Location: Milford, MI
Lesson: Life is disposable – follow
through, take risks, fail, dare greatly. Part 1.
Teacher: Tom
Back Story:
I had a brother in law named Tom. He was 66 when he made the
choice to end the suffering from 50+ years of mental illness. I am ashamed to
say that in the 26 years I knew Tom, I defined him by his illness. Even
when I didn’t realize I was doing it.
Tom was the guy who disappeared for months at a time and didn’t call or
show up for holidays, he was the mysterious kind of nerdy guy who was quiet, a
little overweight and super smart…. but tortured. And that’s how we talked
about him: “Do you think Tom will show up this year?” “Has anybody heard from
Tom?” “Did you know Tom started light box therapy?” “Tom is amazing to push
through his depression and start his own business.”
I never meant to reduce him to his illness. I see clearly
now how easy that would be for family or friends to do to me, as my battle with
addiction has been anything but subtle. We (the collective we) are much larger
than any one thing. I know that I preach that and I hope today I live that,
but shortcutting someone in discussion with friends or family can sometimes be
easier. Tom – where ever you are, I am sorry for shortcutting you. |
| My Father-in-Law, Dan and Tom at our wedding |
When we received the call that Tom had chosen to complete
suicide – it was not a huge shock. Mostly we were sad he was at a place that
living for him was more painful than not. At the time of his death, he’d
disappeared for almost a year from his family. We had no idea what was
happening with him, with his life, but then again we rarely glimpsed his
day-to-day life so that was not unusual.
Tom is the reason for this journey of mine. When he died, he
did not have a will or any estate planning. In the note he left, he designated
his brothers to help with his estate. That included traveling to Milford, MI to clean out his home. He’d lived there for almost 20 years. Post graduation, I was in a position to show
up for my family and help do this. It seemed like such a small thing after the years and years of loyalty and love my husband had shown me during all my embattled moments. So I packed my car and set off with a list of stops
and 3 map programs on my phone.
Arriving in Milford, I checked into a local long-term
shit-hole and plugged in Tom’s address. I was met in Tom's driveway that first day by his long-term companion. She is a lovely, intelligent and (at least
that day) totally devastated woman. We stood in Tom’s driveway and held each
other while she sobbed at the loss, the unknown, the shock that suicides can
bring. I didn’t really process the outside of the house then. I got a sense of
the pale pink brick, the mid-century ranch style that included a large front
window over a concrete porch. It looked nice. Tidy. Rational. Not at all the
kind of home you’d expect to house the mental torture Tom endured inside its
walls.
She led me around to the back entrance and unlocked the
door while I took in the detached garage, the remains of a raised garden, how
close the neighbor’s houses were, and a forlorn canoe peeking
from behind the garage. The canoe was mostly encased in wild ivy and vines and
I recall thinking that I hope he’d used it sometime before he died and smiled while he paddled.
When C (not gonna use her whole name here to respect her
story) opened the door, I was struck by a wave of scent: shag carpet, furniture
polish, and that unique smell that places seem to acquire when they aren’t
occupied. Brown and tan shag-ish carpet lead up a single step and into the open den.
But, I couldn’t see that yet.
My eyes were riveted on the rail that divided the
entrance from the stairway to the basement immediately to my left. A set of
carpet-covered stairs descended sharply into a basement that was inky black
from my vantage point. That railing was the spot that Tom took his last breath.
The place he closed his eyes and said “yes, now”.
I was frozen. I couldn’t breathe. I had more
love and empathy for him in that moment than in any of the time I knew him
before. As C was inviting me in and talking about all she’d done in the house
to make it “workable” for us – I just keep seeing Tom get up from his sofa,
take his rope (Or was it a tie? Or a ripped sheets?) in his hand and walk to
the banister. Had he measured the distance? Had he pulled on the bars before to
make sure they’d hold him? Did he
clamber to the top of the banister and jump?
Did he stand on a chair and kick it from under him? Did he find a way to
do a slow hang so he drifted into a blissful everlasting peace? I didn’t want to think this way. I didn’t
want to gorify his death but I couldn’t stop.
I pictured what it looked like when the son of a friend found him. I saw him walking in and out of his house for 20 years, glancing at the railing and the staircase and wondered how many time, how long he'd looked longingly at that space and decided "maybe tomorrow." I stood outside of myself and absorbed what this place had been to him and felt some gratitude that he was somewhere he felt comfortable and safe on the last night of his life.
After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled my eyes up and
focused on C’s endless conversation. She was explaining the state of the house when
she’d come in after Tom’s death. The piles, the chaos, the lack of care and
cleaning. I blinked and began to take in the room. It was painfully normal,
neat and well appointed. Tom apparently loved arts-and-crafts. Who knew? His
furniture, his color scheme, his décor were all well put together and could
have fit into almost any home. Forest green, mauve, and browns flowed throughout the whole room. C started
pointing out glazed tiles that Tom collected, a piece of furniture
that had been his grandfather’s and other treasures Tom had painstakingly collected over the years. This told
me more about my brother-in-law in 10 minutes than I’d known in a lifetime. Let
that sink in for a moment. He had to die for me to know him.
I’m going to end this for now. There is so much to tell in one post. I am working to find the parts most relevant. If that’s
possible. In the two weeks I stayed at Tom’s, I discovered he LOVED books – had
close to 1,000 on shelves and boxes, that he never threw anything away –
including the remnants of a love story that played out in 1988, that he had
been battling mental illness since he was 17 and had documented the journey endlessly
along the way and finally that he had DREAMS – big audacious amazing dreams and
he had pages and pages of planning written about how to take the leap and
fulfill his dreams. But he never did. It’s as though he was walking forward,
toward them, doing everything right but when the time came to take that last
step and “do” he lifted his let, reached for the next space but could not put
his foot down again. That is what I will write about in my next post: the space
between doing all the preparing and starting the work. I can clearly see myself
in that. My own “stuck” and Tom helped me see that clearly.
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