She's Still Here
In times of crisis, I tend to gorge myself and compulsively Google my problems, often simultaneously. After Mom survived a suicide attempt this winter, the cheesy potato soup, tins of cookies, and pounds of gourmet mac and cheese practically found me. Less satisfying was my quest for advice to those whose loved ones have attempted, but not completed a suicide. I'm throwing my observations out there in the hopes they'll reach someone else facing the shock of a relative's suicide attempt.
- Helping is helpful. Immediately after the incident, my father insisted he didn't need my help, that my two-hour trek home was an overreaction. The geezer lied. He and my brother needed laundry, food, and someone to make those uncomfortable state-of-the-Momma calls to employers and relatives. Feeling useful during that first week was the best possible distraction.
- The gruesome is good. While Mom was in the hospital, Dad discovered a post-it note in her writing. He turned pale, muttered "That's creepy. That is so creepy," and threw it away. I'm glad I dug it out of the trash. The short, simple message, in which Mom ordered us to enjoy an upcoming play for "those no longer here," made me sob until my eyes were bloodshot and my stomach muscles ached. It was my only moment of complete, uncensored grief throughout this experience. I was something I needed to feel.
- The gruesome is bad. Knowing the details can help you grieve. It can also consume you. For hours I would ruminate on the smallest aspects of my mother's attempt--she left me a new scarf, she removed her wedding ring, she laid things out. Eventually I longed to accept that no matter how cleraly I imagined the incident, I could not change it. And that's when...
- Anger is your friend. I can't feel angry with my mom. There's too much concern, guilt, protectiveness, and pity there. But when I allowed myself to get fucking pissed at her depression, I started letting go of the rumination. Her illness has been hurting me since childhood; I can choose not to let it hijack my time and my emotions now.
- You can't do this perfectly. The night we visited Mom in the psychiatric ward, my baby brother sulked for the duration, complaining to our hospitalized mother about our dinner menu and the length of the car ride. Clenching him by the wrist, I dragged my sibling from the room and delivered an abrupt, accusatory whisper-lecture peppered with murder threats. I really regret that now. He was suffering too.
- Get used to fear. Knowing she tried is painful. Knowing she could try again is hell. Every unanswered phonecall feels like an emergency. I measure every word I say to her now, afraid of tipping her over the edge. I fear for Dad's sanity, I fear for their marriage, and I fear others will leave me like she tried to.
- Be honest, if you can. I will probably never tell mom how much her suicide attempt upset me. She doesn't need to contend with that much guilt. As I hugged her goodbye, though, I managed to hold back my tears enough to mumble, "I'm worried this is the last time I'll ever see you." I hope that if she contemplates another attempt, moments like that one might give her some hesitation.
- Life goes on. So does grief. At first, our extended family and friends offered incredible support. There were phonecalls, flowers, stuffed animals. Then Mom went back to work, the kind gestures petered out, and I sensed we were supposed to forget the incident. There was no corpse, no visible change to our family structure, and hence no lasting impact, right? I felt ashamed when I didn't bounce back as though convalescing from a mild cold.
- Fuck pride. Shock, grief, and fear can leave a person with strange new needs. Now I have urges to call the family at all hours and inquire after Mom's well-being. Some days I am overwhelmed with the desire just to sit near another living person. At first, I ignored these desires out of shame. But when they didn't subside, I swallowed my pride and asked for help. Embarrassment is far less painful than unaddressed grief.