Broken

When someone you love chooses to die, you are left broken into a million pieces. You want to pick up all the pieces and glue them back together again as quickly as possible. You yearn for normal. To feel normal, to see the joy in things again. To not have your mind consumed with the thought that this person is gone, and you didn't help them when they needed it most.

Last night I slept a little better although I was awakened after a strange dream that left my heart pounding. In it, I was walking through a cemetery with my family. I have no idea why we were there. All of the sudden laying on the ground was a baby- a dead baby. Everyone else wanted to walk past and leave it it be, it was none of our business, after all, but I couldn't. I stopped to touch it and felt a faint heartbeat- I started screaming that the baby was alive and tried to get others to help me.... I woke up startled.

Strange dreams like this have been haunting me at night since my dad died. But this one seemed too real, to close to home. Why couldn't I have seen through my dad's anger, to see that he was barley clinging to life? If only the clock would turn back and I could know the despair he felt, and I could have traveled there for a visit, or convinced him to come and live with us? Maybe then he could have seen that life was worth hanging around for.

My dad chose to leave, and he accomplished what he wanted to accomplish in those final minutes of insanity- shattering my life as a mirror shatters when dropped from a 2nd story window to the pavement below.

Am I beyond repair? Most certainly not. It feels that way today, but God promises me in Genesis 50:20 "You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good. He brought me to this position so that I could save the lives of many people." (NLT)

Proverbs 3:25 spoke to my heart today as I listened online to a Beth Moore study, "Have no fear of sudden disaster, or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the Lord will be by your side,and will keep your foot from being snared."

Anger and sadness

It's after dinner now, and I decided I needed to write some more. It has been a rough day. I decided that I needed to find some Christian books on the subject of survival- I already know that I need to draw near to God, but I also need to know how other's who have gone before me, made it through!

After a long morning (all days seem long now) I packed up all the kids, plugged in an address of a Christian book store to the GPS and went on my way. I had looked up a couple of titles that I was interested in.
On my way, driving down the road, for no reason at all, I was overcome with sadness and started crying. Then, I saw it: a blue Ford Falcon- 1968. My dad had one IDENTICAL to the one sitting at the side of the road. My weeping turned into anger- how could he have left me with all this pain? Why wasn't I enough to live for?

The bookstore turned out to be a trip indeed. I couldn't find anything on the specific subject of suicide, and I knew I wasn't strong enough (not on this day) to go up and ask for help. My anger still burned and now I wondered why the Christian community didn't have help for me when I felt like I was drowning?

The grocery store came next, and the kids seemed unruly. My husband came home very late from work, leaving me alone for longer in my silent grief then I wanted on this day.

After dinner, I put the kids in the bath and opened up the Word hoping to find a snippet of something to help me feel better- there it was: Ecclesiastes 3:1-3 "There is a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build."

For nearly 3 weeks I have thought this must be a bad joke, a mistake, a dream. But God has assured me tonight, it isn't. It didn't sneak up on Him like it did me, and He is giving me permission to grieve my loss, to be angry, and to heal. I didn't ask for this, but I can be assured that Jesus is with me every step of the way wiping my tears, calming my anger and soothing my soul.

I'm a Survivor

Survivor.... it's a term that elicits a TV show about people who "survive" in the jungle, tough situations. It also brings to mind people who have been through something awful- like war, and survived. For me now however, it has a whole different meaning. The day my dad decided he would no longer live, he propelled me into a world I would have never chosen- that of a survivor. We are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters, grandparents.... people who are experiencing, against our will, the aftermath of someone else's terrible decision.

I'm told that survivors most of the time have post traumatic stress disorder- the same thing our military suffer from once they return from war. I'm also told that because someone close to me has died this way, my family is 5X's as likely to have another person do this.

My goal as survivor, is to pick up the shattered pieces of my life, allow the Lord to heal and put them back together. To have as little trauma as possible passed on to my kids, and to not get swallowed into the deep dark pit of depression that seems now like it lurkes just beneath the surface of my skin ready to envelop me in the blink of an eye.

As a survivor, I have been unable to sleep. Instead I lay awake at night, trying to shut my mind off- the questions swirling around nearly drive me mad. "Why did he do it out on the porch? Why didn't he call to say good-bye, at least to his grandchildren who he loved so much? Why did he not leave a note of love, but instead of shear anger? Why wasn't I enough to live for?"
Once I fall asleep the dreams are no better. So far, I have dreamt that I am trying to push through a door- my dad on the other side of it pushing it closed. He yells at me and won't let me through. I wake up, and remember that this isn't a bad dream- it's my life now.

