Suicide is probably one of the most painful things a survivor can endure. Not only is it a loss, you are left with so many questions and doubts. How could they have done this to you? Were you not worth living for? Could I have done something to prevent it? If only . . . if only.

When the death comes suddenly, totally unexpected, it carries a shock wave among all those who knew the individual. Young people especially feel the pain, one moment thinking they are going to live forever, and the next facing just how fragile life can be. My daughter was one of several close friends who were left behind when a high school classmate took her own life. I felt for the parents, the relatives and friends. I felt for my daughter.

And as for parents who lose a child, nothing is as devastating. They cry out - why not me instead? No one wants to see a child die. I saw what it did to my parents. My brother died at 21 from Hodgkin’s disease. What was left of our family disintegrated before my eyes.

So how could I possibly understand what others go through when I have not had someone close to me commit suicide?

Maybe it comes from having watched my mother over a period of 20 years, systematically snuff out her life. She lost her parents and then her son. Three deaths we all had to face, but she never recovered from. She always lamented how she had lost everything she had to live for. I heard that repeated day in and out from age 10 until her death when I was 30, always wondering how I fit into the picture. Was I not worth it? Was I a part of the problem? Did I fail her somehow? Could I have helped prevent this?

Between refusal to speak up when she was ill, refusal to see a doctor, over eating until she was morbidly obese, and binging on sweets although she was diabetic, her health deteriorated at a slow but steady rate. Begging her not to eat things that could pose serious threats to her health yielded no response; if anything it worsened the situation. Telling her how important she was to me, that I needed her brought on anger. And yet - she DID love me. We were very close. I just couldn't break through the darkness that took her prisoner. We did try. We pleaded for her to get help. So did the doctors who tended her when things went from bad to worse, over and over again.

From lack of activity and an autoimmune condition she developed interstitial pneumonia, asthma and COPD. I would lie in bed each night listening to her cough till she vomited. This was my life. There were moment of joy and sweetness. This I treasure and do not deny. But most of all was the feeling of watching a clock tick faster and faster - knowing what I would eventually have to face - not just when or how. Her stays in the hospital were becoming drawn out longer and longer. The medications used to treat her were destroying her. A woman who once weighed over 300 pounds was now 150 pounds. I foolishly held out a hope that somehow that would help.

On January 3, 1991, I spoke to her. I had just returned to work after Christmas vacation to find the company was making cutbacks and I was the first to go. I called her in tears, that came easily - not only from the loss of my job, my first one since I had been a teen, but from the stress and pain that was ever growing. She offered me words of comfort I will never forget. She said, "You landed that job, another one will soon follow. You can do anything you put your mind to." She then added, "You have become a better mother, wife and woman than I could have ever dreamed of being." I was taken aback, not knowing how to respond. She then told me she had good news for me. At first my mind was reeling, spinning with worries and fears, that I almost missed it. Then a chill went through me, as if someone had whispered into my ear - "listen, it's more important now than ever was." I immediately asked her to tell me her news.

She said she was coming home. The doctors had released her and she was just waiting for the paperwork to be completed. My father was there sitting with her. She spoke in a way I had never heard from her, at least since my brother died. She was full of hopes and ambition. "I want to get myself a computer so we can email each other everyday. And maybe, after all those years of helping you study for school, I'll go back for my GED." She had always been ashamed of dropping out. "With all I've learned through helping you, I'm sure to pass. Like they say, it's never too late!" Then she said she was thinking of converting to being Catholic. That came out of left field. A protestant all her life, and a liberal one at that, it seemed out of her nature. However, she explained that a priest had been visiting her day in and out for the past couple of months at the hospital and that he had left her feeling spiritually lifted in a way she couldn't explain, but wished to follow through with. I was utterly amazed at the transformation that had come over her. I then told her I needed to leave and get home. My husband had taken the day off and I wanted to get home to him. We agreed that I would call her at home in a couple of hours, giving her a chance to get home and settled in. I said, my job loss was a blessing in disquise. Now we would have all the time in the world to spend together.

I arrived home and fell into my husband's arms in tears. I felt as though I had let him andf our children down somehow. I cried over the lost job, the lost friends I had made, the lost of pride. What were we to do without my income? That's when the phone rang. A feeling of emptiness came over me. It was the doctor. A short time after I had hung up with my mother, she turned to my father and said she was feeling "strange". The crash team was called in. A blood clot had broken loose and entered her brain. In spite of their best efforts, they could not revive her. She died quickly without pain. The moment had arrived. She was now at peace with her parents and my brother. It was what she had always wanted. Maybe I was selfish to want her to live for me. Having lost her and years later my father I understood the pain, but looking into the faces of my children, I had every reason to live.

When that phone rang the world stood still. No, it wasn't suicide per se, but I could feel the shot being fired. Whether it was a moment or 20 years, she had ended her life far too early. My brother had died at age 21 from cancer. He didn't ask for it, did nothing to cause it. He faced it with a dignity and strength that couldn't be matched, living life to its fullest right to the very last minute. My mother spent 20 years dying by choice. Once the damage was done, all she had to do was wait. I'm eternally grateful for that last call; the chance to see her in my minds eye smiling and shining with hopes and dreams for a bright future. Knowing she respected me and had faith my dreams would also come true. In that - I am lucky. Most survivors do not have the moment of brilliance before the darkness falls.

Through her death, I learned to live. I am one of many survivors where suicide is not a moment of impulse, but rather a long process of diminishing life force. We don't have the same support that those who suffer from a sudden loss receive. Instead it's viewed as a natural process, although there is certainly nothing natural about it.

My heart goes out to those who have walked the same path, experienced the same type of loss, and have endured pain that rather than coming overnight, over shadows most you life. I'd love to hear from others who find themselves walking this road and those who have managed to survive.

Tags: Suicide Survivor Parent

Bookmark: