Articles
Hillsborough testaments: The widow: Jenny
Jenny's husband Ian committed suicide two years ago. He had never been the same since suffering post-traumatic stress disorder following his experience at Hillsborough.
I met Ian when I was 14 and he was 15, and we married five years later. At the time of Hillsborough, we had two children, both under eight. Ian was a psychiatric nurse at a high-security hospital and I'd just started a degree course in criminal justice.
He went to the match with a group of workmates: some had seat tickets, but Ian and his best friend Joe were in the Leppings Lane. They had been swept into one of the pens behind the goal by the surge. It was so strong it carried them two-thirds of the way down the pen. Ian was right in front of Joe and they were squashed together. He could always feel Joe's hands on his shoulder, and he kept up a discussion with him, saying: "We'll get out this way." When he got out of the pen Ian was still talking to Joe, and he could swear Joe was talking back. But at the inquest Ian was told this was impossible, because Joe was dead before Ian even got out of the pen. He couldn't get over the fact that their conversations hadn't happened. Ian got out through a hole in the fence and he assumed Joe was with him. He wasn't.
I didn't hear from Ian until 9pm, when he called to say Joe was still missing. They'd been to the mortuary at the stadium several times, and there were Polaroids of the people they had there. But Joe's face was so contorted Ian couldn't recognise him in the photo. It was a logo on his shirt they noticed, then they went to check the body, and it was Joe. He was very tall, which put him at a disadvantage: his chest had been damaged by the heads of so many people around him.
Ian was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder just a few weeks after. He wasn't seriously injured, but he was a wreck. He was a man's man and he said he didn't need help, so he went straight back to work. Two weeks later he came home from his night shift, went upstairs and smashed the bathroom up. He wasn't an aggressive person, but he couldn't handle the emotions.
Ian agreed to have counselling. Being a psychiatric nurse didn't help him, because he didn't want to be seen needing the support he was giving other people. He saw it as some kind of failure. He was prescribed Prozac, was on it for three months, and it helped. But he had a lot of nightmares. I thought he was through the worst, but Hillsborough was like a spectre. He never went to football after that: our son lost so much bonding time with his dad because he wouldn't go to the game.
About two or three weeks before Ian died, there was all this stuff about Kelvin MacKenzie being on Newsnight, and Ian got really angry. I didn't realise just how much it bothered him. His sleep was being disturbed, but he was also worrying about his business. He gave up nursing 10 years after Hillsborough and he set up a computer company. For seven or eight years it went well, then it started going downhill.
Ian died on the Tuesday. The weekend before, we'd gone up to the Lake District and had a lovely time; there was no hint of any anxiety. He said everything at work would be fine. On the Monday night he was a bit tetchy, a bit tired. In the morning I remember him getting up before the alarm and turning it off. I'd just rolled over to where he'd been sleeping, and I thought, "Ooh, I'm glad he's not coming back to bed," because where he'd been lying was lovely and warm.
Ian got up and had a shower and put his work clothes on. He did everything he'd normally do: he had a cup of tea, went into the garage and fed the rabbit. At about quarter to eight my daughter came up and asked me something and I said: "Oh, ask your dad," and she said: "Dad's gone," and I said: "He hasn't gone this early; he hasn't even said goodbye." She said: "He has. He's not downstairs." So I came down and his van was still on the path. I called his mobile and it rang in the living room. We went out into the kitchen and the garage door had the key in, so my daughter ran out to the garage. And Ian had hanged himself in there. She started screaming.
My daughter was barely a teenager. Luckily she didn't see his face. Ian was on a small ladder; he was still standing on it. At first she thought he was standing on it to reach something, so she started to talk to him, but then she noticed that he had something round his neck. When I went in I saw his face.
Sometimes I feel angry, and I think: "Why didn't you talk to me? I could've helped." In the weeks after Ian's death I felt that if my youngest hadn't been there, I'd have taken an overdose. Sometimes I think he didn't mean to do it; it was a cry for help. Then I just think: "He'd gone into the garage to feed the rabbit and thought: 'I can't go back, I've had enough,' and he snapped. He'd seen a way out."
Ian was never the same after Hillsborough. He was like a coiled spring. The least thing, he would get worked up. He was always on edge. He's been gone two years now. We had his funeral in the church we got married in, and it was lovely, really comforting. But his death has made us all a lot more insecure. I do have faith, and I have to believe there's an afterlife. There's just nothing that's worth taking your life for. Nothing will ever be the same again.
