More Loss

It's been three weeks since my last post.  Two Sundays ago I couldn't write because I was on vacation near Yosemite without Internet access.  Last Sunday I couldn't write because I was in the E.R. with severe head and neck pain.  That same day, my dad had a massive heart attack.  I spent the next six days in the hospital being treated for varicella zoster meningitis.  Dad spent the next five days in the ICU.  I am home now.  Dad didn't make it.  He died Thursday, July 22, 2010.  He was 68.

More than anything I want to be with my mom right now.  She has lost both her son and her husband of 43 years within less than eight months.  We're still heavily grieving Mike's death, and now we have to deal with this loss.  Unfortunately, I am still too weak from the meningitis to leave the house, and still in a lot of physical pain.  It will be at least a week before I can make the long trip across the country to see her.

I grew up in Iowa with Mom, Dad, and Mike.  Two of the four of us are now gone.  Mom and I will have to figure out together how to survive these losses.  Mom, Dolly, and I are all we have left.

Independence Day

It would be nice if time healed all wounds.  It would be nice if that healing happened in a linear progression.  The day you find out about the death would the worst, and then each day after that would be a little easier.  It would be nice if grief worked that way.

Seven months in, you feel self-conscious if you bring it up too often.  You think you should be back to normal.  You wonder why the thought of that morning still stops you in your tracks several times an hour, every hour, every day.  But still you say, "Fine, thank you, how are you?"  You feel self-conscious about not being more together than you think others think you should be.

Dolly and I watched the fireworks yesterday at the county fair.  With each ooooh and ahhhh, I remembered watching fireworks with my parents when Mike and I were kids.  He was the only witness to my childhood other than my parents.  So many memories will only live on through me now.

Firecrackers outside my window.  Loud bangs.  I think of the stranger who heard the gunshot that morning.  I think of the other stranger that found the body.

Oh, if only grief were linear.  If only time healed all wounds.

Candle

I missed last week's post because Mom, Dad, Dolly, and I were up in Calistoga, relaxing in the geothermal mineral pools.  With any luck, Sonoma County will be my parents' new home very soon.  It feels good to bring the family together.  If only I had been motivated to move everyone out to California when Mike was still alive.  I couldn't even convince him to visit me.  He'd only been on an airplane twice in his life.  If Mike hadn't died, my parents might have moved to Virginia Beach to be near him.  Now they have the house up for sale, and are moving west to be with us.

I thought about Mike a lot while they were here, more than usual.  I like thinking about him, but it is hard to think about his death.  On their last day in town we were in Golden Gate Park:  "There's the de Young . . . there's the Academy of Sciences . . . and there's the park bench where I was sitting when you called to tell me Mike was dead."

Sometimes I still can't believe he's gone.

We visited Mission Dolores one day, and lit a candle for Mike in the Basilica.  With all our love, our memories will live on, and we'll never forget.

Family

One of the blessings to come from this tragedy is that it has brought the rest of my family closer together.  I really can't imagine having to deal with Mike's death without my parents.  They've said that losing Mike has brought them closer together, and I need them more now, too.  We are the survivors.

Mom and Dad are coming to visit on Wednesday, and will spend most of the time they are here looking at condos.  Before Mike died, they never would have considered moving out here.  Now the plan is for them to move out as soon as they can sell their house.  It will be great for all of us to see one another more often.  They will be here to watch Dolly grow up instead of seeing her only twice a year.  I know they never would have moved so far away from Mike.  Part of me feels guilty for any positive outcome of the suicide.  Clearly I would rather have Mike alive than have my parents move to California.  These thoughts are irrational, of course.  We are allowed to make positive changes.  As my Mom said, just because Mike ended his life doesn't mean we stop living.

Another benefit is that when my parents get older, they will be close by for me to take care of them.  Mike would have been given power of attorney for medical and financial decisions if my parents ever became incapacitated.  Now it will be me--when that time comes, a long way down the road--to handle these matters alone.

I hope California will be a new chapter in my parents' lives that helps in their healing.  We will never recover from what happened.  But at least we will be together.

Six Months

Yesterday was the six-month anniversary of Mike's suicide.  I spent Saturday, June 5, 2010 remembering the horrible, haunting details of Saturday, December 5, 2009--the day everything changed.  I remembered getting the phone call from my parents.  This week I just wanted to call Mike.  It hits me over and over that he isn't here.  The hardest part is thinking about how much pain he was in without anyone realizing it.  Mom and Dad went through some of his things this week and found prescriptions for three kinds of antidepressants and an anti-anxiety medication.  They all had dates within the last few months.  But then he stopped taking them so that they had all left his system before he died.  By the time I knew something was wrong it was too late.  I think I felt it when he left.  I sensed something was not right that day.  When my parents called, I was shaking, like I knew they had some terrible news to tell me.  But then, maybe it was the sound of my Dad's voice.  Maybe it was the man yelling at me in the park to control the dog.  The detective said they didn't know how long Mike's body had been lying there, but probably not more than a few hours.  His body was lying by a trash can and a stranger found him there and called the police.  While this was happening, was I walking to the park with Dolly, who was about to run her first race?  Mike had a saved text message in his phone that he never sent.  Did he sit in his car for a long time contemplating his act, or did he just get out of the car and do it?  Was I still sleeping when he left us?  Were my parents eating breakfast or walking their dog?  They woke up and started putting up the Christmas tree.  They never finished.  Why can you just walk into a pawn shop in Virginia and buy a shot gun, no questions asked?  Maybe a waiting period is a good idea, people.  I want to talk to Mike about what he was thinking in those last few days, but I never will.  He is not anymore.  I don't believe he's sitting a cloud watching us, happy that his death made the rest of our family closer.  He is scattered into a million pieces.  Six months into grief, it still haunts me every day, nearly every hour.  Happiness has this dark undertone, this oh yeah, and then there's the dead brother.  Don't forget about him.  Mom and Dad hurt so much.  We all do.  Mom says she does not have guilt but she does have regret.  We all regret not seeing it.  I regret not being more present.  No matter how good I am now, it will never make up for what I didn't do when he was alive.  So there it is, six months into grief.

