Fine - No time to say goodbye: surviving the suicide of a loved one

A Main Street Books edition of this book was originally published in 1997. It is here reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday.

No Time to Say Goodbye. Copyright 1997 by Carla Fine. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address: Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

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First Broadway Books trade paperback edition published 2000.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Fine, Carla.
No time to say goodbye: surviving the suicide of a loved one / Carla Fine. 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. SuicidePsychological aspects. 2. BereavementPsychological aspects. 3. Suicide victimsFamily relationships. I. Title.
HV6545.F525 1997
362.283dc20 96-8388

eISBN: 978-0-307-78888-7

v3.1

To Alex,

For being therethen and always

Acknowledgments

T he courage and strength of the many people who shared the intimate, often painful details of the suicide of their loved ones for this book will remain with me always. I am grateful for their confidence that in my telling of their experiences, the stigma surrounding suicide will begin to diminish through understanding and compassion.

In every survivors journey, there are sources of comfort and direction that help to ease the anguish and clear the confusion. I would especially like to thank my mother, Lillian Fine, for her love and unwavering support, and my sisters, Jill, Janet, and Ellen, for showing me the true definition of family. I would also like to thank my hermana, Dolly Velasco, for her passionate faith in the triumph of the creative spirit in the face of adversity and fear.

A survivor remembers every kindness extended during a time when the world seems suddenly threatening and unfamiliar. I am grateful for the consideration given to me by Patricia Hennessey, Marie Stareck, Doreen Liebeskind, Phil Fierro, Jean-Claude Deshauteurs, Peter Klausner, and Jeffrey Schwartz. I am also in debt to Debby Glazer for her humanistic insight and steadfast presence, and to Elaine Frances for her conviction in my ability to flourish with change.

This book exists today as a result of the determination of my agent and friend, Barbara Lowenstein, who trusted in its worth from the beginning, and my editor, Judy Kern, who championed its cause and helped me communicate its message as clearly as possible. I truly appreciate their warm encouragement and belief in my work. I am also grateful to Mary Mooney for her keen intellect and astute suggestions, and to Edward Dunne for his enlightened counsel and thoughtful input.

Out of the ashes of tragedy, unexpected gifts often emerge. I will always cherish the friendship of Sonia and Ron Heuer, with whom I have spent endless hours baring my soul yet instinctively connect without the necessity of words, and to Gerry Graffe for her generous heart and wonderful gift of knowing how to laugh. I am also honored by my friendship with Suzi Epstein, a wise and courageous woman, and with Aukia Betancourt, whose future knows no bounds.

I am especially indebted to Ilka Tanya Payan, who in her fierce struggle against the terrible plague of AIDS taught me about the beauty and dignity of the human spirit. I am also grateful to Pam Parlapiano, Vicki Ciampa, and Maxine Gold for their humor and loyal support.

Most important, I would like to thank Alex Kopelman, my eternal soulmate, who has been with me through every step of this odyssey. A fine writer who helped shape the tone and direction of this book, Alexs vision and faith in me have never wavered. And, of course, I must not forget Cinco, who reminded me that there was joy even in my deepest darkness and who never left my side.

Finally, I would like to pay tribute to my husband, Harry Reiss, and the memories of others whose lives have been ended by an unrelenting despair and sadness that only they could know. It is my hope that their stories will provide some kind of insight for those of us who are left behind, ensuring that their deaths will not have been in vain.

Contents

I NTRODUCTION

1

I t was the first warm day after a particularly cold and brutal winter. As the bus maneuvered its way through the midtown traffic, I stared out the window at the office workers enjoying the sunshine on their lunchtime break. I recognized him immediately, striding decisively among the slower-walking pedestrians. His expensive gray suit was similar to the one he had worn to the monthly meetings. He was carrying the same brown leather briefcaseI could picture how he would set it upright by his side as soon as he sat down, its very presence proclaiming order and routine in the middle of our circle of chaos.

He prided himself on his resolve. I am getting on with my life, he would announce to the rest of us, his grief-clouded eyes betraying his words. Things are settling back to normal and Ive started moving forward, he would repeat, as if having memorized a speech someone else had written for him.

This ordinary-looking businessman and I had been brought together years before by a shared anguish: the suicide of someone we loved. Twice a month, for more than a year, we met with five or ten or twenty other strangers in the basement of a church, trying to make some sense of our unthinkable tragedies, hoping to feel less alone with our feelings of craziness and disorientation. We walked into those meetings rudderless, not knowing what had hit us. We were survivors of a shipwreck, consumed by guilt for having failed to save the dearest people in our lives and ashamed at being alive and abandoned. We were dazed by our helplessness, confused by the anger that laced through our mourning.

He quickly disappeared into the noonday crowd, merging into the steady stream of people filling the vibrant street. I wished I could have spoken to him, to find out how he had fared over these past years. Had he truly been able to put his life back together after the piercing horror of his daughters suicide? Was he still married? Did he reconcile with his son? Had the nightmare of finding his daughters motionless body in a blood-filled bathtub dimmed enough to allow him some moments of peace? Had he forgiven himself?

And what about me? I looked at the spindly trees lining the avenue, their buds bravely welcoming another year of urban hazards. I thought about the flowers planted near Harrys grave in a small Massachusetts cemetery. Were they also beginning to bloom? I wondered. Had they survived the fierce ice storms and snow blasts of these past months?