Olympian legend Kelly Holmes, my friend and fellow mental health campaigner, was crying on TV last night, when an email popped into my inbox which had me joining her in tears. Perhaps it was her own emotional state, as she told the story on ITV of how she had stayed in the closet for so long, and was finally coming out as gay, that had me close to the edge anyway. But the email tipped me over.
It was from a complete stranger, Dr Douglas Russell. “Dear Alastair,” it began, “Please forgive this unsolicited e-mail, but I simply wish to pass on the sad news that Ernest Bennie died earlier today. I thought you might wish to know.”
The news pushed me over the edge to which Kelly had taken me because the man who had just lost his life had once saved mine.
I first met him in the spring of 1986, in a hospital in Paisley, to which I had been taken after being released from police custody after being arrested for my own safety, and where he was the duty psychiatrist. Here is my account of that meeting in my book on depression, Living Better.
Dr Ernest Bennie had a calm, quiet voice, and his being Scottish helped put me at ease. He didn’t mind silence. He was happy to wait for answers.
Amid the possessions I had chucked on the floor of the council building in Hamilton, now returned by the police, was my A4 diary.
‘I notice you keep a diary,’ said Dr Bennie.
‘I do.’
‘Why do you do that?’
‘To record what I do with my life.’
‘And why do you do that?’
‘I don’t know, I always have.’
‘When did you start doing that?’
‘I have always written a lot. I used to write match reports of football matches I went to. I wrote to relatives in Scotland telling them what was happening in school. And when my Dad was in hospital after his accident, we couldn’t visit that often, so I sent him letters with my Mum every day. They were just accounts of my day. I think that is when the habit started.’
‘And let me ask you this . . . in your diary, would you ever make a note of how much you drink?’
‘No. Why would I do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Silence.
More silence.
‘Do you think I should?’ I ask.
‘Should what?’
‘Record my drinking.’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered if you did.’ Silence.
‘No. But I could if you wanted me to.’
‘I wonder if we might take a few recent days, and try to track back, and establish whether you can recall how much you were drinking? Do you think you could do that?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You will have to read to me. I can’t read a word of your writing.’ My diaries are a mix of longhand and shorthand micro-scribbles and the entries were especially micro in the run-up to my breakdown.
‘Try that day,’ he said, as I flicked to an especially manic-looking Tuesday.
‘Woke up. Waited for F to go swimming. Went to the toilet. Threw up. Fuck! This is happening too often.’
‘What is happening too often?’
‘Throwing up in the morning. I think that is what I mean.’ Silence.
‘Go on.’
‘Into work. Meeting with Tony Holden [editor]. Still not hired enough staff but budget smashed. Briefed Geordie Greig [reporter] on a few ideas. Conference. To the Lord High Admiral . . .’
‘Which is?’
‘The office pub.’
‘I see. What time might this be?’
‘About eleven. Just after maybe.’ Silence.
‘Carry on.’
‘Back for a meeting, then back to LHA before going for lunch with David Mellor.’
‘The politician?’
‘Yes. Then it is just stuff about what we talked about– football, Thatcher blah, Nigel Lawson blah.’
‘And did you drink over lunch?’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Wine?’
‘Yes.’
‘Much?’
‘Maybe a couple of bottles.’
‘Mmmm. Go on.’
‘Then back to the office. Then a meeting in Vagabonds.’
‘Vagabonds?’
‘A drinking club.’
‘I see. What time are we now?’
‘Three-ish, maybe half-three.’
‘And what would you be drinking there?’
‘Usually half pints and Scotch chasers.’
‘How many?’
‘A few.’
‘Go on . . .’
But I didn’t need to. I’d got the point. A very large penny was dropping in my head.
He made me go on anyway, to the after work session in the pub, several pints of beer and then onto Scotch again, and home around midnight for another row.
He left me with my thoughts, and when he came back the next day, I said to him I was going to try to stop drinking. And I did.
When, many years later, I made a documentary for the BBC about my breakdown, I tracked him down to a flat in Paisley, where he was living in retirement. He was aware, or at least had suspected, that the person he kept seeing on TV and reading about in the papers was indeed the Alastair Campbell he had been called out to after I arrived from the police station all those years ago.
I told him that his interventions in the ensuing days had been vital, and it was often as much about what he didn’t say as what he did.
He smiled. ‘Sometimes the successful interventions can be very, very brief, but the patient must make up his own mind, and be ready to do so.’
So that is why I say that he saved my life, and feel so sad that he has passed away. It is why I dedicated my first novel to him, All in the Mind, which is about the relationship between a psychiatrist and his patients.
Particularly today, with the NHS under such strain, and the government of austerity and populism constantly adding to that strain with their undermining of public service, the morale of health professionals is often low. But they should never lose sight of the amazing impact they can have on so many people’s lives. I know I will not be the only one who, on hearing the news that Dr Bennie has died, will feel sadness mixed with immense gratitude.
Ours was very much a chance encounter, fairly brief, as he recalled, but for me, absolutely life-changing, and I will never forget him, nor his kindness and professionalism, and his gently leading me to the conclusion that the reason I was in a hospital bed had nothing to do with the paranoid fantasies that were going around my head in the police car, and everything to do with choices I had made, and changes I had to make in my own life and lifestyle.
Thank you, and RIP.
