Unending grief: Suffering in silence
When my son took his life, I was determined to understand why
After clearing the dishes one evening in October 2007, I was ready to enjoy some time with my son James, then 11. ‘Fancy a film?’ I asked. ‘You pick,’ James grinned. It’d always been just me and James.
He’d been born eight weeks premature in November 1995, and suffered from asthma.
But while I worried, James coped well.
A busy bee, he was always playing his beloved rugby league, or knocking about with his mates.
Meanwhile, I juggled work as a regional coordinator around childcare, so I cherished our time together, especially film nights.
One day in the summer of 2008, James, then 13, called me at work.
‘I can’t breathe,’ he rasped. Panicking, I raced him to the doctor’s, and they found James’ oxygen levels were critically low.
For two weeks he was in hospital. I was beside myself.
So, when he was discharged and given montelukast – medication to help him breathe easier – I was relieved.
Like everything, it came with possible side effects.
Headache, stomach pain, diarrhoea.
But the risks seemed low compared to his asthma.
Terrified he’d have another attack, I pestered him daily to take his tablet.
‘Please don’t forget,’ I would plead.
It seemed to help, only not long later, James started struggling at school.
My social butterfly became introverted, quiet, avoiding friends.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘Stop nagging. I’m fine!’ he shrugged.
Typical teenager, I assumed.
But soon he was only happy leaving the house to play rugby.
When he was 14, I agreed to homeschool him.
Every morning, I set work, and when I got back in the evening, we’d go through it.
James was bright, didn’t need much encouragement.
But I still badgered him to take his asthma medication.
After his GCSEs, James started an apprenticeship in Business Admin, rather than carry on his studies.
He was still devoted to rugby, though.
His grandfather was
Jamaican, and in July 2014, James, then 18, won a spot playing for Jamaica in the Commonwealth Games in Scotland.
After that, he flourished. That summer, he started learning Mandarin. Visited Beijing on an exchange programme, went to Everest Base Camp...
My happy boy’s got his spark back, I thought.
By September 2015, James had completed a foundation course and started a law degree at Leeds University.
Full of ambitions, he moved in with mates.
Typical student, he’d often bring his laundry round, stay for dinner and a shower, or sleep in his own bed.
It was lovely to see him. And when he was elected as the uni rugby team’s social secretary in April 2017, it seemed his struggles were behind him.
That week, he came to help me plumb in my new washing machine.
Both hopeless at DIY, we ended up soaked.
‘At least I made you laugh,’ James smiled.
Later, he went out with mates, and when he crawled in at 7am, I wasn’t surprised.
He was 21, so I knew he might’ve gone back to his uni digs, or met a girl.
‘Fancy takeaway tonight?’ I called from the sofa. James just grunted. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, heading to his room.
Ten minutes later, I heard James banging about.
But when I called up to tell him I was heading out to the shops, he didn’t reply, so I presumed he’d fallen asleep.
All day I tried to call and firm up our dinner plans. No reply.
When I arrived home at 6pm, the house was dark, so I made mac and cheese for dinner, leaving James a portion just in case.
Then I nodded off watching Casualty, not waking until 6am, still on the sofa.
Heading upstairs, I saw James’ door was open.
Must be out, I thought. But as I got to my bedroom and took in the scene, I cried out, sinking to my knees in despair.
James was on the floor, his face and body swollen. Lifeless. Breaking down, I spoke to a friend and she dialled 999. Police came, an undertaker
He was flourishing – my happy boy had his spark back
took James’ body away.
In shock, I struggled to comprehend what had happened.
James’ death was ruled a suicide.
He’d come home that morning, hanged himself while I sat on the sofa.
The banging I’d heard had been my son dying. It was too much to bear. And I didn’t know why. I desperately searched for a note, an explanation.
Dug through every pocket, drawer, book, shoe.
But there was nothing. Then I started reading online about his medication.
Discovered it’d been linked to rarer side effects, like anxiety, irritability. Suicidal thoughts. Had the tablets I’d nagged him to take triggered this?
I’d thought James had turned a corner, but he’d bottled up his pain instead.
People didn’t seem to know what to say.
So in May 2017, when hundreds came to James’ funeral, I talked about what he’d been through.
‘James took his own life. We need to remove the stigma and talk about it,’ I said.
Soon after, I started the James Burke Foundation, to support those struggling.
Montelukast now comes with warnings about depressive side effects, but I’m still campaigning for a black-box warning – the highest-level warning requiring doctors to check up on patients regularly.
I just wish I’d connected the dots earlier.
Maybe then, with help, James could’ve been OK.
Now, I work as a mentalhealth campaigner.
Listening to others, sharing my own story.
So no one else suffers in silence like James did.