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A Shot in the Dark

11/1/2015

45 Comments

 
Picture
Before the madness... at a Fourth of July picnic in 1999.
(A note: not my usual sort of post, the original version of this essay spilled out of me in about one hour a few years back.  The shattering event detailed here happened on November 10, 1999, and continues to profoundly impact both my daughter and myself in a myriad of ways.)
 
Sometimes it all seems like yesterday, but no, it has instead been well over a decade ago.
 
In fact, it has been 16 years since The Awful Knock.
 
 It was 4:19 in the morning and my heart was pounding as I listened to the fist on my front door—banging, unrelenting, and as you’ll soon see, inevitable.  The house, just steps from trendy Fairfax Avenue, is what Hollywood realtors like to call cozy, just a little bungalow really, and I started praying please, please, please don’t let the baby wake up. 
 
Oh, and one more thing: my partner, my love, was not there comforting me.  Indeed, he wasn’t there at all.  Do you want to know why?
 
Well then.  I was the woman who had been keeping a secret—this wonderful man who had swept me off my feet so many years before had now morphed into someone I barely recognized.  This new and very scary person had terrifying mood changes, often with barely a glimmer of advance notice.  At best, they left me unsettled and at worst, saw me literally running for cover. 
 
Once he smashed a rocking chair against our living room wall, just inches from the baby’s head.  Another time, it was an industrial sized flashlight, but that was on another wall and the baby was playing in a different room.  Then there was the afternoon he told me that life really wasn’t painful at all—words said as he placed a knife on the baby’s tongue. 
 
There were times, too, when everything turned topsy-turvy: he would isolate himself inside the garage for hours, weeping inconsolably, writing notes about what sort of poison he should take.  Yet over and over again, he swore he would never, could never, hurt me or the baby, whom he said he loved more than I could ever imagine.
 
 He also said he hated himself more than I could ever imagine.
 
The night of The Awful Knock, he had left home several hours earlier after an argument so dumb I can’t even remember what it was about.  But he had gently closed the front door behind him, leaving his wallet in plain view.
 
Now, opening the door, I saw a woman in uniform, but she wasn’t a sheriff’s deputy from our West Hollywood station.  She didn’t appear to be wearing an LAPD uniform either.  Somehow, I already knew who she was before she quietly announced that she worked for the county coroner’s office.  I can’t describe it any other way: my voice instantly left my body. 
 
I waited what seemed like a long time but was really only a moment.  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I said, more of a statement than a question. 
 
“Yes,” she said softly.  “I am so sorry.” 
 
The man who had just shot a bullet into his right temple would leave an irrevocable void.
 
Once, he had been my best friend, my playmate, and my biggest fan.  He was also really funny, so much smarter than he thought, and an engaging storyteller.  I knew I wanted to know him better after he came over to replace an appliance part, just a few weeks after we had met.  We had been quietly sitting and talking on my kitchen floor when my almost-always-persnickety cat sidled into the room.  Giving him one look, she then laid on her back next to him, flirty, all paws aloft, purring loudly. 
 
His favorite word was “fun”—as in, “What should we do this weekend that will be the most fun?” So, he took me to the very best place to fly a kite in Los Angeles County—he had thoroughly researched it years before.  Then there were those starry nights in an abandoned miner’s cabin overlooking Death Valley, first pushing boulders out of the road with bare hands in order to make it in.  We also walked through Hollywood in the dead of night—but literally underground, strolling for miles through the newly built sewer line he had discovered after he had stumbled upon an open manhole.  One evening, he was astounded to learn I’d never tasted a quince, much less heard of one.  “We are going out now and I am going to teach you how to buy the perfect quince!” he announced. 
 
And with his flickering turquoise eyes, lean frame and polite “Nice to meet you Ma’am” smile, he was also—my own mother breathlessly whispered this in my ear upon meeting him—movie star handsome. And yes, there were times, a lot of times, when he was a remarkable father.  I still have the snapshots and the sweet notes to prove it.  In fact, while I teasingly called him “The Best Man in the Land,” I meant every word.
 
But my good fortune ran out when his happy moods became bitter and self-loathing. 
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He hated his work, he hated his friends, and he hated his life.  Our much-wanted baby could bring him out of his reverie, but only for snatched moments.  One night he kneeled beside her crib for hours, watching her dream, wondering out loud if she would remember him. 
 
No one really knew how to help. 
 
