Grieving Different Losses

One of my best friends died by suicide in 2006 at the age of twenty-nine. Ten years later, my mom died of ovarian cancer at the age of seventy-three. They both battled their respective illnesses—my friend’s an illness of the mind and my mother’s an illness of the body–before their deaths. Neither of them emerged victorious, and this was devastating on both counts but for different reasons.

My mom wanted to live but couldn’t. My friend could have lived but didn’t want to.

We mourn when someone dies from a prolonged physical illness, but we view death as a merciful end to their suffering. We regard them as a champion of sorts–as someone who drew the short straw through no fault of their own and fought valiantly against a disease they never asked for and didn’t deserve.  Sometimes we even rejoice when death comes because their life had stopped being one worth living. We don’t want to watch the people we love languish in a fog of agony.

How often do we use those same words when someone dies by suicide?

I accompanied my mom to a doctor’s appointment in the final weeks of her life, and watched her reaction as her doctor said, “You are actively dying.”  These words were the hardest to hear because she didn’t want to die.  When the doctor left the room, she began to list all of the things she was going to miss out on—watching her youngest grandchildren grow up, going to games, being with her family.  She very much wanted to live but her body wouldn’t allow it. 

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was also with my friend in the final weeks of her life. I have never seen someone with such a pronounced physical presentation of depression in all my years of social work–even when working as a therapist in a psychiatric hospital. She was vacant. Being alive had become an insufferable burden to her, which meant she was also actively dying.  She didn’t want to live because her mind wouldn’t allow it.

My mom was surrounded by love as she died. She was a teacher, and former students put together a Facebook page to share memories of her. A group of children from a neighborhood school stood outside the window of her bedroom and sang songs to her. We sat in her room at night and laughed about our old memories. Friends and family came each day to visit and say goodbye. 

My friend died alone. 

In a graduate school class exploring loss and grief, my professor gave us a writing prompt: Is suicide ever an acceptable choice? My initial reaction was, “Of course not! How could anybody ask such a thing?” Life is hard and then it gets better. Life is painful but also beautiful. There’s so much that awaits us if we hang on.

There is a difference between accepting a series of events and regarding a decision as acceptable. I accepted my mother’s death because I knew that cancer called the shots. Nobody wanted my mom to die, but we knew it couldn’t be prevented.  I have a harder time using the word acceptable about my friend’s suicide because from my vantage point it seemed avoidable. I saw all the ways to avoid death, but she didn’t. I saw a way out, but she didn’t. I wanted her to be alive even if she didn’t want to be.  Everybody wanted my friend to live except for the person in control of the choice: her. 

A co-worker of mine called my friend’s decision to end her life “selfish.” It hurt to hear someone describe my friend in this way, because she was one of the most generous, thoughtful, and kindhearted people I’ve ever known.  She rarely thought of only herself when she existed in the land of the living, and I don’t think she was self-centered in death.  Being with her at the end of her life made it obvious that she was suffering, which makes me wonder if what is actually selfish is our desire for our loved ones to live through the anguish of mental illness until their natural death.  I don’t know the answer to that question.  I don’t even know if it’s a question we should ask. 

Why do we think people who die by suicide are selfish? Why can’t they be brave just like those who battle cancer? Why can’t we also regard them as warriors who fought valiantly against circumstances they didn’t ask for and didn’t deserve? Why can’t we agree that while we wish it had been different, they did the best they could with the hand they were dealt?

My friend and my mother were similar in life—radiant shimmering lights—but so radically different in death. I understand the agonizing choice my friend was faced with, and I understand that my mother had no choice. I fear it’s easier to focus on the ending of a life that ends in suicide rather than the life they lived.  I look back at my mom’s life and think about all that she did before she died. I look at my friend’s death and think about all she missed out on.

Despite the inevitability of the task, I enjoyed tending to my mom as she died. I liked getting up with her in the night, making sure she was comfortable, and letting her know I cared for her. These were sacred tasks because they were things she did for me when I was a child.  It was a small repayment for all she gave me, although there’s no way to truly repay her for how special she was to me.

Even though I knew of her struggles, I didn’t expect my friend’s life to end like it did. I believed she would pull through because I couldn’t fathom her not wanting to.  I thought I had decades more to spend with her and so I didn’t offer the same level of care in her final days that I did to my mom.   I couldn’t repay her for her friendship while she was alive, but I can pay it forward after her death.

I work as a therapist in a psychiatric hospital where suicidal thoughts and behaviors are commonplace. Rather than being depressing, I find my work to be encouraging. I think it’s because I wholeheartedly believe I will be successful in changing my clients’ minds about how they view their lives.  I work to help them see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I believe we’re going to get there.

My friend died the day after Thanksgiving. Each year, I work the admissions shift at the hospital on either Thanksgiving or the day after, but not because my heart is heavy. Instead, it’s because I’m grateful to be able to do the work I do.  There’s no better job than one that lets you help people feel better at one of the lowest points in their lives. It’s a blessing to be in the hospital serving people on this day.  I’m honoring a life well-lived by helping others choose to live their lives well.