Irreversible

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Yesterday after work, I had a bit of business to conduct concerning the disposal of some of my elderly sister’s property, and so, rushed across town. The man I went to visit was busy with a customer. I couldn’t find his wife who’s usually there so wandered around the establishment until he became free. He rose in greeting, surprisingly looking about a hundred pounds heavier than when I last saw him two years ago. At that time, he and his wife were moving into a brand new home.

I knew a little about them because his wife had driven me home a few times and we had talked. She told me about her involvement with elder care and understood my concerns about my sister who’d recently begun living in a local care facility. She was experienced in caring for the elderly and on the side still worked with that population. She offered advice and told me at length about her younger sister, afflicted with lifelong developmental issues, who lived with her husband and herself.

While examining my sister’s papers, the man casually wondered how I’ve been. I briefly described my painful knee, and then, asked how he likes their home that had been new. He nodded, said it was okay, adding that now it’s lonely. Upon my question, he said his wife had died. Shocked, I asked how, and he replied that last year she took her own life. I thought back through our times together, she’d given no clue that she might be struggling with a very dark side. Often somehow, one gets a hint that something’s wrong as a person talks about him or herself.

He said that his wife was bipolar, that they’d had been together thirty years, during which she had periods of great fragility. Her problems had begun early. Her mother and a sibling had committed suicide, her father died while she was young, and she assumed much family responsibility. A single hint of her newly failing state of mind came early last year when she had a major breakdown, injured herself, and spent time in a hospital. This community didn’t have capable-enough psychiatric help for her highly serious mental problems, but she seemed to be recovering. Until several months later, when without warning, she got into her car and ended her life.

The man spoke of his difficulties trying to understand and adjust to her death. He also had to continue with his own life, see to their daughters’ welfare, and manage their mutually-owned business. She had been his best friend, business partner, and mother of their children. Although I knew her only slightly, the suicide and his words continue to weigh heavily.

He awoke yesterday morning after dreaming that she was sitting in her car and crying. He’s certain the dream is correct, that she did cry before taking her life because she knew how terribly hard that action would be on her family. Afterward, he and their daughters spread ashes in several places–the beach which she loved, the backyard of their new home, and interred most in a local cemetery. He visits frequently to “talk with her”.

I’m working through this event by trying to align it to others of unexpected deaths–self-inflicted, accidental, or from another’s ill intent. Perhaps special training makes it possible to comprehend the very dark regions of a disturbed person’s mind. To most of us, bipolar is a tricky concept–so small that we all cope periodically with ups and downs, and simultaneously, so large as to drive moods that consume some individuals.

Perhaps I’m also reminded of my aged sister’s impending demise. It’s much on my mind for losing a loved one is difficult, regardless of a relationship’s history, its ups, its downs. One of life’s great trials is having to adjust to the total unavailability of someone familiar or adored.

Dear Readers, Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is about loving. Diana