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I Wish I Didn't Know Now What I Didn't Know Then

by Steve Leibowitz

It was exactly six years ago, this September since my son David, then twenty-two committed suicide. In these six years I have learned a great deal. I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.

Some say that we agreed to our life experiences before we were born. Some say that life is a school and we registered to learn the very lessons we are now learning. I say, What are they talking about? I agreed to this life, knowing that I would be the parent of a suicide?

Some of what I have learned is what every bereaved parent must eventually learn. That we must “retroactively” agree to living the life of a bereaved parent. The alternative is death, real and spiritual. And I have learned that the real is spiritual and the spiritual is real.

At first, the sound of saxophone music in an elevator drove me off before my floor. The sound of eighties music when put on “hold” made me hang up. My son played the saxophone. His music was of the eighties. Visions come back to me of him in his high school band uniform, marching and playing the baritone sax. I remember David in the white sport coat playing at his own graduation. The sound of a sax brings back those same images. But I no longer cry in elevators. When I hear a saxophone riff, I imagine David is playing for me, his father, one more time.

The first anniversaries were bad. I knew they would be. The first Thanksgiving with an empty chair. The birthday anniversary with nowhere to call to wish Davis, “Happy Birthday.” The first Mother’s Day and Father’s Day spent at his grave. And of course, the first death anniversary. I knew these would be hard. What I didn’t know then was that the second anniversaries would be much harder. The first time I had grid myself for the worst. I didn’t know that the first year I was protected by a kind of lingering shock. It was a nightmare, but it wasn’t “real.” The second year it became “real.” The finality of David’s death crept into my bones. I learned that David is never coming back. I wasn’t prepared for my birthdays – his father getting older while his son does not. And his younger sister, now older than he.

I wish I didn’t know of this kind of pain. I wish I never had these experiences.

I met a man whose only son was murdered. The man happened to be an orthodox Jew. I was curious as a fellow bereaved parent, what did this do to his faith? He said he was angry with God but still kept up his religious practice. I expected the first part of his answer but not the second part. “You believe that God allowed your infant son to be murdered – and you still pray to him?” “Yes, I am very angry with him. I ask, why my son?” “Why,” I asked, “do you still do the rituals and pray to a God that would let this happen?” “Because the prayers and rituals are healing for me,” he answered. I pointed out the inconsistency in his thinking. He agreed that it was inconsistent. I, too, now know this inconsistency. I have learned that the human mind can live contradictory thoughts if it helps escape great pain. This is, however, an education not worth the tuition.
Once I thought my pain must be the greatest pain ever experienced. After hearing other stories of other deaths of other children from other parents, I have learned not to try to compare my pain with others. It is not the cause of death that causes the pain. It is love with nowhere to go.

I know how to blow off steam. I gather bottles from the back alleys behind pubs and restaurants.. I collect old dishes at garage sales. I bring them to the sanitary landfill where I smash them against rocks. I howl and curse the doctor’s who didn’t help David. I learned to wear safety glasses as the pieces fly back into my face.

I know places to go where they don’t notice you cry. Like swimming pools. They think it is the chlorine that makes your eyes red.

I know where you can scream and no one will pay attention – in your car with the windows rolled up.

I know what to say to newly bereaved parents – nothing. They don’t really want to hear your assurances, “You’ll eventually get over it.” They don’t want to get over it. It sounds like “You’ll forget.” They just want you to listen while they tell their Story for the hundredth time. They want a compassionate ear, someone who understands, who has “been there.” I qualify. I wish I didn’t.

I know what irony is. A son of one of David’s psychiatrists suicide, one year after David. Jessica’s former college roommate jumped off a bridge one day after David jumped off a building.

I know what it is to go to your first TCF (The Compassionate Friends) meeting. Your knees shake, you have a feeling you are sinking into the Pit of Hell. Why did David make me join this club? I feel I must go. He already paid my “dues” for a lifetime membership. I hate to be qualified to go, but I am glad there is a place to go.

I hear a mother complain that she lost her “favorite child.” I know what it is like to have your surviving child say, “I couldn’t compete with David when he was alive. I can never compete with him not that he is dead.” And “I never want to be an only child.”

I know employers who give 6 weeks off for hernia operations but only 3 days for the loss of a child. I know a man who lost his wife and three daughters, his whole family, in one single automobile accident. I wish I never heard these stories.

“Depression” is such a deceptive word. It sounds harmless, like a dip in a road or “having a bad day.” But I know now that depression can kill. Depression, untreated, can be fatal. I didn’t know that before.

I know that you can’t trust doctors, hospitals, insurance companies or lawyers. Sure, you may have heard this before. But real knowledge comes from experience. In this case, from experiences you could easily do without. If the death of your child involves anything to do with our legal system, I can assure you a trail is not a healing experience.

I know that some bereaved parents must wear out their Story. They first will wear out their friends, then their family, finally, even their psychiatrist will tell them “enough is enough.” However, I know that it isn’t enough until the Story is worn out. The death of a child is often so traumatic that it doesn’t sink in. The mind must drive the mouth to tell the Story to everyone you meet, to anyone who will listen, until, like a worn out old phonograph record, it won’t play anymore.

I have learned that well-meaning friends and family and even clergy will say the damndest things. They say “God called your child back to be with Him. (As if a bereaved parent wants to give up his child to Anybody.) Or,  “This will make you a more compassionate person.” (The devils take compassion! I’d rather have my son back.)

Suicide was never a topic of conversation in our house. Not that we were afraid of the topic. It just never came up. Except maybe in a joke. Or in a movie plot. Now it has seeped into every aspect of my life. David forced it into my life. “If the pain is too much, you can always check out.” Now every day is a conscious choice to live.

I have learned that life is precious and fragile. I must live each moment. This is, of course, one of the most valuable lessons in life. But why couldn’t I have learned this lesson through wisdom instead of through pain? David paid with his life so that his mother, father, and sister could learn these lessons. If we reject his lessons, we reject the “gifts.” If I don’t find meaning in his death, his death is meaningless. So I accept this evil and this pain because it has led to the Path and I am grateful.

Still, I wish I could go back to those innocent days on the beach, when I didn’t know what I know now, so I am could have one more game of chess with my son.

And he could win again – and smile.