Carol was not simple. She was complex, yet her responses often appeared simple. A wounded bird, yet more than her wounds. She was gifted and she was a gift. I’m a better 
person for what she added to my life and understanding. I see myself differently, others differently. I’ve less tolerance for bullies and will step in to aid a fragile soul more quickly than I might have previously. I don’t fear mental illness, but try to find a way to connect with the person inside.
We had talked of suicide before. I asked her how she would do it. She had a plan. She’d go to the South Island, far away from anyone who knew her so we wouldn’t be inconvenienced. I chided her a bit with the practicality of that plan. She didn’t often go far in a car and she couldn’t ride her bike over the Harbour Bridge to go South, so how was she going to get so far as the South Island?
The weeks before she died had been hard ones for Carol. She’d had a fall on her bike, possibly from hypothermia from swimming in a cold cold sea at night. The ambulance was called and took her to the hospital. She was unwell mentally. She had wounds on her body and on her heart. After that she went to a respite home to give her time to heal without exercising. Being at home just made her want her routine too much. Jane and I went to visit her, but ended up bringing her home.
She was shaking, but packed. She said she didn’t fit in there either. How much emotion was inherent in that word, either. We sat on the sofa and talked. She spoke again of ending her life because it was all just too hard. She confirmed to me several times that she’d not do it at home. She wouldn’t do that to me!
She said, “When I get there I’ll be with Him, I’ll belong. I’ll be at home.” The eyes. If I could describe her eyes as she spoke to me. Again a wounded bird, perched on a sofa, trying to stay connected to people she knew loved her, but losing her grip on herself too much to hold on to anyone else.
The fact that she did in fact end her life at home speaks volumes. I’m still not sure what it says, but I’ve explored a few possibilities.
She was safe there, in her own room. She was overwhelmed. She had the gas bottle handy so it wasn’t totally unpremeditated. She was ashamed of something that had happened or tired of fighting or couldn’t think of another way. She knew I’d find her.
What happened the day she died, or the night before? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I did know. Maybe it’s better that I don’t. Whatever it was it was too much for her. Too much to face, to cope with, to process. It overwhelmed her. Took her down a path she went alone. She didn’t include me.
I had no choice. Is that what I hate most? I hope I’d hate the fear and the anxiety behind her actions that Saturday. I hope my thoughts and feeling are more for her and the state she must have been in, but Carol was not a project, not just another one of many in my life of ministry, in my circle of friends. Carol was unique, was gifted and sensitive and funny. She was smart and deep and generous. She sometimes understood or saw other people’s pain better or clearer than they did themselves.
We returned her ashes to the sea, some weeks after she died, but her spirit is not there. She is with me every day. She is in the flowers and birds that continue without her, though not so well. She is in the whir of bicycle wheels every time I pass one, in the wind that causes the security light to come on intermittently through the night. She is in different sounds and smells. She is in every lonely or marginal person I pass. She is with me everyday. It’s a bittersweet thing.
to be continued . . .
person for what she added to my life and understanding. I see myself differently, others differently. I’ve less tolerance for bullies and will step in to aid a fragile soul more quickly than I might have previously. I don’t fear mental illness, but try to find a way to connect with the person inside.We had talked of suicide before. I asked her how she would do it. She had a plan. She’d go to the South Island, far away from anyone who knew her so we wouldn’t be inconvenienced. I chided her a bit with the practicality of that plan. She didn’t often go far in a car and she couldn’t ride her bike over the Harbour Bridge to go South, so how was she going to get so far as the South Island?
The weeks before she died had been hard ones for Carol. She’d had a fall on her bike, possibly from hypothermia from swimming in a cold cold sea at night. The ambulance was called and took her to the hospital. She was unwell mentally. She had wounds on her body and on her heart. After that she went to a respite home to give her time to heal without exercising. Being at home just made her want her routine too much. Jane and I went to visit her, but ended up bringing her home.
She was shaking, but packed. She said she didn’t fit in there either. How much emotion was inherent in that word, either. We sat on the sofa and talked. She spoke again of ending her life because it was all just too hard. She confirmed to me several times that she’d not do it at home. She wouldn’t do that to me!
She said, “When I get there I’ll be with Him, I’ll belong. I’ll be at home.” The eyes. If I could describe her eyes as she spoke to me. Again a wounded bird, perched on a sofa, trying to stay connected to people she knew loved her, but losing her grip on herself too much to hold on to anyone else.
The fact that she did in fact end her life at home speaks volumes. I’m still not sure what it says, but I’ve explored a few possibilities.
She was safe there, in her own room. She was overwhelmed. She had the gas bottle handy so it wasn’t totally unpremeditated. She was ashamed of something that had happened or tired of fighting or couldn’t think of another way. She knew I’d find her.
What happened the day she died, or the night before? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I did know. Maybe it’s better that I don’t. Whatever it was it was too much for her. Too much to face, to cope with, to process. It overwhelmed her. Took her down a path she went alone. She didn’t include me.
I had no choice. Is that what I hate most? I hope I’d hate the fear and the anxiety behind her actions that Saturday. I hope my thoughts and feeling are more for her and the state she must have been in, but Carol was not a project, not just another one of many in my life of ministry, in my circle of friends. Carol was unique, was gifted and sensitive and funny. She was smart and deep and generous. She sometimes understood or saw other people’s pain better or clearer than they did themselves.
We returned her ashes to the sea, some weeks after she died, but her spirit is not there. She is with me every day. She is in the flowers and birds that continue without her, though not so well. She is in the whir of bicycle wheels every time I pass one, in the wind that causes the security light to come on intermittently through the night. She is in different sounds and smells. She is in every lonely or marginal person I pass. She is with me everyday. It’s a bittersweet thing.
to be continued . . .
Comments