Hold On Just a Little Longer

Yesterday, while people were going to the KU game, others were shopping for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I was in the basement of a downtown church with 30 or so other people. We were not hanging lights on our houses or shopping for holiday dessert ingredients. We were sharing the fact that all of us had had this strange, tragic event in our lives that drastically changed the course our lives would take.

All of us had had 'that moment', when a police officer, or someone from the coroner's office, or a sheriff's deputy, notifed us of the sudden death of a loved one to suicide.

"Is he at the hospital? Is he ok?" I asked.

"No, I am sorry, he has expired." I was told.

Yesterday was a day of remembrance for those who have lost a loved one to suicide. Seeing these people find their way into the room, leaving all of the green and red and glitter to come and share their pain with others was the only place I felt I belonged.

I heard many stories and saw the faces of those left behind. I am tired of hearing from those who have not lost a loved one to suicide, how the act of suicide is a selfish act. If it were only that simple. Then, there would be no need for support groups and events like the one on November 20.

Suicide is much worse than selishness. It is not cowardice. Suicide is pain that feels infinite. The pain ends at the moment the person dies by suicide, but begins for the survivors the following moment. We are left to pick up the pieces and try and figure out, first what purpose the death served the one who died by their own hand, and then, what takes even more time, and requires much more soulsearching, what it means for US.

I am convinced that when people say things like 'suicide is the ultimate act of cowardice' they are comfortable with questions with answers. What makes them wobbly and off-center, a place no one wants to be, is that there are questions and lots of them, with either lots of answers or, no answers. That is what life and death are all about. It's how you decide to respond to this truth that makes you who you are.

I have to daily figure out a way to divvy up what my husband was trying to accomplish in his final act on earth. Was he leaving us? I have to ask this question, because there are times when it sure feels like he was. When I am with our daughter, driving in the car, helping her with homework, doing her laundry, making her dinner, I wonder if he was leaving all of THIS. Some of it is humdrum, the daily grind of life, but, I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Then I have to ask, was he leaving ME? My dreams are peppered with nightmares of him leaving this relationship, and finding love in another's arms, and turning his back on me. I wake up, sweaty and convinced this feeling is based in truth.

Then I ask, what if he was leaving HIMSELF? What if the pain of being him was awful and more exhausting than any chore or relationship, even the precious ones? I don't know if this is the answer, but suspect that it is as close to an answer as I will ever get.

Tomorrow night, our son arrives home from college for Thanksgiving. I can hardly wait. I want to see him and kiss his cheek and squeeze him hard. I want him with me, safe in our home. I want to stuff him with food and love and make sure he knows how very very much I love him. I want our daughter to awkwardly hug him, and feel like we are all together again. Is this for him? I could say that it is, but, really, it's what makes ME feel better.

And so, yesterday, I felt I belonged and was heard. I felt as though, not understanding, not having all of the answers, was the best answer of all. It's as good as it will ever get.

I know for certain of those who died by their own hand and were not mentally ill. I know for certain of those who died by their own hand to escape real physical pain. I know for certain of those who died by their own hand and were mentally ill. But what I know for certain in all of these cases is that each person who died by suicide leaves a big ass mess. I don't think they anticipate a big ass mess, and perhaps the mess they imagine is still small in comparison to the mess they believe their own lives to be.

I just wish for all of them, that they could have held on, long enough for someone to answer their call for help. It's the teenager who is teased and bullied at school for being 'different'; it's the man who has tried 15 diifferent medications for depression with no lasting results; it is the man who struggles with intense physical pain that drains him of energy; it's the mother who finds herself unable to care for her young children... I just wish all of them could have held on a little bit longer... so we could throw them a lifejacket and help them make it to shore.