I spent the first half of yesterday at a Suicide Survivors
event. I lost my mother to suicide about four and a half years ago. I mention
this not because the day was overly emotional for me, or because I’m missing my
mom any more than usual. (Though I think about her every day, usually in
reference to a restaurant I wish I could take her to, or a silly thing that
happened that I wish I could tell her about.) I’m incredibly lucky in that I am
remarkably balanced about it at this point, for various reasons. Caren kept
asking if I wanted her to come with me. But I absolutely didn’t need her to. I
was cool as a cucumber through the whole thing. And though it was remarkably
meaningful and comforting to see so many other people who have gone through the
same thing – a fact that’s easy to lose sight of, since so many of us don’t
often talk about it – I didn’t come close to crying once. (Though my allergies
got to me at one point, and it may have looked like I was wiping away a tear.
But no. Legit allergies. I’m mad allergic, yo.) I would go so far as to say I
was even a little cocky about how even-keeled I was. I was like a suicide bereavement
rock star! I felt so confident to be around people who seemed so obviously to
be in way worse shape than me about the whole thing, some of whom lost their
loved ones much more recently. My heart went out to everyone there. But without
missing a beat, I walked out into the bright sunshine, and made a quick trip to
the supermarket. A meaningful day, but as my mom took to saying at some point
during the early ‘90s, because it sounded playfully, comically hip, No Biggie.
So I’m not mentioning this because the day was overly
emotional for me, or because I’m missing my mom any more than usual. I’m
mentioning it because during the little breakout session I attended for adults
who’ve lost parents – they also had groups for children who’ve lost parents,
and those who’ve lost significant others, and parents who’ve lost children, and
pretty much every other heartbreaking iteration – the subject came up of how
hard it is to know whether to tell people how your loved one died. Is it too
personal? Too awkward? Will there be judgment? Will the other person find it
upsetting? Will they say stupid things, or ask upsetting questions? How should
you phrase it, exactly? Poetically? Simply? Brutally?
When someone dies of cancer, we unhesitatingly say that they
died of cancer. When someone gets hit by a truck, we simply explain that they
got hit by a truck. So why isn’t the topic of suicide as matter-of-fact? Because
people aren’t used to hearing about it, so there’s a stigma attached. But people
reeling from a loved one’s suicide can’t be expected to start talking about it
matter-of-factly until they’re ready, and start feeling comfortable. It’s a self-fulfilling
prophecy. Or a Catch-22. Circular logic? It’s whatever expression I can’t think
of at the moment.
So the only reason I’m mentioning it now is because it’s not
particularly bothering me at the moment. And the more often people talk about it
in the same way they would any other tragic illness, the less weird or awkward
it’ll eventually become. So that’s why I mention it now. As my wonderful, funny
mom used to say: No Biggie.