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Yesterday Jim’s friends gathered to remember his life and spread some of his ashes on a meadow in central Texas. Jim was a multi-talented man with many interests, generous with his time and skills in helping others, including me. Jim solved computer glitches. Jim helped my husband finish building Cloud Pavilion, one of our rain barns that collects water for wildlife on our (dry) property. Jim designed jigs to help New World Arbalest produce better bolts for their crossbows. And I heard of many more things Jim did to help others, in the years that I knew him.
Jim also suffered from serious mental illness that sapped his energy and his joy, worried his many friends, and finally ended his life, in a successful suicide several weeks ago. In some belief systems, this is unforgiveable. In some peoples’ minds, it’s cowardice and moral weakness. But suicides, like homicides, come in many varieties. Jim had been in treatment, with multiple drugs, with multiple interventions and hospitalizations, over the years. This was not a person who chose “a permanent solution for a temporary problem” but a person who, after the many failures of therapies and drugs, could only see his as a permanent problem that became ever more intolerable. Exactly like someone with an incurable physical illness that causes them great pain or loss of mental function and causes great distress to those who love them. Although there are advocates for assisted suicide for those with such physical problems, there are none for those with incurable mental problems–and I understand the reasons very well. I also understand why those with long-standing mental illness that does not respond to treatment may choose suicide.
Our autistic son, to my surprise, spoke up as others did–but differently in that he was typically blunt about what happened…others skirted the reality, but our son said, along with other things, “I’m sorry Jim killed himself.” It’s the part we all–all Jim’s friends–had a tough time getting around. We knew he was hurting. We tried, in various ways and amounts, to be supportive and helpful. It wasn’t enough. We’re all sorry he killed himself. And yet…as with any terminal illness…there’s also a little guilt-producing relief. No more suspense. No more worry if it’s safe to leave the house for an hour or so, if it’s safe to let the other person out on his own. It’s over…for Jim, and for us.
Those of us who have also suffered depression wrestle with the guilt that for us, the treatments worked–why not for him? Why were we the lucky ones?–but also have the relief of having made it through a dangerous passage, and the fear that maybe, someday, we won’t. But right now–we’re here, and understanding a fellow sufferer’s reasons. There may be survivor guilt in some hearts, but there’s also survivor joy, and a reminder that even if, in our own dark hours, we can’t really believe anyone could love a severely depressed person…right now the evidence is clear that people do.
We were blessed in having space to offer–a meadow where Jim had walked whenever he came to visit, a meadow brilliant gold with wildflowers in the spring, as a place for the gathering and spreading of ashes. And a house in which to hold the reception afterward, both room to gather and room to be separate for those who needed a little more time, and that alone. It’s summer here now, and dry, with cracks in the ground, and the meadow is brown…but I’d sent pictures of it in spring to Jim’s family and some friends. It often functions as it does for me, as a breathing space, a space where people can go out in turmoil or distress, and come back calmer, having let the land itself speak–the silence, the shapes of beauty, a space that isn’t already full of human things and human opinions and human distress.
The rest of the time, as people came back from the meadow where the ashes were spread, was spent (as usual at such times) in eating a lot and talking a lot–some more Jim stories, and other topics as well.
The only difficulty, for the person in charge of arranging the material side of things, was not knowing how many would come, or what those bringing food might bring. Of course we ended up with too much…but equally of course, that was the right amount. I’d been told there might be twenty coming. Calculated for 25-30. And we had a full three dozen….with enough food for more. People ate and ate and ate (as they need to do at such times) and consumed gallons of iced tea, punch, and sodas, as well as water. (Did I mention it was HOT??) And talked, of course. As time went on we had the main group (in the back room, the largest) and satellite groups in the kitchen, the living room, and outdoors in the carport near the ice chest.
One of the guests made a plaque to hang on the rain barn Jim helped build, with the names of the men who worked on it. We’ll have a little ceremony when we hang it up (that rain barn is too far away to make people walk it on a very hot day, and the fire danger’s too high to drive there.) Even with chairs out in the meadow, some people were having heat problems.
The best of Jim, the happiest of Jim, was present yesterday, in the memories of his friends–friends he often doubted he had. Though we cannot forget his misery, his mental anguish, we can and will remember the times Jim was happy, the times Jim was fully here for us.
This is the meadow, earlier in the year of course, and where some of Jim will remain.
(Those two bushy trees are Osage Orange, or Bois d’arc (bodark), or horse apples, or scientifically, Maclura pomifera. We trimmed them up for the day, but they will return to this shape by next spring.)
Comment by Ann Neff — July 1, 2012 @ 10:34 am
He must have trusted you very much, even in his pain, to be compassionate. That is a sort of safety, I think.
Comment by Ginny W. — July 1, 2012 @ 10:39 am
Thank you for a very apt, and poignant reminder of the very human frailties that do not often show.
