The pains that are withheld for me I realize and I can see . . .So says the theme song for the movie and TV series, M*A*S*H. It is no secret that I have attempted suicide on more than one occasion. From the point of view of a person so horribly desperate, depressed, or terrified to believe that suicide is the only way out, it is painless. It is the ultimate pain killer. An end to the horrible emotional pain is just a single act away.
That suicide is painless it brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please.
Today, I am the survivor of a loved one's suicide attempt. I was the one who had to make the phone calls. Your daughter/sister/friend/mother/employee is seriously ill and in the ICU. So many questions are asked, but there are no answers for most of them. Did you see it coming? What happened to cause it? How did I fail to see it? How could I have prevented this? What responsibility do I hold in the near-demise of this woman whom I love? How did I fail that person that led her to this point?
I am at the emergency room at an obscene hour of the night, watching as her blood pressure doesn't come up. I see her chest barely rising as she draws a breath. I am answering the doctors and nurses when they ask about medications and medical conditions. I have to tell the police that an argument immediately preceded the event, and there was no violence. I have to watch a policeman sitting next to her bed waiting for a moment of lucidity so that he can validate that claim with her. I learn that she needs to be admitted to the ICU, and they send me home, as there is nothing more that I can do there.
It's amazing, really, when one is sent home from the hospital to "get some rest, as there's nothing more you can do." None of the fear or worry are left behind as you walk through the doors to the emergency room. Instead, it seems as though there is more fear waiting in the car. There is more worry when you get home. None of it was left at the hospital. It's all right there, waiting for you. The rest that you're supposed to get is nowhere to be found. Instead, you lie there, dozing in and out (if at all) and wondering what comes next.
When it's no longer an obscene hour, you get out of bed. There's no more sense in laying around. You get out of bed and forget to eat. You walk around as though you're in a dream. At the same time, you know the dream is not a dream. It is the now shattered remains of what used to be your normal life. Then, as you're the only one who knows the story, you have to make the phone calls. "Your daughter overdosed last night and is in the hospital. No, I don't know why. No, there's nothing you can do to help. Yes, I will keep you updated." You send e-mail to those you can't bear to call. Text messages to others. The secret is no more a secret.
All the questions come pouring in. Why? How? WTF? The phone rings and is answered so often that one begins to wonder if it would be feasible to simply have the phone attached surgically and powered by one's bio-electricity. They're all answered with the same three words... "I don't know."
Fearfully, you stand in the ICU, looking at monitors and not knowing what the readings all mean. Slowly, some level of understanding comes in, and you know which is the blood pressure, the heart rate, the oxygen saturation, the respiration rate. You start to see a pattern in the graphs, as the EKG blips along showing a heart rate and a low, shallow sine wave indicates the respiration. How can anyone make it through such a low blood pressure and shallow respiration? Again, panic sets in because of those three ugly words. "I don't know."
Eventually, the patient awakens. You want to smack her. You want to hold her. You want to finish the job for her. Then she gets what she wanted and you at least get a little satisfaction having choked your frustrations out of her. Clearly that's impractical, so you do the only thing you can. You hold her and cry. You ask her why, but she's not really awake enough to help much, so you still are in that boat. I don't know.
At least she's awake, though. You watch as she improves by the minute. You are happy that the prayers of friends (new and old) and family members (both sides) were answered. God answers all prayers, you remind yourself. Sometimes, the answer is "No." You thank Him, though, that this was not one of those times. You wonder how you would handle it if that were the answer. Again, the three ugly words are brought to the fore. I don't know.
I do know that she's physically well, and I am grateful. For friends, family, answered prayers, and the fact that she's awake and looks and sounds like herself again. I'm not happy that it'll be empty at my house, but I'm happy that she'll be at the hospital for a few days and getting her head straight. I'm hopeful that things can get better for her, as they have for me. There are still so many things that I don't know.
There is something I do know, however. I have a new perspective on suicide. It's not painless. Too many people are hurt by the act of a single person. Too many lives are shattered. Even the attempt brings horror and worry into so many hearts.
I also know that I cannot ever put family or friends through that again. I can not imagine anything that would put me in that place... The place where my mother has to get that phone call saying "Your son is in the hospital because he tried..." The place where my friends and family have to bear the burden of three small, but extraordinarily heavy words.
I don't know.
Maybe there are things I don't know. I just know that suicide isn't painless. The changes it brings are massive and painful. That is a part of my life I just can't return to.
For those who were hurt by my attempts through life, I offer two words that seem far too small. I'm sorry. Truly, deeply, and without reservation, I am sorry. It will never happen again.