When I finally suggested seeing a doctor, perhaps taking medication—after all, what about those miracle drugs?—his refusals were loud, defiant and adamant.  He could take care of himself, he said.  Much, much later, I found out just how he had: buying pills from street sources and then washing them down with cheap alcohol.
 
He never did it to get high—only to stay even and only to anesthetize the pain.
 
Afterwards, during those awful first few months, the baby saved my life. 
 
Of course, all I really wanted to do was stay curled up in bed, but every parent to a toddler knows this isn’t an option.  I also felt guilty that I had not done enough and guilty, too, because I was so angry at him for leaving me.  There were even days, but mostly nights, when I wanted to join him because I loved him that much.  I made my living working in network television, but having that sort of responsibility – the ability to function on a daily basis—was now out of the question. 
 
Thankfully, most of the time I felt as numb and frozen as an ice cube, and glad of it.
 
Eventually, I figured out why he had left his wallet on the table when he said goodbye. 
 
Inside a secret compartment were five pictures he had laminated of the baby, ones he had never shown me.  I knew, knew, he would never have been able to kill himself that night if he had looked at any of those images, even for a moment.  At the memorial service, his ex-wife provided another revelation: his love for our child and for me, she said, had kept him alive.  Years ago, she added, he had talked to her about killing himself.
 
 There were other surprises. 
 
Until his death, I had no idea that one in five people who seek no treatment for their depression commit suicide.  This seems like an astounding number.  I was also stunned by the sheer numbers of those whose lives are touched—derailed is a better word—by suicide.  A mom in my daughter’s playgroup told me her father had killed himself.  My realtor told me his grandmother had done the same.  A friend told me about her high school boyfriend, and another friend told me about a business colleague. 
 
Yet so often, these deaths go unspoken. 
 
Why?  Is it shame?  Maybe.  Is it because it is unthinkable for someone to do away with himself in one fell swoop?  Maybe.  Is it because survivors believe there is a black mark against them?  Maybe. 
 
I do know, for a very long time, whenever a stranger asked, it was easier to say he had died in a car accident.  I also learned that when I told the truth, there was only silence.  No one really knows what to say, although one man told me he should have eaten peanuts—after all, he said, they cure depression. How does one respond to a well-meaning idiot?
 
Nearly three years after his passing—years in which I faithfully went to weekly counseling and years that I now barely remember—my daughter and I moved to a new house.  The town was also new and several hundred miles away.  Then I relocated again after marrying a man who, immediately after proposing, asked if he could have the honor of adopting my daughter. 
 
It is a clean and happy and loving slate, and I have certainly moved on in so many ways. And here, settled in a place my long ago love never visited, never even knew about, there is not even the tiniest reminder of him. 
 
I like it this way. 
 
So now I have finally decided to do something else. 
 
I am coming out of hiding.  I am going to tell the truth.  I will tell everyone who asks that he loved life so much, that he loved me so much, and oh, how he loved our child to the point of giddiness.
 
And I will then tell them this: he was depressed and he refused help. He got worse and worse, letting no one in. And then, mindfully and purposefully, he killed himself. 
 
Finally, I will tell them that I did the best I could. 
 
It has taken many, many years since The Awful Knock, but I now know this, too:  his suicide had everything to do with him and nothing to do with me. 
 
My only part was that I loved him.
      
45 Comments
Ron Jarvis
11/1/2015 01:33:13 pm

<sigh> Thank you for sharing your very intimate history. I know the value of sharing personal loss and tragedy and also how difficult it is for people to absorb something so personal and painful. This is a valuable story not only for the cathartic nature, but it may also spur just one person to seek treatment for depression issues. Depression is not something to carry around inside, alone.

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Hilary
11/1/2015 01:46:33 pm

Yes, I hope this will help others, and not just those suffering from untreated depression... those who are left behind need to know that guilt should not be part of their vocabulary. Erasing that word from my experience took a *very* long time.

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Jerry Lazar link
11/1/2015 02:53:49 pm

Heartbreaking... One of the great mysteries of suicide is that it's obviously not always preventable, despite the best of intentions and efforts... Though I'm sure these memories are still painful, glad that you've been able to will yourself to rise above and beyond it ... Onward!...