To The Glory Of Life

It's a gorgeous Memorial Day weekend here in San Francisco.  I feel grateful to be alive, and sad for all of the things that Mike will not experience now.  I do not understand why someone would choose to leave.  I can think of 100 reasons off of the top of my head why this weekend alone is worth living.  The glory of life is infinite.

1.  A big hug from Dolly.  2.  Biting into a peach and tasting summer.  3.  A text message from a friend that makes you laugh out loud.  4.  Dancing.  5.  The first sip of coffee in the morning.  6.  Sleeping in.  7.  Jumping into a big pile of pillows.  8.  Dark chocolate.  9.  Reading The New Yorker cover to cover.  10.  Getting scared by a raccoon.  11.  A kitten asleep on my chest.  12.  Watching Dolly dance.  13.  Chopping vegetables.  14.  Wearing a new dress.  15.  Ikea shopping spree.  16.  Talking to Mom and Dad about their move out here.  17.  Grand opening of Joe's ice cream.  18.  Watching a cheesy romantic comedy with 9-year-old girls.  19.  Carnaval parade in the Mission.  20.  Being kissed by the sun.  21.  Organizing the house.  22.  Reading to Dolly.  23.  Painting my toes.  24.  Strawberries.  25.  Costumes.  26.  Meditation.  27.  Reading in bed.  28.  Backyard barbecue.  29.  Family.  30.  Friends.  31.  Riding my bike.  32.  Golden Gate Park.  33.  Singing in the car.  34.  Catching up on podcasts.  35.  Decorating Dolly's room.  36.  Finding a shortcut around the traffic.  37.  Farmer's market.  38.  Going to the beach.  39.  Staring out into the ocean.  40.  The view of San Francisco from Twin Peaks.  41.  Sand between your toes.  42.  Love.  43.  Fro-yo.  44.  Planning my diet.  45.  New iPhone apps.  46.  A good hair day.  47.  Donating to charity.  48.  Garage sales.  49.  The breeze blowing through my apartment.  50.  Tickle fights.  51.  Dolly laughing.  52.  Stretching.  53.  Strappy heels.  54.  Facebook status updates.  55.  Looking for new apartments on craigslist.  56.  Self-improvement plans.  57.  News that Dru will visit soon.  58.  Our Lady of Safeway.  59.  Empathy.  60.  Connection.  61.  Homemade tacos with fresh avocados.  62.  Chai tea with agave.  63.  Being comfortable in my skin.  64.  Loving my job.  65.  Not having to work this weekend.  66.  Watering the plants.  67.  Pizza Margherita from Gaspare's.  68.  Photographs.  69.  Making videos.  70.  Inside jokes.  71.  Downloading new music.  72.  Dancing in the kitchen while doing the dishes.  73.  Sore muscles.  74.  Blue skies.  75.  The smell of lavender.  76.  Listening to the conversations on the streets.  77.  Dolly's art projects.  78.  The gossip of 9-year-olds.  79.  The kindness of strangers.  80.  Reconnecting with a friend as if months had not gone by since we last spoke.  81.  Garlic breath.  82.  Shaving my legs in the sink.  83.  My kitten attacking my ankles.  84.  Russian Red lipstick.  85.  Caffeinated cleaning spree.  86.  Getting caught up on bills.  87.  Dolly's new disco lamp.  88.  Walking barefoot through grass.  89.  Running through the sprinkler.  90.  Getting a silly song stuck in my head.  91.  Strawberry-banana-coconut smoothie.  92.  Salsa music.  93.  Fuzzy leopard blanket.  94.  Music coming through the neighbors' windows.  95.   The cafe on the corner.  96.  Being productive.  97.  Murals on the sides of buildings.  98.  Exceeding my expectations.  99.  Being in awe of the endless wonder of life.  100.  Being alive to blog about it.

I Don't Feel Like Writing This Week So I Won't

Grief sucks.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

Here is a picture of Mike's headstone that Mom and Dad e-mailed to me today.  The cross used to hang in his room when he was a little boy.  I had one just like it, with a little girl praying.  If I ever find mine, I will give it to Dolly.  They sent me the photo because even though I was there when the priest interred Mike's cremains, I never saw the headstone after it was put on the columbarium.

Let's just pause for a moment to reflect that words like "cremains" and "columbarium" have entered my vocabulary.  Dad keeps incorrectly referring to the columbarium as "Mike's Crypt," which makes me think of late-night zombie movies.

Some days I can go for longer stretches without thinking about him, though it's always there bubbling under the surface.  There are moments I pretend to have acceptance.  Then I see a photo like this one, and am shocked into stunned silence.  Acceptance is so far down the road, I'm not sure I even believe it is there.

Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s Day—my Mom’s first Mother’s Day without Mike.

Losing Mike has been the worst thing that has happened in my life so far—the most difficult death, the most intense grief.  Losing a sibling, however, could not be anything like losing a child.  I think of what my Mom must be feeling—my grief times a thousand.  Not that one can quantify or compare these things. 

As a mother myself, the idea of losing my daughter is the most frightening thing I could imagine.  I’ve said that I would give anything to have my brother back, but of course that’s not completely accurate.  If anything happened to my daughter, it would completely destroy me.  And yet, here are my parents, walking through their worst nightmare.  Since I was adopted, Mike was their only biological child.  I wonder if that makes the loss even harder.  I think that would be hard for me.  You create this beautiful baby who is always a part of you, and then he’s gone.  You give him life, and then he takes that life away.

I don’t think Mike thought through what his death would do to our parents.  He loved Mom and Dad very much—“more than you will ever know,” as he put it in his suicide note.)  Occasionally I feel anger toward him about how selfish he was for doing this to our parents, but those thoughts never make it very far.  He could not see past his own pain, and I really don’t blame him for that.  If anything, I get angry at him for not taking his meds, but that was likely a symptom of the depression as well.  The whole situation was just tragic and sad.

