It's Just Not Fair

I was driving home from work recently, singing along to the radio in my own little world, when I passed a car the exact same model and colour as my husband's. Next thing I knew I was instantly transported back to That Day.

The last time I saw my husband, 11 months ago, was around 8am as he kissed me goodbye and left for work. But he didn't go to work that morning, he drove an hour away from our home, parked his car in a hotel car park, checked in and took his life.

Seeing that car triggered my grief and my brain went careering down that slippery slope: ‘What did he think would happen to his car?  Did he realize that I’d have to arrange to collect it?  Did he realize I’d have to find a new purpose for ALL of his possessions?  Did he know his parents would fly in and help me with that?  How did he think we’d be capable of sorting this out?  Why would he do that?  Why didn’t he TALK to me? What the hell happened to us?’

And I’m back.  Right there in that very moment where my husband’s suicide defines our existence – all there was and all there ever will be. 

So. Many. Questions.  He left a note for me, written on the hotel stationery (which indicated that he hadn’t planned or prepared for his death) but what about his parents?  His sister?  His friends?  They all wanted answers too.  Didn’t he realise they’d be just as devastated?

He left so many things unfinished – dirty laundry, paperwork, our weekend plans to visit friends at the beach.  He received and made work calls on his drive that morning, set up meetings even.  Did he know then that he wouldn’t be able to attend? 

I had planned to plant a garden in our backyard that day and sent him a photo of my handiwork via text message only 15 minutes before he died… didn’t he want to come home and see it? See me?  Hug me?  Crawl in to bed with me and tell me he was scared and let me help him and hold him?

These questions are such torture and I will never get the answers.  Why did this happen to him?  How did he get to that point?  When did he decide that this was his only option? If only I'd seen it, if only I'd stopped him from leaving the house that morning.

I’ve had intensive suicide bereavement counseling and I understand and accept that it wasn’t Dan that day, it was a disease in his brain, but in that moment I forget all the rationale and the questions build and build and build until I feel like I’m drowning in them. 

I finished my drive home with tears flowing freely and fell in to bed, muffling my howls with my pillow.  Until, almost like she I knew I was struggling, a message popped up on my phone from an old university friend I haven’t seen for more then 10 years.  We drifted apart but are Facebook friends now and even though she didn’t know Dan, she felt compelled to reach out when she heard the news and still checks in with me now and then. 

I replied to her message, confessing how distraught I was, telling her I couldn’t understand why and how this happened. 

In her reply, she said she understood more than I realized.  She opened up to me about her own depression.  Unbeknownst to me until that day, her battle was a fierce one, and ongoing one.  One that she had come close to losing. 

My beautiful friend told me that almost five years earlier she had been in a dark place, struggling with an abusive relationship and a stressful job.  Her depression was deep and she had thought abstractly about suicide but knew she would never, could never do that to her family.  It was not an option she would ever consider.  Until one day she had a sudden ‘brain snap’ and decided in an instant it was the only answer.  Within moments she had made a serious attempt on her life that failed purely because she had been in such a rush.  It was incredibly close though and only by pure luck and chance that she survived.  She eventually reached out to her family, admitting how serious her state of mind was and got the help she needed. 

Today, she still struggles with her disease, but she is strong and determined.  She wanted me to know that she came very close to a similar fate as my husband’s.   Under different circumstances he might have survived his 'brain snap' too, and gone on to get the help he needed.  We might be telling his story to other people who are suffering and giving them hope. 

It made me realise (again) that my husband wasn’t a man who took his own life.  He was a man who had a disease that took control of his body, and caused an incident that claimed his life.  I stopped thinking of his death as a suicide even, because in my mind that implies a conscious act or choice. 

This conversation with my friend calmed my raging questions but made me very sad.  Sad that she had been through such a terrible experience, one that lasted years and still affects her deeply.  Sad for so many others who are battling with mental illness and not getting the support and treatment that they need.  And it made my sad for my sweet, gentle husband.  My beautiful Daniel. My darling didn’t deserve to leave our world in such a tragic way.  If life was fair, he wouldn’t have died so young.  There wouldn’t be disease in the world taking such beautiful souls from us, there wouldn’t be accidents or murders or cruel twists of fate, there wouldn’t be so much pain.