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Hilary
11/1/2015 03:11:44 pm

THANK YOU for recognizing one of the primary points of the piece. I've learned that if someone wants to take his/her life--which is very different than someone crying out for help--there's not much that can be done. Remember Family Feud hot Ray Combs? He actually took his life while IN the psych ward on a suicide watch. http://articles.latimes.com/1996-07-16/local/me-24578_1_game-show-host-ray-combs

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Hilary
11/1/2015 03:12:43 pm

Oops... that's HOST Ray Combs. Typing too fast! :)

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Kari
11/1/2015 03:40:24 pm

Very beautifully written and painful too. Hilary, he was clearly troubled and it was sad he could not seek the help he so desperately needed. I am sorry for your pain. I understand it at the same time. My half brother committed suicide in 2011 and I had a cousin I was close to who committed suicide in 1994. My brother had bipolar and it tore apart his family. A few short years before my half brother killed himself, my half sister did too and she was also bipolar. They both were off their medication at the time the died. Their problems stemmed from our mother that we share and her troubles that ultimately took her life in a drunk driving accident. Anyway, we have no shame in any of that. We loved them, they loved us and we as a community need to talk about this so hopefully we can help others in the future.

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Hilary
11/1/2015 04:18:07 pm

Ahhhh, you get, it. Too. Thank you. There is no shame in doing the best we could do. I believe that my partner was also bi-polar, with a lot of parental issues not making it any better YEARS before I came on the scene. His mother never really got over the death for a lot of reasons. He was her only child, but she also married someone when he was seven years old (not the biological father) who treated him like the idiot he NEVER was. That caused infinite pain... but she stayed with him. She was VERY financially stable (her father developed a good portion of Laurel Canyon), but she obviously had a need to stay with a jerk, who essentially sold her son down the river. Life.

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George
11/1/2015 03:42:03 pm

This certainly must have been your hardest essay to write Hilary; in my opinion it is also your best. It is not something we like to think about. I have known several people who have committed suicide but no one so close. Devastating is the only word that I can think of to say.
You are a survivor of the most devastating experience. It takes great courage to speak of it.

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Hilary
11/1/2015 04:12:00 pm

Speaking of suicide shines light on it. And that, I think, is A Very Good Thing.

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Cynthia link
11/1/2015 04:15:56 pm

Thanx Hilary for your bravery. I have a lump in my throat and it includes thankfulness for your vulnerability which touches the heart and for your resilience and ability to move forward and recognize your part as different from your ex-spouse. That's hard AND vital! Hugs!

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Hilary
11/1/2015 04:48:56 pm

Thank you. All of the stuff you mention took a very long time for me to process, even with support. But... I am still here! :)

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Bev Praver link
11/1/2015 05:05:23 pm

I glad you are now able to write about this. I think it helps you and also others. Jerry's sister-in-law took her own life as did her father ( he was 92 and in failing health) and her son ( he was only 30) a year after his mother died. I don't think it was a case of being bipolar but of depression. We learned also that there was little we could have done to prevent anyone who was determined to take their own life. The first thought is always "If I had only....." but the reality is it wouldn't have made a difference. I'm glad you and Larry found each other.

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Hilary
11/1/2015 05:36:24 pm

You have proven another point I have learned: once you mention the "S," word, *everyone* has had some experience with it... if not a relative, a good friend. And yes, those who haven't been touched by suicide need to know that there is little, and often nothing, that can be done if the person is determined to do the deed.

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kerri
11/1/2015 07:36:13 pm

That is an extremely incredible story. What you went through- wow. I am absolutely amazed. You are so brave and strong, to have not only gone through this but to have become a happy and successful mother, wife and friend in spite (or maybe as a result of) what you survived. Thank you for sharing your inspirational and informative story.

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Hilary
11/1/2015 08:30:12 pm

It goes like it goes like it goes. It's amazing the fortitude we can muster up when life throws us curves... even the major ones. Having said that, I have fears that I would never would have had previous to this. I check my husband's breathing at night, and he knows to let me know where he is if plans for his day change. He also will NEVER just go off and leave, even if we've had a tiff. Otherwise, I start to completely freak out. Katie also has her mechanisms as a way to compensate for the suicide.

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Kevin Fagan link
11/1/2015 08:37:02 pm

Sigh. It's been good seeing you get beyond this painful period with a lot of work and love and dedication, Hilary. You are so not alone - I know many, at this point in my life, who have taken their lives in fits of mental illness and booze or drugs. It wasn't them killing themselves. It was the illness. The goodness was still there. But it was the illness. You've done exactly the right thing by building such a wonderful life for yourself.