Through this grief journey I have been meeting other survivors of suicide along the way.  Some have lost their children to suicide, while others have lost their siblings, their partners, their friends, or their parents.

Tonight I am sending love to all of the mothers who have lost their children, and to all of the children who have lost their mothers.

The River

I’ve been struggling with my inability to imagine where Mike is now.  It’s an impossible question to answer.  I envy the certainty of those who do not question the existence of heaven, though I do not envy the certainty of those who believe death is the end.  My mushy spiritual view of death forces me to question the concepts of time and self.  I do not question God, but I also cannot picture God.  So whether heaven, reincarnation, or fertilizer, the best we can hope to find is a good metaphor.

My friend Jesika gave me the metaphor I needed.  It doesn’t tell me where Mike is, but it is a story that makes sense to me.  She heard it from a friend who read it in a book, so I’m not sure the source, and, like a game of telephone, the story has shifted as each of us has personalized the metaphor.
 

There is a mighty river.  The river is vast and infinite.  The river has no beginning and it has no end—just the eternal flow.  At a certain point in the river, the water goes over a cliff, breaking the river into droplets of water that fall over the edge in a glorious waterfall and return to the river below.  The waterfall is life.  Our life is the fall of one droplet of water.  Each droplet yearns to connect with other droplets, sometimes making new droplets in the process.  The river is God.  The river is the whole from which we came, and the whole to which we return.  God is in us and we are in God.  Our yearning for connection with other people is our heartache for God.  In the end, our individual droplet selves return to the river, and become part of the infinite whole once again.

Nightmares

In my dream, Mike had come back.  It was my job to keep an eye on him while Mom and Dad were out.  I let him out of my sight for just a few minutes, and he drove off in his car.  I was frantically running around looking for him.  He had left another suicide note, written at the bottom of his last one.  I found it on the counter, looking out the window at the ocean.  When my parents got back, I had to tell them that he was gone.  Then I found myself talking to him in the next room, trying to talk him out of it.  But it wasn’t Mike—it was my daughter, telling me that she wants to die, too.  Then I wake up.

It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to interpret that dream. 

The first part is telling me that there was nothing I could have done to stop him.  My conscious mind doesn’t completely believe that there was nothing I could have done.  It’s still stuck in “if only…”  I suppose my subconscious mind has to keep trying to hammer that point home until I get it.

The second part is my fear of something happening to Dolly.  Since Mike died, my anxiety level has increased dramatically.  I have a strong fear of losing someone else I love, which I really couldn’t handle right now.  I find myself being a little obsessive and over-protective of Dolly at times.  I also try to tell my family that I love them as often as possible.

I have nightmares almost every night.  In the beginning, my dreams were violent and twisted, often involving decapitation, which sort of makes sense considering how Mike died. I’ve had a lot of dreams about my parents getting killed, which again is fear of something happening to someone else in my family.  Mostly I have dreams about Mike.  In one dream he was Mike as a little boy, and he had become friends with Dolly.  I was watching them through a window, but couldn’t keep track of them.  In the dreams where he dies, I’m never able to get to him in time.  In the dreams where he is alive, I have to face his death again as soon as I wake up. 

Toxicology

The police ordered a toxicology report as part of the investigation into Mike’s death.  I spoke to the detective about the results the week before the memorial.  The toxicology report showed nothing.  No blood-alcohol level, no illegal drugs, and no prescription medication.  There was nothing at all in his system.

What do these results tell us?

First, the results tell us that Mike was not intoxicated when he killed himself as we had originally thought.  He had no trace of alcohol in his system.  I can’t say he was sober, because in his suicide note he talked about how he was drinking again.  He may not have been drinking that night (or that morning—we’re not sure if he stayed up late or got up early to end his life), but he had been drinking in the weeks before his death.  I also can’t say he was sober, because to me, sober means having a clear mind.  Although he may not have been drunk when he died, he was under the influence of his mental disease.  Nevertheless, the idea of him reaching the conclusion he did without his crutch, demonstrates to me how much pain he was in.

Second, the results tell us that Mike did not commit suicide because he was taking Chantix.  We read that Chantix, an anti-smoking drug, has been linked to dozens of suicides, prompting an FDA investigation and stricter warning labels.  We know that Mike was taking Chantix in spring of 2009 to help him stop smoking, and that Mom and Dad told him to stop taking it.  When they cleaned out his apartment, they found an unfilled prescription for Chantix.  It seemed like one day Mike had been happy, the next he was stressed out, and then he was gone.  Given his rapid decline, it was hard not to wonder if something other than his own body chemistry caused his death.  Early on my parents seemed to disagree about the cause of Mike’s death.  Mom said it was the depression that killed Mike, whereas Dad believed it was the Chantix and talked about getting a lawyer or joining a class action lawsuit.  We learned that Chantix doesn’t linger in one’s system, and would therefore only be a factor if he had still been taking it.  With the toxicology results, we know we can’t blame the drug for Mike’s death.

Third, the results tell us that at some point Mike stopped taking his anti-depression medication.  We don’t know when he stopped, and we don’t know how he stopped.  We don’t know if he tapered off under the supervision of a doctor, or decided to quit suddenly on his own.  Either way, it was a life or death decision for him.  Mike was diagnosed with severe depression after his first suicide attempt at 16.  He was on medication ever since—or so we thought.  Mom would ask him occasionally if he was still taking his meds, and he would say yes.  How can you make a grown man who lives in another state take his medicine?  If Mike went off of his medication suddenly, he may have experienced withdrawal or SSRI discontinuation syndrome.  Again, a rapid withdrawal might explain his rapid decline.  Then again, antidepressants stay in one’s system longer, so if he had gone off of his meds right before he died, surely they would have appeared in the toxicology report. 

So what the toxicology report confirms is what we already knew:  Mike’s own brain chemistry convinced him to stop taking his medicine, to stop reaching out for help, and to stop living his beautiful life. 

Grief is Exhausting

More stories next week.  The rain is slamming against my window, and I very much need some sleep.