It sucks.  Death sucks.  It’s just not fair. 

Black Hole

from here

I didn't see this one coming at all, so I couldn't prepare myself (which is a sensation I'm getting familiar with now).

I was nothing but excited to look at potential houses to buy. I didn't think of the trigger it would be to go house shopping without Dave for the first time. I'm glad I didn't know ahead of time what it would do to me, or I'd never have gone. Blind, naive enthusiasm - thanks for getting me out of the house in the first place!

While a dear friend, the realtor and I drove around, I began to feel a little unease. I couldn't put a finger on it. There was just something "off". My enthusiasm and optimism drained out of me a drop at a time. It wasn't a black hole, or a sob session (yet). It was just a little discomfort and the sensation of detaching from the moment and hovering above. Not quite present in my body.

Each house was nice, but not the "one". Each neighborhood was okay, but not the "one". I didn't feel true enthusiasm for much at all and just couldn't access a feeling of excitement.

I began to worry about being a homeowner again. Each house I looked at was a potential money pit and neon sign screaming "Lady - YOU NEED A JOB!". Each house was situated in neighborhoods full of families and couples and smugly whispered "You're alone again at 36! These are houses for couples and families!".

By the time I got home, I still hadn't realized what was headed my way, grief-wise. I was a little mopey when I set down my purse and keys. I picked up my gigantic cat, Rosco, to snuggle him for comfort and turned to my right. Staring back at me were two pictures of Dave and me on our travels. My tribute tiles from camp.

In a rush, an ocean wave of gigantic proportions, I fell down the black hole. I held Rosco and cried into his fur for a while. I could hear echoes of my old life all around me. Our sunny, beautiful home-of-our-dreams, now inhabited by strangers, materialized around me, my current life falling away. I was transported back to that life of married security, sharing our love for those silly cats of ours, making plans and splitting life up equally so that neither one of us had to take it all on alone. I felt the loss of it all wash over me, amplified by the stark contrast of the experience that day - searching for a house for a single woman. Attempting to take on my next big life event without my best friend and partner in everything.

I felt my insides shredding apart. I felt the black hole in my gut open up. I cried until my head pounded and I could no longer breath through my nose.

So I filled the bath with extra hot water and slipped into that comforting place where I somehow feel secure enough to do my most gut-wrenching crying. I begged for comfort. I asked Dave to help me. I talked to him for a long time and felt nothing but the black hole within. I curled my body up around the terrible emptiness that I feel there. I writhed in that bathtub with a pain too large to contain in one body.

I cried until the headache reached a new height, and got out of the bath like an elderly person, popped 3 Advil and curled up in bed to watch 30 Rock until I could numb myself enough to fall asleep.

No house I look at could ever measure up and it's not because of the physical house I had to give up (although my old house is so unique, that might just be the case!), it's because it was our house.

My bathtub conversation with Dave ended with me telling him that I now have him integrated into my being and that there's no way anyone could be any closer to me than that. I told him that whatever house I live in will be home because I will take him with me into that new dwelling. I told him that I'd continue to work hard to take good care of myself since he is no longer here to do so. I told him that I'd survive to make sure I honor his life. I told him that I'd do it all for him until I could do it for myself, too. I told him I loved him and always would.

Only part of me felt the courage to say those hopeful things and the other part went along with it just in case the power of positive thinking would pull me along with it.

I have definitely lost some of my enthusiasm around house shopping. Some of my courage has evaporated when I think of taking it all on without him.  The whole process has forced me to think even more of how damn vulnerable I am. I am sole caretaker of me. If I don't find a way to support myself, no one will. There is no back-up like there was in my former life.

What that means though, is that I will emerge stronger because of it. I already have and I need to remember that.

I have to remember that losing him has given me a terrible but beautiful gift.

The chance to be truly self-sufficient for the first time in my life, the ability to help others who are walking this path, and the opportunity to choose life.

Just because you're breathing, it doesn't necessarily mean you're living. And I want to be living. Which means that I can't give up.

So, tomorrow I will be looking at houses again. I can do this.