The worst news possible

Updated: Aug 7

Anonymous

Anon

My MenoJourney Story

Six weeks ago, I received a late-night call from my friend’s husband, frantic because she—let’s call her Sharon—hadn’t come home from work and wasn’t answering her phone. I hadn’t seen her since our last girls’ night the week before. Sharon and I go back 40 years, to when we started secondary school together. She, I, and another friend—let’s call her Wendy—were the new girls in town, bonding over being outsiders. We became inseparable through school and, even now, live within five miles of each other.

I can hardly bear to write this, but Sharon was found in the early hours of the next day. She had taken her own life in the woods where we used to camp during our Duke of Edinburgh award years ago. I’ll never stop regretting that I didn’t think to go there right after the call. It just didn’t cross my mind.

I had no clue things had got so dark for her. We’re all navigating perimenopause, and at our monthly meetups, we’d vent about it—hot flashes, mood swings, the works—along with everything else on our minds. I knew her business was struggling with rising costs—electricity, minimum wage, National Insurance—but I didn’t grasp how dire it was. That night, one of her employees announced another maternity leave, and the police had just dismissed a vandalism incident at her shop. Looking back, it was the final blow.

Sharon leaves behind two sons, 20 and 18. One is consumed by anger, barely able to speak; the other is just numb. I’ve tried telling them their mother wasn’t herself, that she wasn’t selfish—she adored those boys, a true lioness, fierce and devoted. I’m not sure they even heard me.

Wendy and I are shattered. The guilt of not seeing how desperate Sharon was is crushing. Watching her boys and husband grieve is a pain I can’t put into words.

Please, friends, check in with each other. Let everyone know you’re there, no matter what. Don’t let anyone slip through the cracks.