I follow The Alliance of Hope for Suicide Survivors on Facebook, and read a post last month entitled A Moment in Time: Eulogy for Kathy, my Sweet Sister. The Author, MaryCatherine, asks you to pause and “not to reduce her entire life to that one moment that she made the transition from being alive in this world.” This quote resinated with me, as I struggle to ensure that my father is remembered for the man he was, and not the moment that ended his life. It can be difficult for a survivor to maintain legacy beyond suicide.
That really struck with me. I remember the first few weeks, then months, and the first entire year after my Dad’s suicide. All I could narrow in on was that my Dad committed suicide. It was difficult to see his legacy beyond suicide. I was still in shock, feeling angry, feeling guilt, trying to figure out the answers…all of those things we as survivors have to navigate through. Not that he was a wonderful, loving father and friend, or an outgoing man who loved Jimmy Buffett, the Chicago White Sox, relaxing with the neighbors, and watching my brother in his many rock bands. I saw him as a guy who committed suicide. It was only in the second, third and going on forth year that I can look back fondly and see all the other moments and years of his life and see past the way that he died.
It’s hard in the immediate weeks and months after our loved ones death to think of them separate from the way they chose to die. We’re dealing with the shock of suicide, the guilt that goes along with it and the anger. Many of us play detective in trying to find out as many details as we can as to why this happened. There’s too much going on — at least there was for me — to think of anything but suicide when I thought of my Dad. As MaryCatherine said in her eulogoy to her Sister, “Kathy should have had another trillion moments of time, and in this, our collective moment in time that is “now” we feel cheated and hurt both for her, and for ourselves.”
I am not sure when I was able to think fondly of my Dad and all the amazing moments we had together, but this past week he’s been on my mind nonstop. I am 8 months pregnant and in crazy pregnancy nesting mode. My husband always tells me I need to rest, and I told him that we are just different. Even when I’m not pregnant I’d prefer to be doing things rather than sitting down and relaxing (and he loves to come home from work and lay on the couch). As we were discussing this the other day, he said, “you know, your Mom loved when I came to her and your Dad’s house, because I’d sit on the recliner and turn on ESPN. She said no one ever did that at their house”. I laughed, because I remember her saying that to him, and her saying that is a direct response to my Dad’s behavior and mannerisms. My Dad rarely sat down either. He was always “putzing” — as he called it — around the house, and especially in the garage.
I also had wonderful reminders of him at my family baby shower several weeks ago. His old girlfriend (who I stayed good friends with after they broke up/before he passed away), gave me a baby gift of a White Sox onesie, bib and hat. And this is funny because my husband and I are Cubs fans, while my Dad and brother are Sox fans. And she gave me the book “The Three Little Pigs”. My Dad’s nickname was “Pig Tom”. It was a wonderful reminder of him and I can’t wait to read the book to my baby.
So this week, and for the next month, as I am in nesting mode, I look back fondly on my Dad and feel comfort that my “need to stay busy” is an attribute I got from him. I remember my dad for the man he was, and remember his legacy beyond suicide.
For our readers out there, I would love for you to leave a comment with a cherished memory of your loved one.
Lindsay, I am too new in my grief to start thinking about happy memories–still in the disbelief, why, angry, crushed stage. My 17 year old son died by suicide June 12 of this year. I really like your thoughts that our loved ones who died by suicide are so much more than that final act. In the eulogy my son’s best friend gave at his memorial service he ended with, “Remember Marcus as he lived and not how he died.” Your words give me hope that eventually I will move beyond this inital stage. As you know it is so hard to see past the feelings of right now. One suggestion I would make is that the phrase “committed suicide” isn’t considered the correct terminology anymore. I think it stems from the fact that they weren’t committing to suicide–they were trying to end their pain. Just something to think about. Congratulations on your new arrival.
Hi Michelle,
Thank you for your comments, and it’s true — we need to remember our loved ones by how they lived and not how they died.