In the meantime, check out some photos on Duncan's blog.

Eulogy

Mom and Dad asked me to write down what I said at the memorial. Though not word-for-word, here is more or less what I said:

Mike’s best friend Chas was supposed to be here to speak today, but unfortunately he couldn’t make it up from Bluefield due to bad weather down there.  There was a large group of Mike’s friends who wanted to be here and are here in spirit.  Chas was then going to email something for us to read today, but unfortunately the Internet was down this morning.  He did send this text message:  “Please tell everyone that Mike touched the heart and minds of many, especially me, and he will be missed.”

As we were preparing for the memorial over the past couple of days, it seemed like everything was going wrong:  Mike’s friends from Bluefield couldn’t make it to the memorial, others couldn’t get off of work, and I had major computer problems that affected the slideshow.  Last night I was very upset about these things.  Then I realized and was reminded that we are not the ones in control, and things will happen for reasons we do not understand.  So we must rely on our faith in God to get us through this.

My brother Mike grappled with depression all of his life.  He fought really hard throughout his life, trying to control it.  But in the end, it was bigger than he was, and outside of his control.  For those of us who watched him struggle, we also felt that loss of control.  No matter how much we loved him, no matter how much we wanted to help, and no matter what we said to him or did for him, we could not prevent what happened.  So the only thing we can rely on during this time is our faith.  For reasons we cannot understand, it was Mike’s time.  God wanted Mike to be with Him.  And although this does not always bring me comfort, the best I can hope for is some day to find acceptance.

A couple of days before Mike died, he called me and left a couple of voicemail messages. I didn’t get a chance to call him back because I was too busy at work that day.  I never got a chance to talk to him before he died.  And so I will try now.

Dear Mike,

I hope you know that I love you very much, and am very proud of everything you accomplished in your life.  I know you have been fighting your whole life, and finally you have some peace.  We all wish we could have shouldered some of that burden, some of that pain for you.

Along with your struggles, you had many gifts.  Your sensitivity made you a great artist—in photography, in drawing, and in cooking.  It also made you sensitive to the feelings of others and able to care for them, whether organizing a fundraiser for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, cooking for the homeless, or helping your friend Jeff get through school.  You were also incredibly smart.  You had a sharp sense of humor, got straight As in school, and were able to understand things more deeply than other people.

It seemed like you were happier in Virginia Beach.  We have watched you take charge of your life over the past few years—leaving Parkersburg to go back to school, graduating at the top of your class, finding a job you loved, and showing special care to your patients.  I have especially enjoyed talking to you over the past year and a half.  We both wanted a closer relationship with each other, and it seemed like we were finally getting it.  I thought we would grow old together and you would be here to help me take care of Mom and Dad when they got older.  Don’t worry, of course I will take care of them.  But I thought you would be here with me, and I miss the adult relationship we were only starting to have.

Although your life was cut short, you touched so many people’s lives and were loved by many people.  That has become especially clear to us since you have been gone and we’ve seen how many people have reached out to tell us they are missing you along with us.  Our hearts are broken that you had to leave.  As you look down upon us now, know that you were and are a part of us, and we miss you like someone would miss an eye or a limb.  Yet, you will always be here with us.  We love you.

The Eve of the Memorial

Countdown to the Memorial

Mike’s memorial is one week from tomorrow.  Lately I’ve been channeling my grief into planning for the event.  I spent most of the weekend digging through old photographs for the slideshow we’re making.  I’ll add more when I get to West Virginia next weekend.  My parents ordered the flowers.  I am confirming the speakers.  Mike’s best friend Chas is going to speak.  I asked Mike’s friend Jeff to speak, too.  Dad might say a few words, if he’s up for it.  Mom will just try to make it through the day.  I will speak, though I’m not yet sure what I will say.  Eulogy for my baby brother.  I still have a week to write it.  Mom and Dad talked to the priest.  I will pick out the music.  Mom and Dad ordered the food.  I ran Mike’s obituary in our hometown newspaper, though none of us has lived there in years.  Mom and Dad will run an announcement about the memorial in their local newspaper.  I have been sending out emails.  Dolly wants to buy a funeral dress.  Mom and Dad called the funeral home.  The funeral home will call the cemetery to make arrangements for the internment.  I will borrow a projector for the slideshow.  Mom and Dad will pick out photographs to bring to the church.  The funeral home will bring the ashes to the church.  I will write a eulogy for my baby brother.

One hundred six days since Mike has been gone.  Eight days until Mike’s memorial.  Keeping busy, keeping time.

Peace

I reconnected with an old friend who I haven’t seen in years.  He struggles with depression.  When I told him about my brother, this is what he said:  “Forgive me, but when I hear about someone killing his or her self, all I can think is...peace. You can be angry, sad, frustrated, etc. And it is certainly understandable. But that person is now at peace.”

Peace is something Mike wanted, something he believed he could never have so long as he was alive.  Who knows, he might have been right about that.  I’m not sure if he was ever at peace in his 37 years on this earth.  He said he wanted “a place where there was no self, only calm.”

My guess is that Mike, my brother, the guy who loved to fish and build computers, the guy who deep-fried turkey and barbecued ribs, the guy who cared for the elderly and the homeless, the guy with an eye for photography – that guy is gone, and lives on only in our memories.  Also gone is the guy who worried incessantly, the guy who suffered and was in pain.  His talents and his worries, his beauty and his pain – all gone.

I know that his body is gone.  His body was reduced to heavy ashes, now being stored in a funeral home in West Virginia in a black and gold box, which will be interned in a cemetery on March 30.

Then there’s the question of his soul, his spirit.  It’s the part detached from the body.  It’s the part detached from the mind, and from the troubles and joys of human existence.  It seems that this detachment from body and mind must bring peace, because it’s the body and the mind that keep us from peace.  But what is this peace?  Is it heaven?  Is it nothingness?

It’s clearly not a question I can answer until I meet my own end.  So the idea that Mike is now at peace does not bring me much peace.  


