It's been just over two weeks since my brother Mike committed suicide. On December 5, 2009, I was in Golden Gate Park with my daughter Dolly and her father Duncan when my parents called to tell me that Mike was dead. The Virginia Beach Police Department had told them he died of a "self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."
I keep expecting, or at least hoping, to wake up from this nightmare. And then I am hit once again with the knowledge that it is real. My brother is dead. His suicide is a permanent fact in our lives. There is nothing good that can be said about it. I tell myself that at least he is no longer suffering. I tell myself that he is in a better place now. But I still feel like shit.
What do we do with the hole that remains now that he is gone?
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