Jessica wrote a post on “completed vs. committed” here if you want to read it. I think I am like her that when I talk with people I normally say “died by suicide” but just realized now after you pointed it out in my post that I wrote “committed” twice.
http://www.oursideofsuicide.com/2014/06/09/completed-vs-committed-suicide/
Lindsay
Lindsey,
I feel incredibly blessed that even though I am in still in the throes of recent, acute grief (my Dad has only been gone since September), I have had many occasions where I have been able to look back on my Dad’s legacy far beyond his suicide. Do I still have those moments where all I can see is my Dad’s final moments? Sure. But I have many wonderful memories to look beyond that finite moment in the trillions of moments in my Dad’s life.
He too was a baseball fan (Nationals) and we buried him with a ticket of my first Nats game with him that I had saved from their inaugural season. I also enjoyed in the past few weeks hearing stories from relatives about their memories of going to ball games with my Dad over the years. I also recently went to a Red Cross Blood Donation drive and donated blood–in honor of Dad. He took me to start donating blood when I was 16, though he liked to go to a certain hospital to donate because they had bigger, better cookies.
I was aware of a few people he had helped over the years either through his generosity or financial savvy when he was alive, but I almost became overwhelmed at the amount of friends and relatives who came up to me over the past few weeks and told me their stories. My Dad may have been a quiet man, but his generosity over the years spoke volumes about his character.
I have also been able to remember how funny my Dad was; he was a pun/goofy joke man. One time he posted online, “Today is pi day. At 1:59 pm it will be pi minute. You have been warned.” My cousins even have their own set of “Uncle Randy” stories based on his jokes over the years and his unintentional funny moments over the years.
Hi Emily, thanks for sharing your cool stories about your Dad! My Dad used to donate blood regularly as well, I remember in our old house growing up, there were all these plaques on the wall with the amount of gallons he donated over the years, and whenever they’d call the house for him to schedule an appointment, he’d look at caller ID and say “The vampires are calling!!”
Wonderful passage, Lindsay! Your illustration of moving beyond viewing Tom through the framework of his suicide and back into the sphere of the countless loving memories you have of him is very illuminating. This phenomenon is not something that would immediately be apparent to one who is not a direct survivor of suicide, but I’m very thankful that you shared it with all of us, as it has given me pause and made me consider this very important distinction. Just last/this week, I have been (similarly?) considering how it would be better for me to move past remembering Ron through the lens of his brain tumor and cancer and the pain and anguish and sadness of seeing him struggle and deteriorate over time and towards a frame of remembering him for the guy he was, pre-sick stuff. Ron’s situation obviously wasn’t suicide, so I am blessed in that respect, but those were a long 4 years when we was grappling with those medical issues, so it still feels so fresh after just under 2 years now.
Happy memories abound: he was the guy leading all the aunts/uncles in a group singing of oldies and soul songs during Xgiving and Xmas get-togethers. He would make funny sounds and give his nieces and nephews little nicknames and talk about how great they were. He was exciting and excited about everything, exuberant really, and that was infectious… whether it was the Bears or Sox game being played on Amma’s little TV or some family-wide Trivial Pursuit or came game, he was vivacious and always smiling. Thanks for a great post here, it made me happy! XO
Hi Lindsay,
I recently started following you and you have helped me tremendously. My dad has been gone for 5 years and every time I remember a memory, it disappears and is replaced with the day he died. I am trying to work through that. I remember the day my twins were born. My dad was a plumber and had a large cube van that he put “It’s a girl” and “It’s a boy” banners all over his truck. He also had streamers attached to his mirrors, tires, bumpers and anywhere else he could tie them to. He wanted the town to know that his grandbabies were born. Another fun memory I have is April Fools Day. We would constantly pull pranks on each other all day long. It was the best! We would start planning days in advance what we were going to do. Congratulations to you and your soon to be new arrival!
thank u for sharing, perhaps when i feel stronger i will share, again thank you it does help us get through the day
regards
I really wish I could remember my daughter beyond that fateful day when she died of suicide. I find it extremely difficult. I felt hurt for her and myself to such an extent that I felt she had slammed a door in my face! I do remember that she was the kindest most compassionate individual with a wonderfully generous heart but I seem to have blocked off all recollections of individual incidences except those that give me pain.