I have been thinking of Mike’s suicide as something that happened to me, something that keeps happening to me.  Perhaps that’s the inherent selfishness of grief.  This tragedy happened to Mike a long time ago, and kept happening over and over until the end.  He found peace, or at least tried to find peace, the only way he thought he could.  Now the tragedy lives on in us, in this black hole of sadness.  I would give anything to go back in time to try to shoulder some of that pain for him, to help him find another road to peace.

Time in a Bottle, and the Ending of Time in a Folder

One thing that surprised me was learning how meticulous Mike was.  When I arrived in West Virginia the week after Mike died, my parents pointed to several boxes of paperwork and said, “Here’s your project for the week.”  The task of settling Mike’s financial affairs went more smoothly than one would think.  Who knew that Mike would have perfectly organized files with every document I needed?  He even had a list of his online accounts and passwords.  Had he always been this organized, or did he intentionally get his files in order because he knew we would inherit them and need to make sense of them?  I feel sorry for whoever inherits my own chaos. 

As awful as his death was, there were little things he did that showed he was trying to be kind to others.  He left notes for us to try to explain his actions instead of leaving us to wonder.  He killed himself in a remote area where his neighbors and vacationing families would not see him.  He used a method that would make his body appear to be intact so we wouldn’t have to see the destruction.  He left notes and numbers so my parents would have people to help them.  Suicide is inherently selfish, because the one who does it cannot see past his own pain.  Certainly he didn’t know how his death would change us forever.  But even within this blindness, Mike performed small acts of kindness in his final hours.

I was inspired my Mike’s files, although he held on to too much.  Since I've been home, I have been organizing my own files.  My home office is filled with mountains of paper that I have been trying to sort for years.  Now I feel like I am doing it for him.

I have one folder in my file cabinet that is called “Mike”.  It is not a folder of Mike’s life.  It is a folder of his death.  Here is a list of its contents:

• A copy of the note Mike left on his neighbor’s door the morning he killed himself, asking them to help our parents.  He tried to leave my parents’ cell phone number, but he wrote the number down incorrectly.  The neighbors left message on Mike’s cell phone instead—messages Mike would never hear, and I would be the first to hear 10 days later.
• A copy of the note he left on his body for whoever found him, telling them to contact our parents and his employer, his address, and that there were more letters back at his apartment.
• A copy of the letter he left for our parents.
• A copy of the letter he left for Dolly and me.
• A copy of the letter he left for our aunts.
• Lists of people who could help and other contacts that he left with the letters.
• A list of grievances he had against his employer that he left with the letters.
• An old letter from his landlord that he left with the letters.
• A Wikipedia entry for Wendy O. Williams that he left with his letters, apparently to argue that suicide can be justified.  He quoted from her suicide note in his letter to my parents.
• A copy of his death certificate.
• A copy of his obituary.
• A list of the telephone numbers that were in his cell phone, just in case we need them, which I doubt we will.
• A list of his creditors and notes of our contacts with them.
• A list of resources for survivors of suicide.
• A copy of the receipt for the gun he bought from a pawnshop in Virginia Beach.

The “Mike” file is a time capsule of the end of my brother’s life, and the worst month of my life.  It sits in my file cabinet in between “Medical Bills” and “National Lawyers Guild.” 

Safety in Numbers

I joined a grief support group for survivors of suicide that I found through the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention web site.  In order to preserve the confidentiality of the group, I cannot write about what we discussed.  What I can tell you is that the group was intense, and that I feel a strong connection to these people, these fellow survivors.  Even as I took the elevator up to our first meeting, I remember thinking:  “This can’t really be happening.  My brother isn’t really dead, is he?”  Twelve weeks into this grief, it still doesn’t feel real much of the time.  Which means the truth can still knock the wind out of me on a regular basis.

I like talking to my parents about Mike, even if it’s often the same conversation.  We talk about what was going on in Mike’s life right before he died, and how the irrationality of his decision to end his life is evidence of his mental illness.  “It was the depression that killed him.”  I can’t imagine the grief of losing a child.  What they are going through is at a completely different level than my grief.  If anything happened to my daughter, I don’t think I could survive it.  I am in awe at their strength. 

It seems like I hear about suicide everywhere now.  I have met several people who, like me, are grieving recent suicides of loved ones.  I have heard about a couple of acquaintances that have committed suicide recently.  And I’ve heard about it on the news. (Just today:  Michael Blosil, Andrew Koenig.)  We don’t think about depression as an epidemic, as life or death, but now I see it all around me.

I don’t have the solution for all this depression, anxiety, loneliness, and grief.  If you have a mind that tells you to cure for loneliness is isolation, there is safety in numbers.  Grief is a lonely process, but you don’t need to be alone. 

Time and the Illusion of Control

I have been experiencing a profound shift in how I think about time. Now more than ever I am aware that time is limited and will run out. I am also hyper-aware of the fragility of life, and that time could end at any moment. This awareness has manifested itself in both rational and irrational ways.

Semi-rational: Before this year, whenever I finished reading a book, I would pick up the next book that seemed interesting to me. I have a long list of books I would like to read eventually. Recently I calculated the average number of books I will read per year multiplied by my life expectancy, and realized with great sadness that I will only read a small fraction of the books on my list. So now, instead of reading books at random, I am methodically working my way through the Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels. Plan for controlling my reading list: Check.

Irrational: I have to fly to L.A. this week. When I found out about the meeting, my first thought was to try to reschedule to sometime in March. I needed to reschedule so I could get caught up on my life insurance premiums with my next paycheck. I needed to be current with my life insurance before I set foot on an airplane. Because if I fly, I might die. Fortunately I realized how crazy this sounded, so I didn’t ask to reschedule. My fear of flying has intensified since Mike died. I play out in my head what my family would have to go through, similar to what we are still going through with Mike. I pray that my parents will not lose both of their children. I pray that my daughter will not lose her mother. I pray, please, just let me get caught up on my life insurance and pay back the people who have lent me money before something bad happens, so my family and friends won’t think I’m an ass-hole after I'm gone. These are the thoughts that go through my head until the captain turns off the seat belt sign.