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Hilary
11/2/2015 07:47:57 am

Describing that period as "a fit" is accurate. He was able to keep his demons in check for YEARS... until he couldn't. There are those who may have a hard time understanding the goodness, but I get it. And I always will.

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Stephanie
11/2/2015 05:15:07 am

This is such a tragic story Hilary and I'm so sorry for your experience and your loss.

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Hilary
11/2/2015 07:48:54 am

It's a tough month but... it's also my birthday month! Hoping to be in touch with you very, very soon. :)

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leslie spoon
11/2/2015 09:16:48 am

Hilary That was painful to read. I remember when you moved back here after my husband died and you sent me the original essay. I was really touched by it. My heart goes out to him. I hope that he has found some peace. Thank God you had Katie to help get you through this. My parrot kept me going.

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Hilary
11/2/2015 04:49:51 pm

Thanks, Leslie. My journey toward healing would have taken much longer without Katie by my side. I know you feel the same about Tiki!

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Jamie
11/2/2015 11:03:11 am

I had no idea about your history and this life shattering story. Thank you for having the courage and selflessness to share this. I am sure it will help someone who might have experienced the same thing or something similar. So grateful that you know it wasn't your fault and also that you can still remember the loveliness of the man and the good times that did happen. I am sorry that you had to go through this. Your life has been a blessing to many, and will continue to be so. Thank you!

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Hilary
11/2/2015 04:48:44 pm

Thank you, Jamie. There were many good times.... as I said in the piece, I still have the notes and photos to prove it. Mental illness is just so devastating, not only to the victim, but to all of those around him/her who often can only stand on the sidelines.

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Cathy
11/2/2015 12:00:34 pm

What a life changing experience. You probably didn't even realize that you were being abused and your daughter too! The good covered up the bad days. I saw this happen with my brother-in-law who started with drugs to cover up pain then added alcohol. It never fixed the problem, only made it worse. He couldn't hold down a job to support his family, everything he tried he failed in or was fired. I knew in my heart he would never see the age of 30. The family tried to help in many ways, but my prerdictions came true one day when the phone call came that he hug himself in a stairwell at a half way house at the age of 30. Left his young wife and 2 small children on welfare. His oldest daughter was born with a blindness disorder probably caused from the drug addictions both him and his wife had before she was pregnant. They experimented with many types of drugs during their teen years and beyond. Now she has recovered and is a Therapist helping recovering addicts. Thank God!

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Hilary
11/2/2015 04:53:34 pm

Wow, what a devastating story. Thank you so much for sharing. Again, as with other responses to comments in this thread, your story tells me how often suicide touches those around us. It is much more common, I think, than we think it is... mainly because it's not in our faces in terms of the media. The best part of your story: the wife left behind is now using her experiences as a recovering addict, and a survivor, to help others. THAT put a smile on my face! :)

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Patti
11/3/2015 03:03:18 am

Beautifully written, yet so very hard to read. I remember that terrible morning as if it were yesterday. I am so grateful you had the strength needed to get through it. I have always treasured your friendship.

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Hilary
11/3/2015 07:00:03 am

I would have made it with Katie, but probably would have stumbled a LOT more without a support system in place. You, for course, were a linchpin there. xo

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Kim
11/4/2015 08:25:47 pm

Hilary, wow. What a story!! What you have endured is beyond imaginable. You are inspirational and one of the bravest people I know!! Depression and mental illness is something that needs to be in the light, to be talked about. Thank you for sharing!!!

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Hilary
11/4/2015 08:54:47 pm

Thank you back. And YES, it's time to shine the light AND talk.

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Rebecca
11/8/2015 08:35:07 pm

A terrible time for you I know, but how helpful to share with others. I read the other day that 1 in 4 people will be touched by mental illness. We should not hide these things in shame.

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Hilary
11/8/2015 08:51:09 pm

Yes, it's high time to bring suicide out into the LIGHT. Thank you. :)

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Susan Jordan
11/9/2015 10:26:51 pm

Hilary, you are very brave to talk about it and not hide it. My family and circle of friends have been touched directly by suicide too. It's a pain you never recover from, but learn to carry instead. I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm also glad you found new happiness. (((Hilary)))

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Hilary
11/10/2015 03:39:50 pm

Agree with all of the above! There is, indeed, no real 100 percent recovery from the pain. It is still with me, and always will be, although I have moved on (literally and figuratively) in so many ways.

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Andrea
3/7/2018 09:05:35 pm

Wow, this is a heart-wrenching story, Hilary. I am sorry for that time of pain and your inevitable loss. One thing is definitely true--this pain of his had nothing to do with you.

