David B. Biebel - Finding Your Way after the Suicide of Someone You Love

Acknowledgment: All of the stories in this book are true. Sometimes our collaborators allowed us to use their real names and the names of those they lost to suicide. The following is a list of the names which are real: Mike, Louise Wirick, Monica, Brenda, Becky, Lenore, Debbie, Judy K.,Marie, Kathie, Terri, Judy T., James, Patricia, Ginger, Florence, Robert Walters Sr., Linda Flatt, Ann, Mark Wilson, Marlene,Margaret Stephens, Steve Foster, Jerry, Colleen,and Jan. In all other cases, pseudonyms are used to protect the identities and privacy of those who died and those who love them. Any similarity to other persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

We also wish to thank the following for their professional input, and for giving us permission to use their material: Bob Deits, Pleasant Gill White, PhD, Dr. Harold Koenig, Randy Christian, Steve Siler, and Scott Krippayne.

Voice:When we say we, we are speaking jointly. When we are speaking singly, we will use first names, Sue or Dave, in parentheses to identify the speaker.

A Thousand Whys

I look into the Fathers eyes

And wrestle with a thousand whys

Why this? Why now? Why him, not I?

The hurt, the rage, unbridled pain

Erupting from my soul, again.

If thats the way its going to be

Then build Your Kingdom without me.

But then, again, where could I go

To hear a word of hope, and know

The promise that beyond the pain

The ballad has a glad refrain?

But what for now? And how can one

Still vocalize Thy will be done?

And soon I hear a song begin,

Celestial, but from deep within,

A new yet ancient melody

Of joy and pain, disharmony.

Or do the strains combine somehow,

A lovely paradox of sound?

DAVID B. BIEBEL1

What do you mean, shes dead?

The words echoed through the chasms of my quickly numbing mind, but I (Sue) couldnt make them come out of my mouth as I struggled to make sense of what the woman on the phone was saying.

How can you know shes dead when you arent even here?

We had called 911 because we couldnt get nineteen-year-old Shannon to wake up. Steve, her brother, was trying to do CPR. It was all very strange. She had a smile on her face. Her body was warm. But her color was wrong, very wrong.

Shes my daughter. She cant be dead. She cant be dead.

Hello, the voice said. Are you still there?

Yes, I mumbled.

A team is on the way, maam. But let me ask again. Can you find a pulse?

I looked at Steve. He shook his head, with tears in his eyes. No. We cant.

Then the girl is dead, the voice said again. Theres nothing you can do.

How can you pronounce her dead as calmly and callously as you might announce the time or the weather? I wondered. My voice said,Thank you, my hand hung up the phone, and part of me disconnected from the rest of myself.

By the time the medical personnel arrived, I felt like I was hovering somewhere near the ceiling, a spectator at some kind of macabre dramatic performance in which my intuition said I had a lead part, only I didnt know the script. What are all these people doing here? I wondered. Why does the phone keep ringing? Why is everyone so sad especially Steve?

And Shannon, my dear, beautiful Shannon.

I watched as they wrapped her up and whisked her away, without even giving me a chance to say goodbye. Didnt they know that I needed to touch her, to look at her, to remember her, to say goodbye?

And my mind cried out:Who could have done such a horrible thing to herfive days before Christmas? Why, we havent finished decorating the tree. And the shopping isnt done. I havent bought Shannon her special ornament yet. This is just a bad dream, and Im going to wake up soon.

Maam, excuse me, a policemans voice interrupted my nightmare. We found these by her bed.

He showed me all the empty bottlesShannon had taken all the prescription medication in the house, plus a half bottle of aspirinand that was when it finally dawned on me that Shannon had done this horrible thing to herself.

Many Questions, Few Answers

But why? What could have been so painful for her that death seemed better than life?

My last words to Shannon the night before had been harsh and unkind. She had come in late from a date with her boyfriend and was making a lot of noise, which woke me up. Can you please keep the noise down? I had yelled. Im trying to sleep.

And her last words to me were,Its okay, Mom. It will be all right now.

Of course, I hadnt known what she was thinking. But for months afterward, I imagined myself responsible, somehow, for her death.

Steve and I both wondered for a long time, since we were both in the house when she took the pills,