My father suffered from severe bipolar disorder, which was never really controlled. His death, from cancer, when it came was mercifully quick. But his life was difficult, most of all for himself. I found great comfort in the knowledge that the Lord is wiser than us all, and knows what can be helped and what can not. He waits for all of us, with a peace and patience and love that have only shadows in this life.
I am glad that you, and Jim’s friends and family had a good and sharing time together. And wish him, and all of you the peace that passes understanding. God bless you all.
Comment by greycats — July 1, 2012 @ 11:12 am
Most “mental” illness has a physical component–which is why drugs work when they work. Hence to suggest that such an illness cannot become terminal is unreasonable.
***
Suicide is a response to a painful situation. Sometimes it is a reasoned response, a way to control one’s death more than a way to avoid the difficulties of one’s life. Sometimes it is, more than anything else, a sure-fire way to end the pain.
As a pain-killer, suicide in the hands of those inexperienced with pain can be tragic. But for people with chronic pain it is the ultimate weapon in their arsenal.
During the years that I was a nursing professional in a busy emergency room I saw all sorts of suicides, both successful and not. It took me a while but over time I figured out what they all had in common: they were always a response to pain (usually mental, but not always). Therefore, I approached all suicides the way I would have approached any person with pain.
Weather along I-35: means and extremes.
Comment by Daniel Glover — July 1, 2012 @ 11:48 am
Elizabeth,
I went through this with a very gifted artist who I also worked with professionally in my job as well as at church. It’s never easy, the reasons, as you mentioned are many and varied as the individuals involved. Have been praying for you about this since you first mentioned it. It’s tough.
Comment by Wickersham's Conscience — July 1, 2012 @ 10:46 pm
A moving, heartfelt tribute, Elizabeth. I don’t know why severe depression touches some of us and leaves, and makes others’ lives unbearable. I think anyone our age has similar stories, but you’ve told your with uncommon grace.
Comment by Jenn — July 2, 2012 @ 10:22 am
Beautiful. Your picture looks a little like how I picture heaven to be.
Continued prayers for Jim, the repose of his soul and the consolation of his family and friends.
Comment by Genko — July 2, 2012 @ 11:34 am
A beautiful tribute. Thank you. Having lost two relatives and a dear friend to suicide last year, I agree with you and resonate with the sadness and pain surrounding such a death. Loss and change comes to us all. We deal with it with such grace as we can muster.
Comment by KateG — July 2, 2012 @ 4:59 pm
As always, your writing moves me. Thank you for articulating what I have always felt – that for some people suicide is as rational a response to their anguish, as refusing more treatment is for a cancer patient. We allow people to let go when their bodies are failing them, but condemn them for seeking the same surcease when it’s their minds.
As my dear father said when he was dying, “None of us get out of here alive.” And surely, some control over the time and manner of one’s passing is the ultimate freedom. The pain is for those of us left behind.
Comment by Linda — July 2, 2012 @ 8:37 pm
Both your tribute and the responses of your readers are very comforting, for as I age I seem to be saying goodbye to more people than I like.
More frivolously, having become, against my better judgement, a “church lady”, I have yet to see a memorial service where there wasn’t more food than needed, even the ones where the sanctuary couldn’t hold everyone and we had to borrow another church’s parking lot and run shuttles up our very steep hill.
I think it always impresses me how my community pulls together and draws others in at times like these. Blessed be.
Comment by Ed Schoenfeld — July 3, 2012 @ 8:38 am
It’s easy for those overly concerned with hierarchy and ‘game rules’ to treat moral precepts as inviolable absolutes. What precept should give us is a guide and support as we live our lives. We use that support as much as our souls are able; after that there is only trust in infinite mercy.
Thank you for a memorable tribute to Jim’s life — he lived it well and carried his burden as long as he could. May he find peace at last.
Comment by Kip Colegrove — July 5, 2012 @ 11:59 am
As a clergyman, I’ve often been part of saying the final farewell to someone I hardly knew–but wish I had known long and well. As a result of your moving eulogy, Jim has joined that group.
I hope he’d be as happy as I am to hear that the folks at the LHC appear to have detected the Higgs boson!
Comment by Elizabeth D. — July 10, 2012 @ 12:34 am
I attended a funeral this spring for a young woman who died of leukemia, and what the Priest said was about the same as what he said at the memorial for a young person who committed suicide this year: this is something that is beyond our knowledge, what it is like to be in somebody else’s shoes. He eulogized the leukemia victim’s career wishes as though she had served as a nurse for many years; he honored the suicide victim’s ideals as well, because he had ideals; both were fighting for life. And we sang, in both cases, “In God’s kingdom, may their memory be eternal.”
I am glad that Jim had such a wonderful send-off. Your generosity, opening your heart and home, is part of the reason your writing comes alive. Thank you for sharing the moment with us.