The First Several Days and Initial Thoughts

Mom and me

Three weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch looking through a guidebook when my husband called me. He said, "Have you talked with your dad? He called me three times and texted me to call him back."

I had not heard from Dad. My first thought was, Mom is dead. My next thought was, No, she's in the hospital. I need to know what hospital so I can go over there.

The next several minutes of waiting for my husband to call me back with more information were agonizing. Without a doubt, something horrible had happened, but I did not know what. 

I answered the first ring and he said, "I'm so sorry, honey. Your mom is gone."

I numbly replied, "What do you mean, gone?" Thinking, She left town?

"No, love. She's dead." 

I sat on the couch, guidebooks forgotten, and stared out the window, trying to process what these words meant. Mom is dead. She died.

"What happened?"

"She took her own life. Your dad found her earlier today." 

I was not surprised that she had killed herself, yet I was shocked. Just that morning I had told a coworker that I was concerned about mom. However, she had promised to never kill herself. We knew she was in pain, but I trusted that she would never take her own life. 

My husband went to my parents' house, picked up Dad, then they both came over to our place. While I was waiting, my husband had called a friend and she came over so I would not be alone.

Once they both arrived and my friend left, we discussed together what happened. 

Dad left for work around 8:30 a.m. Mom had missed an appointment at 10:00 a.m. A friend who helped set up the appointment had told the department to call and check on Mom if she did not show up for the meeting. When she did not arrive, they called a well check. 

The police went to my parents' house and found the doors locked. They called Dad a little after 11:00 a.m. and he immediately left work. He asked to go in first because he did not want Mom to be startled if she was taking a nap. After a few minutes, he found her. She was obviously dead and it was apparent it was by her own hand. 

As I sat in the kitchen listening to these words, they flowed over me and only barely penetrated enough to lead to understanding. She was dead. She killed herself. Mom was gone. 

The next week was a déjà vu filled blur. My sisters and their significant others flew into town. We met with the same funeral director we had worked with when planning Isabella's funeral. The same funeral home did the arrangements and I sat in the same seat as before during the service. Mom was buried in the same cemetery, just twenty feet from Isabella. Flowers filled the house again and the postman delivered dozens of sympathy cards. 

Mom's grave the day after the funeral, Isabella's grave is immediately behind mom's.
It is topped with tall, white flowers silhouetted in front of the tree.

While my hopes and dreams of the future were shattered the moment Isabella died, Mom's death has left me feeling numb and with complicated questions that may not have answers. Isabella's death was much more straightforward. By all accounts, she was healthy and fine until shortly before birth when she suddenly was very sick. She died at 29.5 hours, leaving a gaping hole in our lives and in our vision of the future. 

Mom had been struggling with depression for years and her social skills and ability to remember details had rapidly declined, particularly after Isabella's death. Although, as much as is possible, I can reason through why Mom took her own life, losing a loved one to suicide brings up questions. 

One of the first questions I wrestled with was, Since she never seemed to recover from Isabella's death, did I inadvertently contribute to Mom's death? No. She had been struggling with depression for years. While all of us were devastated when we lost Isabella, Mom seemed stuck in her grief. She went by the cemetery several days a week for hours at a time. The cemetery director said Mom would sob over Isabella's grave for hours and I knew she had a dedicated blanket in her trunk to lay on when she visited the grave. In her difficulty processing Isabella's death, she never fully bonded with her second granddaughter, born just two months later. She loved her other granddaughter with her head, but it never seemed to impact her heart. Mom knew it was strange that she could not bond and said she was "broken." Had Isabella not died, I think Mom probably would still be alive. However, something else would likely have pushed her over the edge. 

Mom, Isabella, and me

Was there something more I should have done? No. Mom was always fiercely independent and private. And she was doing everything she could to get better. She was seeing a psychiatrist, a psychologist, was receiving EMDR therapy, had weekly massages, did aromatherapy for depression, and received frequent acupuncture. She did everything she could and she knew she was loved. Her death was not due to feeling alone or unloved. Yet, even had we been living with her, we could not have fixed her. 

Did she not realize how much we would be hurt by her death? Were we not enough for her to live for? Was the hope of future grandchildren, time with family, not adequate for her to pull through? Those questions are futile. With every fiber of her being, she loved her family. She would never do anything to hurt us. Her pain was so great that it must have paled in comparison to the pain she knew we would feel. Did she consider us? I'm sure she did. As we later learned, in the several days before her death Mom removed all photos of her family from sight. Were we not enough? It doesn't work like that. I also have no doubt that, in her mind, she was doing the most loving thing for the family by taking her life. She never wanted to be a burden and felt like a burden to us. Our hearts broke to watch her struggle. Even the times we felt frustrated with our inability to help her, we wanted her in our lives and would gladly be there for her. However, she felt so broken that she could not envision a future where she could enjoy future grandchildren, participate in rambunctious family gatherings, and be who she wanted to be. 

Putting out Christmas cookies for Santa

As much as I can, I understand why she took her own life. So far, none of us are angry with her. We miss her desperately and will continue to mourn her absence and seek to understand her death and its implications. 

The numbness of the first several weeks is starting to wear off. While I certainly miss who she used to be, I also miss who she was and the pain of losing her seems to grow. I miss being able to call her and still find myself reaching to call Mom just to catch up or to tell her about my day. I miss going over to my parents' house and knowing I would see her. At the same time, I'm grateful she is no longer in pain. While I long for the day that we will be reunited, I trust that God will continue to give me joy and hope in the present. Although this has been an incredibly difficult year, we are not alone as we face each day.