Suicide Is Not Painless

Last year I started to write about my younger brother Paul and how his suicide attempt left him permanently disabled. He tried to hang himself and was left brain damaged. Doctors said at the time that he would be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life and my parents agreed that he should be taken off life support – a decision no parent should ever have to make. To everyone’s amazement he survived and even started showing signs of improvement. This was short lived however and his health deteriorated to the point where he needed constant care. He can’t speak well as his voice box was damaged, but he does have gross motor function. Gross motor function. It’s difficult to write that. He did live with my parents for over seven years, but they finally decided that he needed more care than they could provide. And taking care of him was taking a heavy toll on Mom and Dad - both physically and emotionally. How they managed those seven long years is still hard for me to fathom.

In the earlier post I spoke of the guilt I felt at that time and still feel today. But it’s a guilty feeling that’s difficult to describe. I’m sure many of us who have gone through something like this blame ourselves for not seeing it coming or doing something to prevent it from happening. But we can’t blame ourselves. I don’t. My guilt stems from my inability to just visit and talk to him. It’s not something I’m proud of. But it’s just so damn hard to see him they way he is. When I do visit, he smiles and tries to say my name - which is extremely emotional. He’s aware of his surroundings and that Mom and Dad are in heaven now and can’t come to visit anymore. I stay for a while and we chat, but when I leave, I’m always upset and angry. And guilty.

I ask myself why I don’t go to see him more often and try to rationalize with some stupid reason like I’m too busy or I’ll go next week. But I know these are just lame excuses for being afraid. I often picture him sitting alone waiting for me to come. I wonder if he knows that he has two nephews that know nothing about him. My oldest knows of him, but I haven’t spoken with either of my kids about their uncle Paul. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Paul or what he did, but more ashamed of myself really.

This past December I gathered up the courage to call and inquire about the Christmas dinner as I had attended the one in the year previous. I was a week too late. At first I was disappointed, but deep down I was relieved. But then I thought of the dinner with the other patients and their family members knowing that Paul was alone - again. Cue the guilt. In an attempt to make it up (to me more so him I guess) I planned to bring him some clothes for Christmas. Well Christmas came and went and his clothes are still in their wrapping paper. Some. Fucking. Brother.

This is at least the forth or fifth attempt to follow up on the earlier post on Paul. It’s not easy to write about but I felt I had to. Next Tuesday is Paul’s birthday. I wonder if he knows that it’s his birthday or how old he is now. One thing I know is that I have to go and see him. For both of our sakes. And, as strange as it may sound, this post is a small step in that difficult journey.