Prior to Mark’s death, I knew little of a death by suicide. Both of my sisters had family members on their husband’s side who ended their lives, but other than that it was something I heard or read about, shook my head, and tsked tsked at the awfulness of such a loss. Then a friend’s son died and it landed on my street. When I heard the news and hung up the phone I couldn’t even absorb what I was told. Mark came out of the shower and when he asked who called so early I told him and he said, “Oh my god,” and started crying while I stood in unblinking shock in the bedroom. As the hours went by and I didn’t know what to do, I called my mom who asked me if I’d been down to their house to talk to them. I told her I hadn’t and she told me I needed to and I said, “Well, it’s almost lunch time so I’ll wait until they’re done eating and then go down.” The absurdity of that still baffles me, as if they were sitting around at noon having ham sandwiches and potato salad with a refreshing glass of lemonade and making a list of funeral homes as one does on a beautiful spring day. “You get yourself down there right now,” my mom sternly said and I will always be grateful she wasn’t about to let any kid of hers off the hook for not showing during someone’s darkest hour.
Five years later the same story would unfold in my house.
For those at the center of a death, whether intentional, sudden, or after a long illness, the moments pass in disbelief and fear. It’s like being on an out of control rollercoaster that nobody will stop as you are whipped from one side to the other. All you want is to get off of it so you can throw up, put your head between your knees to stop the spinning, and thank the universe that nonsense is over. Except over is very loosely defined and out of reach.
I was recently on the listening end of a story about someone I didn’t know who committed suicide. First of all, for the love of God stop using that term. It is loaded with shame and feels like salt poured on raw skin. Mark may have died that way but I know what he was committed to and every day but his last was not his own death. During this I sat with my hands under the table and my nail dug into my palm to keep from screaming, crying, or both. I could have spoken up but I knew it would be awkward and draw attention to the pain of a story that I thought was understood.
That night I had a dream that Mark and I were in a vintage store – something that he indulged me in often. We tended to wander away from each other and he was either way behind or way ahead of me but we would always find each other at the checkout. In the dream they announced that they were closing and all customers needed to bring their purchases to the front of the store. I was looking for him and he was nowhere to be found. An employee found me and told me I needed to leave as I was the only one left in the store. “I’m not,” I frantically said, “my husband is here. I was just with him five minutes ago.” She was guiding me to the exit and said, “You have to go,” and pushed me out the door and locked it while I screamed Mark’s name over and over.
I love a good story, I thrive on them. I have heard my brothers and brother-in-law tell the story of Mark’s bachelor party dozens of times and I never get tired of it. Each of them remember different parts of it so it’s layered, outrageous, and hilarious. You know what else is great about it? Everybody lived to tell the tale. End of life stories are missing the humor and waking up part which lands much differently. When anyone tells me about an untimely or awful death in their circle and asks me how to help a family, I feel their heartache and can think of so many things they can do. I am touched that they ask me, but anyone who has lived through it does not need to know about your cousin’s friend in the cul-de-sac one block over who is at death’s door. They have seen the color of death’s door. A person who watched someone they love have a heart attack in front of them will never need to know a single detail of a similar story you heard secondhand and does not affect your daily life. They witnessed and have relived every moment of it.
I was lucky enough to live most of my life without trauma or the resulting triggers and had no idea what a gift that was. That is not the case since Mark died and it is terrifying when I find myself in a loop of horrible memories. Each time another layer gets unpeeled because when you are no longer in shock your brain says, “Hey, remember this part? Oh you don’t? Let me turn the lights down and show you on the big screen because it’s a doozy.” There are coping strategies which sometimes work and sometimes don’t. There is ongoing therapy which often feels repetitive and unnecessary until you start sobbing in the middle of one and realize you’re not as okay as you thought, med adjustments, med changes, walking, walking, walking, digging in the dirt, and gently burying pieces of pain hoping it blooms into something beautiful.
I use all of the strategies and when they don’t work I go to bed and pray tomorrow is better which I also learned from my mom. But after a few painful days when I doubted whether or not I could kick myself to the surface one more time, I know I need to speak up, to address the awkward, and say that the need to tell a story I don’t need to know or you haven’t lived through, might land me back on the rollercoaster I worked desperately hard to get off of, and that feels landing back in my worst nightmare.
