If Only Troubles Melted Like Lemon Drops

Monday marked Suicide Prevention Day.  I thought about writing about Sissy then, but I just didn't feel prepared to put into words what I was feeling that day.  We passed the three year anniversary of Sissy's suicide in April, and I had the same issue then.  I didn't really know what to write.  And I have found that if I don't know what to say, it's best to just sit back and say nothing until I'm ready.  When I'm ready, the words will come.

I really can't believe it's been three years.  Time flies so fast now, that it really only seems like a year or so since she took her own life.  A lot has happened in that time period, but the memories of the night of her death are still very fresh.  While I'm a little more numb to them now than I was even a year ago, they are very vivid.  Even when I'm old, I don't think I'll ever forget that knock on the door in the wee hours of the morning.  Those moments stick with you.  They slip back into the recesses of your mind and your heart, but they bubble back up when you hear about or witness someone else deal with a tragedy.  I sometimes think the final stage of grief is being able to keeping that boiling pot of feelings at a simmer 95% of the time instead of the full rolling churn it can often be if we let it consume us.  And that churn is really what brought Sissy down.  That, and the fact that she relied on dangerous vices to navigate her melancholy days.

Sissy's depression started in earnest with the death of her son.  The day he died is the day she stopped living.  She fought it for a little while but lost the urge pretty quickly.  About a month after her son died, her husband underwent a kidney/pancreas transplant.  She spent long hours at the hospital dealing with her husband's fight for life, and in an effort to cope, she started drinking regularly to block out the nightmares of her son's drowning and her husband's condition so she could sleep.  And once she started drinking, she never stopped.  Through her husband's recuperation, their eventual divorce, his death and those early years after my nephew's death, she grew to rely on alcohol and eventually her prescription medication to get through the days.  She lived several hours away from us , and when we visited her, she kept herself together to the point that it took us a long time to realize she had an issue with alcohol.  We truly didn't realize how severe it had become until she moved to Florida following the suicide of a close friend of hers.  In Florida, she tried to take her own life. 

She called us that afternoon, and as I talked to her, she sounded distant.  When I tried to call her back later, I got no answer.  And even though she hadn't given us any indication that anything was wrong, I just had this horrible feeling in my gut that something was wrong.  I felt this panicky, sick feeling that wouldn't go away, and I called some friends of hers who lived in that same city, and I insisted that they check on her.  They had seen her only hours before, said she was fine and were skeptical of my concern.  I had to beg them to go, and they finally did.  When they arrived, they found her half dead in the garage in a running car.  It was the first of what would be many times she tried to kill herself.

We moved her home to Kentucky and for the next three years, spent just about every hour of every day trying to keep her alive.   It didn't work, and the morning the deputy knocked on our door, we knew the news before he spoke a word.  By that point, we had made many trips to the hospital with her, following ambulances, standing in ER rooms and riding the rolling coaster of her attempts to end her pain.  We had done everything we could.  And it didn't work.

It took six days to find her body and pull it from the river into which she had jumped.  For her last suicide attempt she had chosen a bridge.  She wanted it to work that time.  She just didn't want to fight her demons anymore.  And while we were profoundly sad, I was glad she was at peace finally.  So many times she had told me through tears that she just wanted to be at peace.

I think about her often.  When we drive over that bridge, I can't help but imagine what it was like for her that night.  I can't imagine the courage it took to climb onto the side and take that fateful step.  I wonder a lot of things about that jump, but I can't think about it for very long or I start to crack open the lid on a box that I don't want to crawl back into.  Because we live in her house now, I sometimes think about her when I'm lying in bed, in the same part of the bedroom where she slept.  I lay in the dark, imagining what it was like when she lacked the strength to get out of bed, when she felt lonely and when she was thinking of death.  I wonder how that felt, how she got to the point where life hurt so bad she just wanted it to stop.  And I can't imagine that feeling.  I just can't.  I've always loved life too much.  And I've always had hope.  I don't know what it's like to be without hope.  Thank God, I don't know what that's like.

