my son Conor in January 2009, I read the books This I Believe and This I Believe II. I spent days formulating thoughts related to his death. Why did he commit suicide? Was he prone to depression? Was it caused by factors in the environment such as failed relationships or a job loss? What part did I, his father and his siblings play?

My mind kept replaying my life as a teenager and young adult as I watched a family member and other patients succumb to depression. I frequently visited my father the year and a half he spent at a Veterans Hospital in Connecticut as he struggled to survive two types of cancer. In addition my father developed bipolar disorder and received medication, counseling, and treatments during that period. My mother was continuously worried about him for the remainder of his life and was also impacted by her own health issues.

During these years I remember saying to myself, to my sister, or to my brother “I am not crazy. I am continuing to function in college and on my job.” I attended church several times a week and prayed for my family. I hoped my father would be cured but that was not to be. My father died when I was twenty-five years old from a cardiac arrest while being dialyzed at the hospital. At the time of his death, less was known about bipolar disorder.  I certainly never thought then that I could pass on the genetic propensity of this serious illness when I myself did not have the disorder.

As I reflect on my son’s life, I know that many of his great works in art, music, and sports were accomplished during what the medical profession refers to as the manic phase. His bursts of energy in his teen years and his early twenties could last for hours, days, and even months at a time. He developed many friends throughout the world as others gravitated to him to share in his diverse experiences. Although he was not formally diagnosed with bipolar disorder during his lifetime, in retrospect he appeared to me to have many of the characteristics.

As he grew older in his twenties, there were some times of increasing anxiety and depression related to living situations, failed relationships, or finances. Although my husband and I, and his brother and sister, offered suggestions and assistance, Conor appeared to struggle and perseverate on certain issues.

So today I believe that although many children grow up in good home environments with loving families and wonderful friends, some will not escape the effects of illnesses such as cancer or depression. Genetics are passed on from generation to generation. We do not know which of our children will inherit certain genes that can lead to a deadly illness.

So the time we spend with our loved ones may be too short, sometimes painful, but often filled with joy. I try to remember the good times with my son – he loved life and accomplished so much in his twenty-nine years on earth. I am thankful for those wonderful memories. I try to remember his smiles, his laughter, and his understanding of various cultures and religions. He believed in a peaceful world in which people would come together to share in their varied experiences and beliefs. Depression overtook Conor’s mind at the end of his life. He did not choose suicide. He did not choose to die. His death was the result of having a mental illness; for Conor there was no real choice.

As Conor lay dying in the hospital, I looked at his facial expression. His face appeared to me more relaxed, less intense, calmer, and more confident than it had in the past month. I could see that he was no longer tormented by racing thoughts, personal disappointments, and the difficulty of sleeping. He sought peace and I believe that his mind was finally at rest. I am thankful that he achieved this peace he so desperately sought. I wish he could have achieved this peace while alive. I am forever sad that his life has ended. I will always love and miss him.