As a survivor, I am trying to live my own life, I'm not dead! It has however, been crossed with the ugly reality of being changed. I've been walking through the motions of living, but in my head- all the time- is the thought that my dad is no longer here, and he chose it! At the grocery store the cashier asks the common question, "How are you today?" and although I respond normally, although I want to yell out "I've never had a worst time in my life- my dad died by suicide- I don't know why he wanted to leave me!"

I'm also learning that suicide is something that makes people really uncomfortable. People don't know what to say or do and therefor they avoid talking to those left behind. I was pulled over while in UT dealing with my dad's death. My rental car was from one state, my license from another, and my address in still another. When the police questioned why I was in UT and I responded the reason- an awkward silence followed.

As a survivor, I need to talk about not only my dad's life but also his death. It helps my brain understand as I already know it has cushioned this blow by denial- it all seems not real. Talking about it helps my brain understand that this is real. My dad is really gone.

As a survivor, I will make it through this just as I have the other hard times in my life... relying on Jesus to give me peace. His word to me is a comfort, his hand always on me, his arms holding me tight.

My dad decided to die

It has been a little over 2 weeks since my nightmare began- my dad chose death over life.
He leaves me, his only child, and my children struggling for answers, trying to understand and make sense of it all.

As I have been attempting to understand and pick up some of the pieces, I decided it would be good to document my journey, in hopes that through writing, I can heal or perhaps help others going through the same thing, or help someone who is hopeless and in the same place as my dad.

I'm going to begin by telling my dad's story. My dad was born in 1952. He was a cute kid with eyes that smiled all the time and a grin that was irresistible. When he got older, he fell in love with a few things, drinking, ladies, and motorcycles. He met my mom and they married- then I was born. Their love affair was short lived, and they divorced when I was still very young.
My dad found relief from drinking when I was only 5 years old. He had over 25 yrs clean and was very active in AA and an inspiration to those who also struggled.
He worked for the Union Pacific Railroad, for over 21 yrs.
My dad was a hard man and rough on the outside, but had a big heart along with those rows of tattoos on his arms. He just had a hard time expressing his feelings.
In recent years, dad had become ill with MS and his legs weren't working like they used to. Instead of moving to where my family lived so I could help, he chose to stay states away.

When dad had to sell his motorcycle, he was crushed. They were his life. He would buy them, and eventually get a new one.. but this time there was no new bike. This is where I think the beginning of his end was.

Dad's mood changed, and he was very irritable. It didn't matter what I said when I called, everything was always wrong and he always complained about everyone and everything. In the last 6 months the kids even had a hard time talking to him... if only we had known that he was so close to the end, I would had forced him to move with me.

On June 23,2010 my dad took one of his guns (he had many) went out on his porch, and shot himself through his mouth. He seated himself in a recliner, and sat there for 1/2 a day before his caretaker found him.

I received the news of his passing from my uncle. The police had called him as they found several things around the house listing him as a contact. I thought he had died of a heart attack and was shocked to find he had died of his own hand.
Our family packed our bags, and began our 26 1/2 hr (Straight through!) journey from Michigan to Idaho.
Once there, we had so much to do. Immediately I found a few pieces to the puzzle- my dad had booze and weed all around his place. This explained the mood change within the last year.
The mortuary was compassionate, but I found out that I was to be burdened with the expense of his death and body. I had to write his obituary, plan what to do with his body and for a service, and at the last minute I asked to see him. I just wanted to hug him one more time.

We went through my dad's things for a few days- my uncle looking for all the legal paperwork (everything in the will had been left to him in the will), and I was tirelessly looking for something, some clue as to what my dad was thinking. I collected a pile of memories, clothing, small clocks, flashlights, pens- to keep- I wasn't ready to let him go! My kids enjoyed playing at grandpa's one last time. They did much better then I thought they would, but little did I know the tears that would flow later.

The police were less then nice. They explained the note they had found, where my dad had said awful things to me. This final act for him was a direct attempt to devastate me. He succeeded. I wanted every single detail from the detective. When they told me dad used his left hand to shot the gun, I thought for sure someone had murdered him- he couldn't have done this to me!!

My dad's memorial was small, but nice. Since he wasn't affiliated with a church, and a mortuary was stuffy, we did it at a park. His buds rode their bikes from dad's favorite shop to the park, and I set up pictures along with some of my dad's things. His ashes sat on the table in the middle of it all. If only he had been able to see how very loved he was before it was too late!

The week was one big exhausting blur. I half expected this to be a big joke on me- to have dad pop out of somewhere saying this was his way of getting me to Idaho. However, it was no joke. It's my life now.

2 weeks later, I am burdened by wondering why? I go to sleep every night thinking about him in that chair. He'll not be there for my kids next birthday's, their graduations, or their weddings. He took the most precious thing he could from me- and I am left to deal with all the hurt, with all the questions, and with all the tears.