I think about her when I hear her favorite song.  Just yesterday, Somewhere Over the Rainbow shuffled through my iPod.  We played that song at her funeral.   The version on my iPod is from Eric Clapton, and it reminds me of the time she and I saw him in concert together.  It was the last great time we had together, and that song makes me smile and cry at the same time. 

Back in April, I was running at lunch on the anniversary of her death, when I passed a beautiful bloom that had fallen from a magnolia tree.  I had to smile at the obvious metaphor.  Sissy was like that bloom.  Beautiful but knocked off its foundation and doomed to an early death by a strong wind she just couldn't withstand.  Lovely on the outside but likely to crumble at any time. 

Throughout our struggles with Sissy in those last few years of her life, I chose not to write about a lot of what we endured.  Partially, for the privacy of the family, but also because it just hurt too much.   Living closely with and caring for someone who is crippled by depression and substance abuse is overwhelming.  It consumes you.  And that's why I'm writing about it now.  Not because I have any great words of wisdom or solutions.  Hardly.  There are things I'd do differently if I were doing it all over again, but I know we did our best, and that's all anyone can do.  I'm writing because I have learned in the past three years that there are many people dealing with the same situation.  Because Sissy chose to die in a very public way, the whole community came to know about our situation.  Since then, several people have told me privately that they have a loved one who is an alcoholic or is suicidal.  Out of embarrassment or shame, they deal with it quietly.  And they hurt. 

If you are in that position, you are not alone.  There are people and organizations that can help.  Do not be afraid to seek them out.  I found Al-Anon to be a great help for me.  And more than once, I looked up at a meeting to see someone I knew (I live in a relatively small town) wandering in out of desperation and frustration over a loved one's addictive behavior.  They were surprised to see a familiar face but glad to have someone they could share their pain with. 

You have to find ways to take care of yourself or else your loved one's issues will consume you, too.  For three years, we went to bed every night wondering if we would find Sissy dead in the morning.  We started each day wondering if she would make it through the day.  We were afraid to go to sleep, so we stayed exhausted and sick.  I couldn't keep weight on my body.  I got down to 113 lbs, which was way too low.  No matter how hard I tried to keep food in my system, it either came back up or roared through my intestines.  You have to stop focusing 100% of your energy on the afflicted and take care of yourself.  It's okay to step away when you need to in order to keep yourself healthy.     

Know that you cannot control someone's behavior.  You can help them.  You can even save them if they want to be saved.  But you cannot force someone to want to live.  That's a very hard concept to accept.  The head knows it, but the heart doesn't understand.  Do all you can, but know that if your loved one dies at his own hands, it's not your fault.  You are not to blame.  You are NOT to blame.

I've always thought suicide was a selfish act.  And I still do, but I'm more forgiving of it now.  I know Sissy didn't want to hurt us when she chose to die.  She just wanted her pain to end, and she couldn't see past that.  I'm not as angry at her as I used to be.  I'm still angry at her psychiatrist, whom I feel fueled her addictions with a blind eye and a heavy prescription pad, but that's an entirely different post.  In the end, the blame for her death lies mostly with her.  If she had not chosen to live in the bottle after my nephew's death, she might still be with us.  Maybe not.  I will never know the answer to that question.  I will never know what triggered her jump on that particular night in April of 2009.  I stopped looking for answers many months ago because that's living in the past.  Living in the past and not the future led Sissy down a path I don't want to take. 

Her death hurt then, and it hurts today, but not as much as it did three years ago.  It gets better as time goes by.  I am a changed person because of that experience.  I hold my loved ones close, often too close, especially Teen Angel.  I live with a dread of loss.  I am wary of the willingness of doctors to dole out prescription drugs at ease.  And while I enjoy an adult beverage now and then, I'm leery of its power.  But I live passionately.  I don't just dream, I work to make my dreams come true and I try to find joy in every day.  I live somewhere over the rainbow, if you will.  I think Sissy would want it that way.    

