The following is probably one of my most tender, yet heart-wrenching memories during the days that immediately followed my first husband’s suicide. I was torn as to whether or not I should write it here, but because I have been wanting to record this event since it occurred, and I have this forum in which to do it, I thought perhaps it might not only help me, but someone else who has experienced loss as well...
This is the family I was born into
(photo taken 14 months ago)…
This is what I will call my family members…
On a chilly fall morning, as I had just returned from taking the 15-year-old girl to the bus stop, I had found my husband’s body a little before 7 o’ clock AM. A few details about that are
HERE, so I won’t repeat them in this post. That day, my three sisters, my brother and my husband’s father arrived into town after having found out what had happened. At the time, my husband, myself and our six children had been living with my parents in their home, as a result of the events that lead up to my husband’s suicide. I know that statement is ambiguous, but I cannot give more details about why he committed suicide than that.
As each of my family members arrived into town, they placed their belongings in any room that would hold them, or by the particular sofa on which they would sleep. I really don’t remember too much of what happened that day. There were visits from military officials, tray after disposable tray of food brought from compassionate friends and church members, trips to the store, for I don’t remember what. As the evening fell and the last of the visitors departed, we began making preparations for bed. My husband and I had been sleeping in what my mother calls the “jungle” room, as it is decorated with palm fronds, pineapples and neutral and moss green linens and wall paper. This night, however, I knew there was no way I could sleep alone in my bed. I had a terrible fear that I would wake up in the middle of the night, forget my husband was dead, then be shocked into a spiral of incomprehensible pain once the realization struck again.
So, we moved a queen-sized air mattress into the living room, by the fireplace. There are two sofas in my mother’s living room, each of which would be occupied for the night by one of my siblings. We all stayed up talking, even the kids, until late into the night. As our conversation dwindled down, it became clear that none of my other family members wanted to sleep in their usual rooms either. No one, except my father, who spent most of the next two weeks in his bedroom, I believe because he couldn’t stop crying and was embarrassed, made a move to go to bed, not even my mother. And I didn’t want to ask my kids to leave. So we got out more air mattresses, thick blankets and pillows and made room for every single person in my family to sleep together in my mother’s living room. I even moved the 2-year-old girl’s playpen in so she could be with us.
We finally turned off the lamps, placed a few thick logs into the fireplace, and quieted. A few minutes later, in the dark, with only the glow of the fire penetrating the night, I saw the form of the 8-year-old boy sit up. The 8-year-old boy is currently the 13-year-old boy, but for the purposes of this post, I will call him the 8-year-old boy. Here is a photo of him last year in Mazatlan when he was the 12-year-old boy…
(photo not available)
“Mom?” he whispered, trying not to wake those who, obvious by the sound of their breathing, were already asleep.
“Yes, Son?”
He hesitated, then continued. “Mom, did Dad know that there was poison gas in his truck?”
That morning, as my father, my brother and I had stood in the street, a few feet away from my husband’s lifeless, sheet-covered body, police detectives slowly walking around with clipboards, EMTs rolling up defibrillator cords and zipping up black leather bags, the entire block having been cordoned off by police tape, I had had time to think. I had decided that there would be no secrets, that I would tell the children the truth of what their father had done. Lies were what had contributed to his suicide and lies would play no part in explaining to the kids what had happened. My father, however, had felt differently. While we stood in the street, he had pleaded with me that I not tell them that he had taken his own life, but that I should tell them it was an accident. I denied his pleas, saying that truth would prevail in all that happened from here on out and that I would absolutely not live a lie for the rest of my life. As I turned to walk away, my father grabbed my arm to turn me back to him and with tears in his red eyes, begged me again to withhold the truth from them, suggesting a story I could use. I could say that their father had not been able to sleep that night, so he went out to his truck to read a book, so as not to wake me and the baby. He had gotten cold, as it was November, so he had lit two charcoal grills in the bed of his campered pick-up truck, which opened up to the cab, to keep himself warm. He had then become tired, fallen asleep, and was overcome by the fumes, dying quietly in his sleep.
I was amazed at the speed and ease with which my father had fabricated this somewhat believable story. But how could I tell this to my children, and maintain it for the rest of their lives? Impossible. I gently pulled my arm out of his grip and restated that I would be telling the kids the truth.
I asked the 8-year-old boy to come sit next to me on the air mattress. Pausing for a moment to pull my thoughts together, and saying a brief prayer, I answered. “Yes, 8-year-old boy, he did know there was poison gas in the truck.”
He thought for a moment, then asked, “Well, then why didn’t he get out of the truck?”
After pausing to make sure this was right, I answered, “Because he wanted to die.”
My natural voice is low and mellow, and in soft tones I went on to explain that he had been very, very sad and that he wanted to die so he wouldn’t be sad anymore. I said that his mind was sick and he couldn’t think right. I explained how we all wished he had not done this, that we were all so sad and that Heavenly Father was sad, too, and that we all wished he would have talked to someone about why he was sad so we could have helped him. I reminded him that his dad loved him very much, as he had said in the good-bye letters he had written to each individual child. I said that we would see him again one day, and even though it seemed really far away, that was something we could look forward to.
As I softly spoke these words, the only sounds we could hear were the crackling of the fireplace, the deep breathing of those who were already asleep, and the quiet cries and sobs of my mother, my sister with the 4 kids and my sister with the Ph.D. as they listened to our conversation.
The 8-year-old boy did not have any more questions at that time, but as understanding began to sink in, he began to cry softly also. I held him tight, and rubbed his hair until he was comforted and wanted to go to sleep. He walked the few feet back to the couch and in a few minutes, I could hear his deep breathing as well.
My family and I slept this way for the next two nights, all of us in the living room, falling asleep to the sound of the crackling fire. Eventually, I did sleep in my own bed, but not without the company of the sister with the Ph.D. until she had to fly back to California. Along with The Lord, my family was my
rock and I never would have gotten through this ordeal without them by my side. Most of them will probably not read this, but for those who do, please know that I will NEVER,
EVER forget how you were there for me. I love you guys.
If you liked this post and would like to join me here on a regular basis via email or other reader, please...
Subscribe
(You'll be helping to pay for at least one of the nine kid's college tuition.)
OR... bookmark or share this post by clicking the "Add This" button below... Thank you for your visit!