I met Ian when I was 14 and he was 15, and we married five years later. At the time of Hillsborough, we had two children, both under eight. Ian was a psychiatric nurse at a high-security hospital and I'd just started a degree course in criminal justice.
He went to the match with a group of workmates: some had seat tickets, but Ian and his best friend Joe were in the Leppings Lane. They had been swept into one of the pens behind the goal by the surge. It was so strong it carried them two-thirds of the way down the pen. Ian was right in front of Joe and they were squashed together. He could always feel Joe's hands on his shoulder, and he kept up a discussion with him, saying: "We'll get out this way." When he got out of the pen Ian was still talking to Joe, and he could swear Joe was talking back. But at the inquest Ian was told this was impossible, because Joe was dead before Ian even got out of the pen. He couldn't get over the fact that their conversations hadn't happened. Ian got out through a hole in the fence and he assumed Joe was with him. He wasn't.
I didn't hear from Ian until 9pm, when he called to say Joe was still missing. They'd been to the mortuary at the stadium several times, and there were Polaroids of the people they had there. But Joe's face was so contorted Ian couldn't recognise him in the photo. It was a logo on his shirt they noticed, then they went to check the body, and it was Joe. He was very tall, which put him at a disadvantage: his chest had been damaged by the heads of so many people around him.
Ian was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder just a few weeks after. He wasn't seriously injured, but he was a wreck. He was a man's man and he said he didn't need help, so he went straight back to work. Two weeks later he came home from his night shift, went upstairs and smashed the bathroom up. He wasn't an aggressive person, but he couldn't handle the emotions.
Ian agreed to have counselling. Being a psychiatric nurse didn't help him, because he didn't want to be seen needing the support he was giving other people. He saw it as some kind of failure. He was prescribed Prozac, was on it for three months, and it helped. But he had a lot of nightmares. I thought he was through the worst, but Hillsborough was like a spectre. He never went to football after that: our son lost so much bonding time with his dad because he wouldn't go to the game.
About two or three weeks before Ian died, there was all this stuff about Kelvin MacKenzie being on Newsnight, and Ian got really angry. I didn't realise just how much it bothered him. His sleep was being disturbed, but he was also worrying about his business. He gave up nursing 10 years after Hillsborough and he set up a computer company. For seven or eight years it went well, then it started going downhill.
Ian died on the Tuesday. The weekend before, we'd gone up to the Lake District and had a lovely time; there was no hint of any anxiety. He said everything at work would be fine. On the Monday night he was a bit tetchy, a bit tired. In the morning I remember him getting up before the alarm and turning it off. I'd just rolled over to where he'd been sleeping, and I thought, "Ooh, I'm glad he's not coming back to bed," because where he'd been lying was lovely and warm.
Ian got up and had a shower and put his work clothes on. He did everything he'd normally do: he had a cup of tea, went into the garage and fed the rabbit. At about quarter to eight my daughter came up and asked me something and I said: "Oh, ask your dad," and she said: "Dad's gone," and I said: "He hasn't gone this early; he hasn't even said goodbye." She said: "He has. He's not downstairs." So I came down and his van was still on the path. I called his mobile and it rang in the living room. We went out into the kitchen and the garage door had the key in, so my daughter ran out to the garage. And Ian had hanged himself in there. She started screaming.
My daughter was barely a teenager. Luckily she didn't see his face. Ian was on a small ladder; he was still standing on it. At first she thought he was standing on it to reach something, so she started to talk to him, but then she noticed that he had something round his neck. When I went in I saw his face.
Sometimes I feel angry, and I think: "Why didn't you talk to me? I could've helped." In the weeks after Ian's death I felt that if my youngest hadn't been there, I'd have taken an overdose. Sometimes I think he didn't mean to do it; it was a cry for help. Then I just think: "He'd gone into the garage to feed the rabbit and thought: 'I can't go back, I've had enough,' and he snapped. He'd seen a way out."
Ian was never the same after Hillsborough. He was like a coiled spring. The least thing, he would get worked up. He was always on edge. He's been gone two years now. We had his funeral in the church we got married in, and it was lovely, really comforting. But his death has made us all a lot more insecure. I do have faith, and I have to believe there's an afterlife. There's just nothing that's worth taking your life for. Nothing will ever be the same again.