Another Year Gone

Sissy's birthday is a few days away. All of those memories associated with her suicide wrap this family like a wool coat on a summer day. Sometimes, I can't breathe when I think about the night she jumped from that bridge and the demons that led her to make that leap.

I've listened to this song so many times and thought of her. It brings me an odd kind of peace.

The Spring in my Step

Spring seems especially beautiful to me this year. The greens are so vivid, the whites so bright and the blooms so bountiful. Daily, I marvel at the colors. In just a two block area of my regular running route, there are numerous dogwoods, the most fragrant lilac bush and a patch of multi-colored tulips that stretches for a third of a block. I drink it in every time I go by there and smile at the taste. I’ve always enjoyed spring, but this year I have reveled in it and rejoiced at its beauty. For the last couple of weeks, I have relished each day and felt truly alive. Joyous even. My heart hasn’t been this light in months, and I rather like it.

I’ve always liked spring and the way it washes away winter’s bitterness, but this year I seem to have a better appreciation for the beauty and hope that it brings. Some of it may be due to the harshness of this past winter, and viewing it through the narrowness of a camera lens has certainly helped. But I think the biggest reason I am feeling spring so deeply this year is because of where I’m at in my grief over Sissy’s death.

April 21st will mark the first anniversary of her suicide. That’s one week from now. In recent weeks, I’ve tried not to think about that date much. It hovers in the back of my mind, though. It’s always there, running through my brain during quiet times. Like in the morning darkness when I’m walking the dog and the neighborhood is asleep. Or at night when I lay in bed in the room where she used to sleep. I rarely cry during those times. Mostly I just feel regret for the way her life ended and for the way our relationship withered near the end. I find myself sighing a lot during those times.

I can’t believe a year has already passed. Time has flown, but I’ve made a lot of progress in recovering from her decision to leave us. The tears only come when I stumble across a certain family photo or hear a particular song. There is a song we sing in church sometimes, Spirit Song, which makes me think of Sissy and choke up. The words in that song are the wish I held for her for so long before she died.

O let Him have those things that hold you
And His Spirit like a dove
Will descend upon your life
And make you whole

O give Him all your tears and sadness
Give Him all your years of pain
And you'll enter into life
In Jesus' name

It’s kind of ironic that we sang it this past Sunday.

Suicide usually leaves families asking why. Why did the person do it? Why wasn’t their family enough? I don’t have to ask why Sissy killed herself. I know why. She couldn’t stand the pain of losing her son. I’m convinced she started dying the day her son died. She spent nine long years trying to swim out of the grief and never could. She finally let the waves take her. That’s an answer I don’t have to search for, and for that I’m grateful. That knowledge allows me to move forward and keeps me from being angry about her decision.

A few months ago, someone asked me, “Don’t you wish you could have her back?” I can’t comfortably answer that because she’s at peace now, and she often told me she just wanted to be at peace. The decision to live or die was hers to make, not mine. I’m not condoning what she did. I just don’t judge her too harshly. I miss her with all my heart, but having her here in pain would be selfish of me. The reality is I had prepared myself for her death months before she actually died. It didn’t lesson the pain of her death, but it started my grieving process long before she jumped from that bridge.

Some of her behaviors in the last months of her life caused us to separate ourselves from her for our emotional and physical well being. That decision caused a lot of angry feelings toward us by other family members and we are still dealing with their anger. That is painful, but I do not regret our decision to stop enabling Sissy to succumb to the demons of her illnesses. In the past year I have accepted that I don’t have to have anyone’s approval for our decisions. I just have to live with the consequences. We simply try very hard not to say or do anything to cause any more pain to people in our family and avoid situations that might erupt in harsh words. I wish some family members would do the same. They don’t. I have a lot of conversations with God about this.