Are there people who are at peace with the fact that life will end? I am terrified of death. I do not understand how Mike or anyone else would willingly choose it. I want to live as long as possible. But then, if I am living in fear, how richly am I living?

I have these fears about time partly because I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, partly because I am insane with grief, and partly because I am turning 40 this year. My brain has locked on to the idea that time is running out, and asks: What books do I need to read? What do I need to do to protect my family if something happens? What movies do I need to see? What places do I need to visit? What friends do I need to bring closer into my life? Have I loved enough? Have I done enough? Have I given enough?

Fear of flying is really the fear of having no control. Statistically, rationally, I should be more afraid to drive than to fly. When I drive my car, however, I have the illusion of control. I can plan my reading list for the next ten years, draft a will, or make yet another to do list, and it would only give me the illusion of control. No one controls time, or when it ends. Even Mike did not control that. Letting go of the illusion of control is counterintuitive and antithetical to my impulses. It is frightening and difficult. But even as I scheme new ways to control my dwindling time, I know that letting go is the lesson, the way through the fear. Letting go of the illusion of control is the only way to master time.

Anxiety Interlude

I need to keep my post short this week. My anxiety has been through the roof for the past few days, so I don’t want to feed it any more than necessary. My problems with anxiety are difficult to explain.

My body must be having a delayed reaction to the stress of two months ago. I wondered why am I panicking all of a sudden. But of course I know why. It’s been arriving in bits and pieces since Mike died, and I’m scared that there is more to come.

Remembering Mike

Mike has been gone for two months as of Friday. I thought it would get easier with time, but the grief just shifts around and changes focus. It’s always there, pulsing in the background.

Shortly after Mike died, my friend Stacy, who also lost her brother, gave me some advice. She said, “In the end, you get to choose what someone's life means to you. You get to choose what you keep of them.” Mike asked us in his suicide note not to mourn him. He asked us to celebrate his life.

Right now, it’s hard to think about Mike’s life without thinking about his horrific death. Thinking about him, in the days leading up to his suicide, and thinking about him alone in a vacant lot on that rainy morning in Virginia Beach, is the dark cloud hanging over the beauty of his short life and the joy that he brought to the people around him. I hope that with time I will celebrate more and mourn less.

Here’s how I remember Mike:

Mike was incredibly smart—like crazy genius smart. At some point when we were kids, my parents got our I.Q. test results. They wouldn’t tell us our scores—just that one was higher than the other. I never had any doubt in my mind that Mike was the brilliant one. He didn’t always have the drive that I did, but he was certainly gifted. When he finally found the career that made him happy, as a radiologic technologist, he was a straight-A honor student and helped tutor his classmates.

Mike was an amazing artist and photographer. Before he became a rad tech, he worked as a photojournalist in Iowa, Ohio, and West Virginia. His specialty, however, was as a nature photographer. The waterfall photos in this post and at the top of the page are his.

Mike was a wonderful cook. He worked as a cook while putting himself through school. Some of his specialties were deep-fried turkey, beef and deer jerky, barbecue ribs, and peanut brittle. When he would cook, he would make enough to share with his neighbors and co-workers. I’ll miss his cooking over the holidays.

Mike custom built computers as a hobby. He built a beautiful computer that he left for his best friend Chas. Mike also loved to fish. He used to fish almost every day at the pier in Virginia Beach.

Mike was very sensitive and generous. He would help out a friend in need. He volunteered as a cook at a homeless shelter. He would donate time and money to causes he believed in, even though he lived very modestly himself.

Mike was also clearly very much loved and respected by the people in his life.

Celebrate more. Mourn less.

In A Better Place

At least he is no longer suffering. At least he is at peace now. These are the things we tell ourselves, desperately searching for a silver lining to the dark cloud of Mike’s death. We want to make some sense of it, and find some way to think about it that doesn’t feel like our hearts being ripped out of our chests. So, Mike is at peace now.

I believe that when you die, your spirit is set free. But where it goes, I do not know. As hard as I try, I can’t picture where Mike is now. I can’t picture what Mike is now, or if he is anything at all. It’s not that I’m agnostic, because I’m not. I believe in God with all my heart, and with every fiber of my being. But what happens after death, because I’m still alive, I couldn’t possibly know. And that’s why death terrifies me.

According to the laws of physics, Mike’s energy had to go somewhere. Did it go up into the heavens, or back into the earth? Is he now just a part of the wind, the ocean, the trees, and the dirt? This thought is comforting to some people—death as relief from the bondage of ego, and surrender to the cosmos. When the ego/self ends, what part remains, and where does it go?

I want to believe there is more. I want to believe that life on Earth has purpose, and life after Earth has…something, anything. It seems that Mike’s spirit, the part that was uniquely him, must be somewhere. Is he hanging around here? Is he in a new body? Is he with God? Or does he only live on through the people who knew and loved him?

A few times since he left I have felt his presence. Each time it felt like he was tickling my cheek. I told him I missed him. I told him I loved him. I told him that I would take care of Mom and Dad. I told him I hoped he was at peace.

I asked Dolly where she thought Uncle Mike was now. She answered: “Here.”

She said she sometimes feels him on top of her head. She said, “He tries to talk to me in whatever way he can.” When I asked her what she meant, she said he talks to her through other people. Someone else will be talking, but she’ll hear his voice in her head. “What does he say?” I asked. “He said, ‘I’m sorry I did this.’”

Yesterday my parents had a Mass said for Mike at their church in West Virginia. Because I couldn’t be there with them, I went to Mass with my family here—Dolly, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law and her fiancé, and my nephew—at as close to the same time as possible. At the church I prayed for God to watch over Mike, and truly felt that Mike was somewhere he could be watched.

As for Dolly, she believes that Mike is her guardian angel. She believes he is watching over her.

