It’s the question we most want answered, even though the answer could be devastating. Although every family may be uniquely unhappy according to Tolstoy, every family who’s lost someone to suicide struggles with that same essential question. Many of the questions and statements about not knowing, about being surprised, condense into one underlying question. It must have been such a shock to you, too.” “Did you have any signs?” “Was he depressed?” “Wow, I never would have guessed.” “Were you aware he was struggling?” “He seemed so happy.” “We’re so shocked by this. Some of them had a tinge of judgment, either about Ben or about us after we published the cause of death in the paper. Some of them were spontaneous and well-meaning others were intrusive others came as statements, barely masking the curiosity beneath. The questions - from friends, family, and the occasional nosy acquaintance who should mind their own business - felt endless. Subtitles include The Night My Children Lost a Brother, or The Night My Heart Shattered Completely, or The Night I Lost My Son to Suicide and Said So Right In the Obituary (and Everyone Had a Judgment About It), or The Night My Son Died by Suicide and the Questions Started. It is now the date that is forever etched in my brain as The Night Ben Died. It was the night that I was horribly rude and a complete bully to an innocent woman on the phone, telling her in the iciest of voices to “ask your faceless bureaucrat boss how she would feel if she wasn’t allowed to see her dead son whom she’d just had dinner with a few hours ago? You ask her that, and then you tell her that I’m not leaving this fucking parking lot until I see my son, no matter how long that is, or until they take a grieving mother away in handcuffs. It was a night of begging everyone - the funeral director, the officer at the scene, the State Medical Examiner’s dispatcher - to please let me see my son because I couldn’t begin to accept it until I’d seen him and could confirm to myself that it really was him, because we were planning sushi and how could he be deceased? It became the night that I sat in the parking lot of a funeral home, physically unable to leave until I’d seen my son. It was also the evening that Ben, who left only after a long hug and a “love you” and a plan to get sushi the next day, died by suicide. The rest of us laughed to the point of tears as she offered to ask for their phone numbers on his behalf. My mother spent the entire time commenting on the “atmosphere,” by which she meant the cute waitresses that she thought Ben, the oldest, should ask out on dates. It was a late afternoon for a hilarious dinner with my sons. It was a day for visiting with my mother and doi ng some chores around her house, a day for walking her dogs, a day for idle conversation and shopping for my youngest son’s freshman dorm room. July 27, 2019, began as an unremarkable summer day. We’re sharing it, with the author’s permission, to honor Ben’s story and to highlight International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day on Saturday, November 21. This piece was originally featured here on Medium.
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