Suicide leaves a wide wake of pain in its path. It’s a unique grief. People don’t know what to say, so they avoid talking about it period. It’s a lonely grief. I’d say this branch of the Hula-gen’s has done about as well as we can with it. It has certainly accelerated Papa T.’s dementia. I worry about the lasting effects all of this will have on Teen Angel and we suffer from “always waiting for the other shoe to drop” syndrome. Once you’ve had a deputy at your door in the middle of the night, you tend to expect bad news all the time, especially when you have ailing parents. But all in all, we’ve done a great deal of healing. We can tell funny stories about Sissy and laugh. We can talk with Papa T. and Mama J. about some of Sissy’s worst moments without shouts or tears. And we work through each day with intensity and a newfound respect for each precious moment. That’s why I find myself driving home these days with the windows down, smiling and singing loudly I’m Alive over and over with Kenny Chesney.

And today you know that’s good enough for me
Breathin' in and out's a blessing can’t you see
Today is the first day of the rest of my life
Now I’m alive, and well
Yeah I’m alive, and well

The beauty in nature these days reminds me that I am indeed alive and well. I feel very alive. I am content in my love for Sissy and my acceptance of her death. Sissy always liked bright colors. I see her in that patch of tulips I run past each day. And I smile.

The Song in my Head

GO IN PEACE

By Hula Girl for Sissy

We don’t know the heart of another
Or the bruises that lay on their soul.
But our love keeps us hanging on
Long after they’re ready to let go.

It’s too late to tell you I love you.
But I think you already know.
So I’ll dance this dance without you
And learn the steps of letting go.

Chorus
Go, go now in peace.
Search for the sun.
Reach for that rainbow you’re looking for.
Embrace the light.
Your long fight is done.
Open the door and go,
Go now in peace.

What were you thinking as you walked away?
Was the weight of the world just too much?
Or did you reach for something I can’t see?
The tenderness of the Father’s touch?

There’s a hole in my heart that bears your name
It may heal but it won’t go away.
It will always be there to remind me
Of the sister who just couldn’t stay.

Chorus
Go, go now in peace.
Search for the sun.
Reach for that rainbow you’re looking for.
Embrace the light.
Your long fight is done.
Open the door and go,
Go now in peace.

Repeat chorus

Finally

The wait is over. They recovered Sissy’s body late yesterday afternoon. While I had been praying that we would find her, to my surprise, I found no great relief with the news that she had been found. Only profound sadness with the proof that her life really was over. Way too soon. We can move forward now, but it’s going to take a very long time to heal from this. We WILL move forward, but for now I am tired, very tired. And simply without words.

On My iPod Today

Day 8

Late Night Grande Hotel
Written by Nanci Griffin

I'm working on a morning flight to anywhere but here
I'm watching this evening fire burn away my tears
All my life I've left My troubles by the door
Leaving is all I've ever known before

Chorus
It's not the way you hold me
When the sun goes down
It's not the way you call my name that left me stranded on the ground
It's not the way you say you hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again
It's not the way you say you hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again

And maybe you were thinkin'
That you thought you knew me well
But, no one ever knows the heart of anyone else
I feel like Garbo in this late night grand hotel
Cause living alone is all I've ever done well

Chorus
It's not the way you hold me
When the sun goes down
It's not the way you call my name that left me stranded on the ground
It's not the way you say you hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again
It's not the way you say you hear my heart when the music ends
I am just learning how to fly away again

Day 6

Still no word. Rescue crews were thwarted by the wind Friday and could not get their boats in the water. However, crews from three counties searched all day Saturday and part of the day today. It was windy again today. Rescue squads were also trying to recover the body of a fisherman who died in a boating accident in a nearby county yesterday. Three people lost their lives in that accident. Unbelievable. What a difficult job those folks have. They are volunteers who spend time away from their families to help folks in need of closure. They are using equipment that is very old, and they are poorly supported by the state and federal governments. The main boat for one county is a 1967 model. This is where budget cuts really hit home.

We are trying to pace ourselves. Teen Angel and I visited with my family today. It was a welcome break. We had a late Easter meal, and nothing says lovin' like Baby Ruth's ham. We also got a good dose of Special Delivery, who absolutely loves looking at himself.

He was good for the soul. A reminder that life is renewing, and that all is not bad. We are somewhat rested for the start of a second week. Keep praying for us.