Twist In My Sobriety

Mike suffered from the disease of alcoholism, though it would be difficult to distinguish it from the disease of depression in his life. He drank to find relief from his depression, and his drinking made him more depressed. In his suicide note to my parents he said drinking was the only thing that brought him relief. I understand this idea. Just as Mike drank to seek refuge from his overwhelming and consuming depression, I used to self-medicate to find relief from OCD. The problem with this kind of thinking is where it ultimately leads. The same thinking that told him that he needed to drink to find relief from his pain also convinced him that it was a good idea to put a bullet through his head.

I got sober 11 years ago today. A few years later, Mike voluntarily admitted himself into an alcohol treatment program. In the weeks leading up to his decision to go to rehab, he and I talked every day. Our relationship was like that—we had sporadic episodes of closeness, followed by long stretches of distance and silence. When he was 19, he spent some time in a psychiatric hospital after a failed suicide attempt. He refused to talk to my parents. Suddenly I became the only person he would talk to. I was reminded of this period when we spent hours on the phone before he went to rehab, talking about recovery. We now had something in common. He spoke in a language I could understand.

I used to think Mike and I were polar opposites. While we tended to agree on music, films, and politics, we had nothing in common in the way we lived our lives. I left home at 16, and he lived with our parents till he was 31. Much of my young adult life I was reckless to a fault, whereas he was risk-averse to a fault. But alcoholic thinking I understood.

When I visited my parents in West Virginia last month, I stumbled across Mike’s journal from rehab. It was in his file cabinet, where he kept the files I needed to settle his financial affairs. I never would have opened it if he were still alive, but since he is gone I wanted to hold on to whatever piece of him that I could. He wrote about powerlessness, and about surrender. He described a universal journey, one that transcends our individual circumstances. We weren’t as different as I’d thought.

I don’t know how long Mike stayed sober. I thought we would continue to share this common bond, celebrate milestones with each other, and keep talking. It did not work out that way. Mike would only let me in when he wanted to, and then he would disappear. And I did the same thing, getting wrapped up with my busy life, too busy to check up on him. I suspect he relapsed a couple of times over the years, based on what my parents have told me. He and I rarely talked about it again. My family thinks he was sober when he went back to school and started his new career over the past few years. We know he relapsed again at some point last year. We suspect he was not sober when he died, although only the toxicology report will tell us for sure.

Tonight I say a prayer for all those who are still suffering. May they find relief without a bottle or a gun.

The Only Solution Is To Move Forward

My eight-year-old daughter Dolly knows her uncle killed himself, but she doesn’t like to talk about it, at least not with me. She was with me when I got the phone call the morning that he died, so there was no time to break the news softly. How could I sugarcoat a suicide even if I’d wanted to? She understands that her uncle died of a disease of the mind, just as another could die of a disease of the body. In the days and weeks that followed, she talked to some of her friends about it, so she wasn’t in denial about what was happening. But whenever I try to talk to her about it, she says that the images it puts in her mind are too scary, so could we please talk about it later, like after Christmas, like after New Years, like in the spring?

Dolly writes songs for her rock band, The Silver Tigers, of which she is the lead singer. Here’s her latest song:

Dying isn’t a solution

The only solution is to move forward

Dying isn’t a solution

The only solution is to move forward

It’s my new earworm—a catchy tune with sage wisdom and after-school special simplicity.

But here’s the sticky part. For some period of time prior to the morning of December 5, 2009, Mike convinced himself, without anyone knowing, that dying was the only solution . Was there something I could have done that could have convinced him otherwise?

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are entering the era of guilt and regret.

Two nights before he died, Thursday, December 3, 2009, Mike called to talk to Dolly. He left two messages on my voicemail while Dolly was at her dance class. In the first message he said that he was having a hard time, and that talking to Dolly might help cheer him up. The second message said that he had hoped to talk to Dolly, but now he was going to bed, so we shouldn’t bother to call back. Virginia is three hours ahead of California. I remember thinking, “poor baby, he sounds so stressed. We’ll have to give him a call this weekend.”

The next day, Friday, December 4, 2009, I planned to send him a text message. As I headed into the office, I was composing something in my head (“hang in there, kid”), but work that day was an insane, adrenaline rush type of day with no break for lunch. I settled two of my cases that day, but never sent the text.

On Saturday, December 5, 2009, Dolly ran her first 5k in Golden Gate Park. As we walked to the park, I said to her, “We have to call your Uncle Mike when we get home because he called for you a couple of days ago.” She wanted to call and tell him about the race. Instead, we received the call from my parents. I was waiting at the finish line of the Lollipop Run (with some ass-hole yelling at me and threatening to sue me because Duncan’s dog was barking too loudly) when I learned that Mike was dead.

If we had called him back on Thursday, would it have made a difference? If I had sent that text or given him a call on Friday, would it have made a difference? I know he had already bought the gun when he called on Thursday. I had no way of knowing that he was calling to say good-bye. Even if I had talked to him, would I have known?

My regret goes beyond that phone call, of course. My brother was depressed and/or suicidal for at least 20 years. I wish I had been a better sister. I could have called him more often. I could have bought him a plane ticket to visit me. I could have invited him to come live with me. I thought there would be time.

Look, I realize these thoughts are self-indulgent. (Hello, it's a blog.) I do understand that his suicide was not about me at all. But I'm writing about suicide survival, and dealing with regret is part of it. I never said grief was rational.

Still, I won't wallow in regret for too long. The only solution is to move forward.

West Virginia, Mountain Mama

I flew to West Virginia to stay with my parents for a while after it happened. I couldn’t wait to see Mom and Dad. There were many people here for me in California, but they weren’t experiencing the grief with me like my family is. In West Virginia, I could immerse myself in the memories and the mourning. I wanted to hold on and never let go.

The first night in West Virginia, I read the letter Mike had left for my parents, which was much longer than the one he left for Dolly and me. It didn’t help make any more sense of what happened. It just made me feel sad. He left notes for his neighbors in shaky handwriting, asking them to help my parents, but in those notes he got my parents’ cell phone number wrong. He was either very upset or very intoxicated. As much as I disagree with his decision to end his life, I hope he was at peace with it at the moment—if being at peace is something someone with suicidal depression could experience. I hope he wasn’t scared at the end.

