For three years, I've been dreading the day my nephew, Kaia, asked about his father. It's one of those things where you think time and again about what you will say when it finally comes up. How do you tell a child that his father is dead and he will never meet him? Do you lie to him about it? Give half the story? Tell the truth? How do you shelter a child from reality when that reality is going to change his life forever, no matter how much you might wish it wouldn't?
I've yet to find an answer to that question that I can be comfortable with. His father committed suicide a mere week before he was born. To this day, we still don't know why. The only note that was left was a note for the roommate to not enter the apartment but to call an ambulance because he had killed himself and didn't want the roommate to find him.
Nothing to my sister, to his ex wife, to his children or his unborn child. No explanation, no reason. All we have are guesses. Which has left my sister with all sorts of guilt. Should she feel guilty? Probably not. But the reality is that no matter how much you know it wasn't your fault, you still blame yourself. And no matter how far time travels from that life ending tragedy, it never changes.
The person is still gone and the questions are still lingering there, planting little seeds of doubt and guilt at every turn. Goddess knows, I know how she feels. She tried to commit suicide years ago and to this day, I still wonder. No matter how many times she says I couldn't have stopped her, I still think "yes, but what if..."
I've resigned myself to that. It's a big burden to carry, but I can't help but carry it. And so, I do know how she feels. Only, I imagine that she feels a hell of a lot worse about it.
Here is a man she adored that adored her. They lived together; found out that they were having a baby together. Made a decision to separate so that she could go to college and they could just breathe. Their relationship happened so fast, they were so far apart in age that they were both a little terrified of where they were going.
Only, what was supposed to be a temporary separation has turned into a lifetime thing. He'll never be there for her, never be there for the beautiful child they created together. I got my sister back from that hell hole. She'll never get the love of her life and the father of her child back. And not only does she have to wonder why and blame herself because she left him... she has to explain it to that beautiful child.
I've thought about it a lot. All I ever came up with was an attempt to put it into some sort of perspective that won't shatter his dreams.
Right before you made your entrance
someone came to call
they told daddy it was time
and refusing wouldn't work at all
So daddy picked up the phone and dialed one last timeGrandpa said you were doing well
and were on your way into the world
so daddy said he loved you
and told mommy to take careDaddy really loves you
no matter how you feel
but daddy had to leave you
with the turning of the WheelWhen Mommy got the call
she cried a single tear
Mommy loved your daddy
it was more than she could bearMommy picked up the pieces
and raised you up alright
She talked to daddy daily
and prayed to Goddess at nightShe whispered to you softly
in your little ear
how your daddy loved you
and that you shouldn't fearDaddy really loves you
no matter how you feel
but daddy had to leave you
with the turning of the WheelMommy called his daddy
and told him you were here
his daddy was so angry
he refused to hearso mommy held you closely
and gave you so much love
for daddys family was hurting
from the loss of a sonDaddy really loves you
no matter how you feel
but daddy had to leave you
with the turning of the wheelWhen you get older
maybe you will understand
your daddy loved your mommy
and it was more than he could bearso daddy picked up the gun
he didn't try to fight
daddy pulled the trigger
and ended it all that nightbut daddy really loves you
no matter how you feel
daddy had to leave you
with the turning of the wheel.
For the first time today, he brought it up. He's only three. My heart broke. He sounded so sad about it. He looked at the picture of his father and said "My daddy is sick" in that little "I don't understand" voice. That poem didn't mean a thing right then. It never even came close to being a comfort. He doesn't understand what it means. To him, it's just a bunch of pretty words... like in the story books we read to him.
No one has ever told him that his daddy is sick, but somehow, he equated the fact that his daddy isn't here with his daddy being ill. And really, who can blame him? All he knows is that every time his brother isn't here with him it's because he's sick. His great grandfather died last year and all he could understand was that grandpa wasn't there anymore. And so to him, that must have meant grandpa was sick.
And that really worries me. How do you explain the difference between death and illness to a three year old so that the child doesn't live in fear that the next time his brother gets sick it will mean that his brother will never come back again?
To be honest, the entire thing makes me so very angry. I understand that suicide isn't something you really ever understand. That sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it just doesn't make sense. That when someone gets to that ledge, there is no pulling them back. It's something they either have to have the will to do themselves or something that never happens.
They say that suicide isn't a disease. But, I really wonder about that sometimes. If it isn't a disease, why do those that survive live in that eternal hell forevermore with the poison of guilt and anger and hurt following them everywhere?
I'm probably over thinking it. I tend to do that. But, really it's all I can do at this point. The day we've dreaded for 3 years is here and still, I have nothing to say to make any of it make sense to him. Sure, as he gets older, he'll understand more and we can tell him more. But... how much can a child ever really understand? He'll always wonder if his daddy loved him, why he left him. No amount of love will ever fill that hole for him because there will never be anything to put in that hole that clears the fog.
Wonder, worry and doubt dwell there. They always will.
I'm not supposed to be angry about it. But I am. And I'm not supposed to feel that suicide is selfish. But I do feel that way. Every single time I look into that little boy's eyes, I hear him saying "Daddy is sick" and I can't help but think what a selfish bastard his father was.
And then, I too feel guilty.
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