Beyond the Pain

A knock sounded at the door. Like a starved woodpecker. Like a hestitant Jehovah’s Witness.

I limped to the door. Peeked through the spy hole. I saw two women. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses. But they weren’t carrying satchels. Or, huge purses.

I opened the door. Two brunettes. One about five two. The other five six. One medium. The other smaller. The medium one spoke, “Hi. My name is Nancy. This is my boss Fay. We’re here from Alberta Health. We’re following up on your hospital visit. Can we come in?”

I thought for a second. I could use the company. I had gone from a very busy hospital unit, with frequent visitors, to my empty apartment. I said, “sure”.

I stepped back from the door. Into my tiny galley kitchen.

“The living room is to your left. Please have a seat on the sofa.”

I closed the apartment door. I limped into the living room. I pulled a wooden, folding chair out from its place, tucked under the matching, wooden table. I unfolded the chair. Put it down on the rug. Across from the two women on the sofa.

The one called Nancy said, “The Social Worker from Unit 59 contacted us. Florence said you might like some assistance.”

“What kind of assistance?” I said.

“Help with getting to appointments like your doctor. To the bank. Things like that.” Nancy said.

“Oh. Thanks. Is this going to cost anything? Cause I don’t have a lot of money.”

“No. It’s a free service for patients who need it.”

“Let’s make our first appointment. We’ll go for coffee and you can get out of the apartment. And, you can get to know me better. And, ask any questions you may have at the time.”

“Okay.”

“Are you available at nine thirty, October twenty eighth?”

“I’m available pretty much any time.”

“So, yes. It’s a date.” I wrote the appointment on a wall calendar.

“Do you have any other questions?” Nancy asked.

“Nope.”

“Okay. I will see you on the twenty eighth.”

Nancy and Fay got up from the sofa. Walked to the apartment door.

I followed them to the door. Let them out.

Nancy turned and said, “See you on the twenty eighth.”

“Sure. See you then.” I said.

But I was to hear from Nancy long before the twenty eighth.

I still remember the strangeness of listening to the theme from M*A*S*H (the movie) in the darkness of the huge cinema on Calgary’s 16th Avenue. It was the Summer of 1970 and I must have watched it with my ex-wife but I don’t remember her presence. I sat, as if alone, in the dark struck by the strangeness of the opening scenes. The choppers dropping their loads of battered, bloody bodies; all overlain with the hauntingly beautiful but strange contradiction of the theme song.

It was my first exposure to “gallows humour”, the absolutely dark, dismal, strange, black humour that has come to mark the conversations of surgeons in TV series like “ER”, “Grey’s Anatomy”, and “Saving Hope”. Gallows Humour is used to “distance” the medical professional from his/her patient, in an attempt to be objective. I suppose if they weren’t objective the might feel too much, and might go crazy, or worse yet … well … er … attempt to kill themselves.”

The theme song from M*A*S*H, Suicide Is Painless, is a fitting start to this post. I have recently thought a lot about “self murder” given the death of Robin Williams. I knew it would happen. I don’t mind the tributes for he was a comic genuis. Like Joan Rivers he was able to tranform his pain into humour — in itself a kind of visit to the dark side.

But, I resent the attempts of what I call Rag Mags, you know them, to captilize on Robin’s death by endlessly speculating about the “secrets of his last hours” or “he could have been saved.” BULL SHIT!

No one, sometimes even the person who attempts suicide, knows what goes through the mind of the attempter of self murder. No one!

The family, the doctors, the psychologists, the psychiatrists, the other sucidology experts can speculate as to the causes and what was going through the mind of the person attempting (and often suceeding) suicide. But it is just speculation and OFTEN a very painful, emotionally exhausting search for answers that just are not available and will never, ever be available.

Yet why the hell am I writing this post about a subject that many simply don’t want to talk about?

A good god damn question.

Because I seem to be compelled to talk about the S-word, Suicide. Because, you see, I have attempted to kill myself no less than SIX times.

Yes, folks, countem SIX.

Obviously I never succeeded. But, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I have been often asked, “Were you serious?”

To which question I often reply, “Yes. I was deadly serious.”

Even my first attempt, which is marked by the hesitation scars of an attempt to slash my left wrist, was deadly serious. And, subsequent attempts were increasingly deadly.

Who is to blame?

I don’t like to play the blame game. I try to think about who is responsible. I am going to say something that some might find provocative.

The person who is most responsible is the person who attempts and/or suceeds at sucide.

In my next post, I will tell you why I think that.