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Hilary
3/7/2018 10:53:41 pm

It was absolutely inevitable for a number of reasons. One of these days, we'll meet for coffee and I can tell you a lot more. I still have a lot of his little love notes and the pictures of Katie and him together will make your heart melt. Nothing is EVER just black and white. Ever.

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Mary Catt
3/8/2018 06:49:54 pm

Hilary, you are a remarkable person. To have survived and truly thrived after this loss is inspiring. Thank you.

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Hilary
3/8/2018 08:18:55 pm

Every one of us has our stuff. This November will be 19 years, and it is always there. Always.

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Susan Stewart
11/12/2019 09:44:20 am

Hilary: I was riveted. I knew about Casey of course, but not these details. I am profoundly moved by this piece, for its honesty, its courage, its lessons, and the amazing work you did to reach a place where real clarity about his death and your part (only that you loved him!) could be felt. The peace and beauty of your life with Larry, now in lovely Grant's Pass, has been so hard-won ... and therefore that much more precious. And "the baby" -- what a beautiful woman she has become because of the mother you are. We should all be so lucky.

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Hilary A Grant
11/13/2019 04:49:25 pm

Thank you. :)

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Andy Isbister
11/12/2019 07:45:37 pm

Oh my sweet friend, I am so very sorry for the tragedy you and your daughter endured, but I rejoice in the lives you have now. Thank you for sharing! My brother died by his own hand as well, and my parents could never tell the truth about it, saying he had a heart attack. He had every avenue for help and hope, but wasn’t honest. I applaud your courage. Thank you. My love to you and your family.

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Hilary A Grant
11/13/2019 04:54:37 pm

Thank you. Mental illness is a tricky and scary thing--both for the person who is suffering, and those around that person, who love that person but are helpless to do much of anything. Luckily, I think that suicide is being talked about more than it used to be. And that is A Very Good Thing. :)

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Jan Lethers
1/30/2022 10:55:44 am

I am at a loss for words after reading this. I am so impressed by your strength and perseverance. For all this to happen with a new baby at home is unimaginable and the dawning realization of the need to take care of everything must have been overwhelming. When partners have a profound personality change often others cannot grasp what is going on and one feels helpless to try and explain it. It takes great courage to be honest with others because often, in our culture women can feel blamed and responsible in some weird way. I had one friend who kept insisting I take my spouse for a brain scan to rule out a tumor. That would have been great but I and my son were not safe in the car with him! And, as you know one has to muster all possible resources; internal and external to take care of the child you had longed for for so long. And sometimes getting out of bed to care for that child is all you can do. Suicide is a very misunderstood event because people don’t like to discuss it. We don’t understand it as it seems to contradict that strong survival instinct. And to hold both those emotions of strong sadness and anger is difficult. Suicide is extremely underreported as mental health issues are not something our culture deals with well. It doesn’t go well with the American “pull yourself up by your bootstraps “ mentality.
Even before the pandemic the suicide rate was rising fast due to “deaths of despair “.
When I was working as a therapist I had a client suicide and felt terrible and responsible. That is until a colleague said with empathy “ is this your FIRST suicide?”
Sharing these events is a gift to all of us. It makes us stronger as a culture when we can acknowledge our tragedies and get support from others instead of dealing with everything on our own. You have provided the role model of a strong , resilient woman for your cherished daughter. Again, what a gift!
Finally I am happy to hear your amazing, wonderful adventures with your husband . I do believe his loving energy is with you and your daughter.
I am glad to know you!

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Hilary Grant
1/30/2022 11:22:25 am

Suicide remains misunderstood. I still remember someone in the bereavement group I was in, whose wife had passed from cancer, said of Casey, "Well, he had a choice, My wife didn't." I completely disagree. As much as he loved Katie and me, his life had become so full of unmanageable pain that he could no longer bear it. He took his life to be out of the pain, not to leave.

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Jan Lethers
1/30/2022 04:38:34 pm

That comment in your bereavement group is unbelievable. I hope someone was able to educate him about suicide. They do not have a choice as they are in terrible pain and have no hope for relief. When people are grieving they can say things they might not normally. But said or unsaid that was that man’s true feelings.

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Hilary Grant
1/30/2022 05:13:52 pm

Well, he was a dick anyway! :)

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    Hilary Roberts Grant

    Journalist, editor, filmmaker, foodie--and a clown! 
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