‘How a song helped to heal my pain’ One woman’s story of finding hope after tragedy
After tragedy hit her family, Sarah Frame, 61, from Glasgow, found comfort in an unlikely stranger, but neither of them could have realised what their friendship would lead to
‘It was late afternoon when I stumbled away from my first session with a bereavement counsellor, distressed. The streets of Glasgow were dark and bitterly cold. Then I heard someone singing Loch Lomond and I stopped in my tracks, fresh tears falling, because the familiar song of a busker was both comforting and agonising all at once.
When he’d finished, the busker came over. ‘I could see that meant something to you,’ he said, gently.
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘It’s important… in relation to my son.’
‘It’s none of my business,’ he started, ‘but did he take his own life?’
Stunned at this complete stranger’s perception, I nodded.
‘I’ve lost friends to suicide,’ he said. ‘I could tell from the way you looked.’
Although we seemed worlds apart, I felt a connection with this sensitive young man. As we talked more, I learned his name was Liam Doyle. He’d been brave to reach out to me and I could tell he truly understood. I had no idea then how significant our meeting would be, how he would help me do something positive with my grief.
FEARLESS
Thirty years earlier, I’d had my hands full raising four children under 10. Gordon, a middle child, was the biggest handful. He was impulsive and fearless, always climbing trees and walls. He had to wear bright clothes when he went to nursery so they could spot him trying to escape! But everyone loved him because he was funny and affectionate. He more than made up for the exasperation, exhaustion and endless trips to A&E.
I remember a day out to Edinburgh Castle when he was six. Immediately drawn to the soldiers, he stood beside them, gazing up in awe. All my kids felt the impact of losing their dad, who had taken his life aged 30 the previous year, but while the others threw themselves into their studies, Gordon struggled at school. It was only when he joined the army, as a Royal Scots Dragoon Guard, that he began to thrive. Even when he went to Iraq, I didn’t worry too much. ‘The army don’t want to lose anyone, Mum,’ Gordon said. ‘This is what we train for.’
He gained qualifications and a case full of trophies for boxing, and he was so proud when he won a rare colonel’s commendation. Yet he was still as mischievous as ever. ‘Gordon gets away with more than anyone,’ his mates would say.
REASSURANCE
Promoted to sergeant, he dealt with the welfare of other soldiers. It’s impossible to say when his own mental health began to suffer, but in 2018, when he was 34, I noticed a change. By now, he had a stepson, daughter and two little boys, and a bout of pneumonia had knocked him for six. We lived less than two hours apart, spoke and messaged every day. Sometimes he was upbeat, other times despairing, but he would urge me not to worry. ‘I’ve got this, Mum,’ he told me. ‘I’d never do what Dad did. I want to be there for my kids. You’ll never get “that call”.’
I responded, relieved: ‘I’m so glad you said that. I couldn’t survive losing any one of you.’ By then I was a mum of five.
His wife and I both implored him to get help. When he finally saw the doctor, he was diagnosed with severe clinical depression, given medication and signed off work. No one would have known how ill he was at his elder sister Kirstie’s wedding a few months later. He was dancing wildly with his daughter while carrying his youngest boy in his arms.
He returned to work and signed up for Samarathon, a marathon in aid of Samaritans, posting on his fundraising page: ‘I want to do anything I can to prevent the gut-wrenching heartache of suicide.’ I thought he was getting back on top again. But days later came the worst moment in my life. Gordon’s wife had to make ‘that call’ and the Military Police came knocking on my door. I can’t tell you what was said or how I reacted, my anguish is too great.
With suicide, there are a thousand questions and no answers. There is no single reason why Gordon took his life and it was certainly no one’s fault. He died from extreme depression, which someone later described to me as like being at the bottom of a well. You start to climb up, but when you stop, the top seems a heck of a long way away. My son was in the grip of a terrible illness that was beyond his control. He loved us all and I know he wouldn’t have wanted us to suffer the pain we feel now.
The army was amazing, stepping in to help with the shopping, the kids, arrangements for Gordon’s full military funeral. They had to find a huge church in St Andrews for 600 mourners, plus more outside. His colleagues came forward to tell me how he had helped them with their own troubles.
MEETING LIAM
We scattered his ashes at Loch Lomond, a place we’d often visited, and I knew it would always be a sacred place. I went back to work as a director of an online learning company, desperate for distraction that never came. So I tried counselling, and talking about Gordon opened the floodgates. It was after my first session that I stumbled on to the street to hear the Scottish folk song
Loch Lomond through the darkness. From then on, after every weekly counselling session, I would wander over to Liam and wave. He busked to top up his earnings as a professional singer. He had kind eyes, exuded
‘There are a thousand questions and no answers’
empathy and I began to think about showing him the poem I’d been writing. I’d found it helpful to pour my emotions into a notebook, especially how I’d wished Gordon had sought help earlier, spoken to a professional or a helpline, someone, anyone…
‘Just reach out and find someone who makes you want to stay,’ I wrote. ‘You leave a hole no tears can fill, I love you now, I always will… It gets better, I know that it gets better…’
I called it Just Reach Out and one week, I read it to Liam. ‘You want me to make it into a song, don’t you?’ he smiled. ‘I have the shivers because
I can hear the melody already.’
REACHING OUT
Anyone can contact Samaritans FREE any time. Call 116 123, email jo@samaritans.org or visit samaritans.org
He took my poem and soon after, sent me a clip of the song. It was perfect. My son, Struan, filmed it and we posted it on Liam’s Facebook page with a link to the Samaritans helpline, explaining that we hoped it would inspire people to see there was light at the end of the tunnel. To our amazement, we got 30,000 views. When we saw comments such as ‘I was meant to see this tonight’, we knew that if we could get even one person to seek help, spare one mother my pain, it was worth it.
Last year, during the first lockdown, Liam recorded the song in a Glasgow studio and we pledged the download royalties to Samaritans, setting our target at £12,000.
Liam and I may be unlikely friends, but our connection is far greater than the age gap. I firmly believe someone above was looking out for me the day we met. I couldn’t save Gordon, but I could channel my grief into something constructive. He had always wanted to help others and, in his name, so did I. Just Reach Out
was pivotal in my slow steps to recovery. Last year, I also completed the Samarathon, walking over 12 days. In total, our family has now raised over £20,000 – and rising.
Slowly, I am learning ways to manage my grief. I’m determined to keep Gordon’s memory alive. I have photos all over the house and his boys, now six and seven, love hearing stories. ‘Nana,’ they say, ‘tell me about the time Daddy dyed his blond hair black and you had to buy him a hat.’
Sadness is shattering and relentless, day after day. I’ll be honest, there have also been times when I’ve felt like giving up, but then I think of Gordon. Finding ways to cope is the best possible tribute to my beloved son.’
• Just Reach Out by Liam Doyle (words by Sarah Frame) is on Youtube, itunes, Amazon, Apple and Spotify
‘If we could get one person to seek help, it was worth it’