I learned that Mike had planned his suicide for a while. He bought the gun two days before he died, and had gone to the shooting range several times in the prior two weeks to learn how to shoot a gun. He researched suicide and printed out information for my parents. He typed up several letters and a list of people who could help.

My family assigned me the task of settling Mike’s legal and financial affairs. I was grateful for this job because it gave me something to do for my family when I otherwise felt helpless. Each day I went through Mike’s files, made phone calls, sent off copies of his death certificate to creditors, and determined the next steps in winding up his estate. I found myself awake in the middle of the night studying Virginia probate law to determine whether Mike’s suicide note was a legally valid holographic will, how to get someone appointed as administrator if he died intestate, etc., while having flashbacks to my law school Wills and Trusts course.

Most of the time I was all right, explaining to anonymous voices on the other end of the phone why I was calling to close an account. Other times it would get to me. Before I shut off Mike’s cell phone, for example, I looked through his text messages. There was an unsent message in the drafts folder:

“I am so sorry. I love you all.”

I like to think that he knew better than to send it, and that he left it there for us to find.

My family decided to wait until spring to have a memorial for Mike. It was too overwhelming to pull it together before Christmas, and there was no rush since we had his body cremated. We met with a priest and arranged to have a mass said for Mike on January 30, but the funeral mass won’t be until March or April. We went to the funeral home and picked out an urn—a shiny black metal box with gold specks, which he would have liked. We had an obituary put in the local newspaper. We drove to the cemetery to see if there were spaces in the columbarium. All of these events were surreal. Intellectually I know that we did all of these things. But it doesn’t seem like we did, or that should have had to do these things for another 50 years.

My Heart

Mike bought everyone Christmas presents, which arrived a few days after he died. My present was a silver heart on a black leather cord. I’ve been wearing the necklace each day to remind me of my love for him. It has become a symbol of my mourning. I miss him.

The first day I didn’t wear it was New Year’s Day, a day full of new possibilities, and a day I felt my heart start to open. These are the challenges of the new year: learning when to grieve and when to let go, learning how to honor Mike’s life and what it meant to me, and learning how to resist the impulse to be overprotective and allow myself to be vulnerable to the people around me.

I feel raw and exposed. But grieving openly is better than shutting down.

When I was leaving West Virginia to fly back home, I asked Mom if she and Dad were going to be OK. She said yes, because what choice do we have? “We can’t help him now. We need to keep living. We won’t help him by falling apart, or by drifting apart.”

There is more to say about the journey of these past weeks, but for now I need my strength to venture back into the world, and to continue to live my life.

I have decided to put the necklace in a special box, and to take it out when I want to feel close to Mike. The necklace is too intense to wear every day, but a piece of Mike will always be in my heart. My biggest fear is that he died without knowing how much I loved him. A friend told me that I should talk to him now and tell him all of the things I wish I could say, all of the things I wish I would have said. I hope he can hear me.

"My Brother Killed Himself In Virginia Beach And All I Got Was This Lousy Sweatshirt"

“NO! NO! NO!” That’s what I remember yelling into the phone as my parents told me that Mike was dead. The ground began to open under my feet. I reached for the park bench where I was sitting, afraid of falling in.

The hours that followed were a blur. Duncan and Dolly helped me get out of the park and drove me home. My mind was racing with plans of how to get to my parents’ house in West Virginia, who would watch Dolly while I was gone, who would take care of my caseload at work, etc. I called my close friends. I talked to my parents every hour or two. I listened as a detective read Mike’s suicide note to me over the phone.

My parents decided to wait until Sunday, the next day, to make the drive through the mountains from West Virginia to Virginia due to the blizzard that hit on Saturday. “There’s no hurry. We’re no help to him now,” they said. My aunts drove down from Wisconsin to make the drive with them, and to help them in Virginia Beach. I wanted desperately to fly out to meet them, but they kept telling me to stay home in California and meet them when they got back to West Virginia. I felt confused and isolated that first week, despite the outpouring of love from my friends and family here. I tried to comfort my daughter Dolly, but she did more to comfort me. I clung to each report from Virginia like it held some clue that would eventually unlock the mystery of why this terrible thing happened.

The night they arrived in Virginia, my parents went straight to the police station to pick up my brother’s possessions, including copies of the suicide notes he’d left for us. He had left one note on his body, directing the police to the other letters back at his apartment: one for my parents, one for Dolly and me, and one for my aunts. He also left short notes on the doors of several neighbors asking them to please help my parents. Each letter says that he is sorry, and that he loves us. He told us that he was in pain and that he did not have a choice.

On Monday I went in to the office. I didn’t know why I was there, but it seemed important to my parents that I was functioning. I made arrangements to take a leave of absence. I love my job so it was comforting to be there, even though I was still completely in shock and unaware of what I was doing. Meanwhile my parents made arrangements to have my brother’s body cremated and cleaned out his apartment.

On Tuesday I slept all day. My parents picked up my brother’s car from the impound lot, met with the detective, finished packing up his apartment, and had a private viewing at the funeral home before my brother was cremated. My mom said it looked just like him, except for the incision where the autopsy doctor had taken the bullet out of his head. She said she couldn’t believe how cold his body felt. I don’t mind that I didn’t get to see his body, because that wasn’t him anymore.

On Wednesday I went back to the office for the last time, barely able to hold it together long enough to get my work reassigned so I could go home and curl up in a ball on my bed. My parents turned off the utilities for my brother’s apartment and turned in the keys to his landlord. There was nothing left for them to do but wait for his ashes, so they spent the rest of the day on the boardwalk. They bought Dolly and me each a sweatshirt from Virginia Beach, the city that Mike loved and where he had spent his happiest days. We never got to visit him there.

On Thursday I stayed in bed again. My parents made the long drive home through the mountains, holding a black box filled with the ashes that were once the body that was once my brother.

The Hole That Remains

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?