Sunday, December 19, 2004
Passed Future
I don't know why I try to avoid thinking about it; buys me about one day of peace, and there it is, back in my face.
On December 18, 1977, my 19-year old brother Mark was sitting in a chair at the house he was renting with some friends. It was 6:38 A.M. As the last song on the cassette "I Robot" by Alan Parsons ended, he said goodbye to the drunken roomie who was trying desperately to talk him out of it, put the barrel of a 20-gauge shotgun against his forehead, and, using a miniatue baseball bat he'd named "Sting" in honor of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins' elven sword, he pushed the trigger. There would be no open casket funeral. The top of his head from just behind his eyes was mostly gone, small bits slammed against the wall behind him in an enormous spray.
His body relaxed, the shotgun fell to the floor, and he slumped back in the chair, the last beats of his heart spraying more blood against the wall.
The other roomie, passed out in his room, came out, saw the carnage, said, "Oh Jesus help me" and went to the bathroom to vomit.
The one who was there simple sat, lost in shock. He couldn't talk. He couldn't move. Roomie #2, upon discovering this, called the police and began working on #1, trying to get him coherent and functional. There was no helping Mark. He was gone.
Mark and I had long ago learned to code any written messages between us so no one else could understand them. The cops came by my folks', woke them up, told them Mark was dead, how he died, and said they suspected drugs were involved since the suicide notes seemed incoherent.
Dad called me. Mark was living on Cocoa Beach, the oceanfront island, my folks were in Merritt Island, surrounded by saltwater rivers on both sides, and I lived in Cocoa, Florida, on the mainland. He wouldn't tell me what was the matter, just get over there as fast as I could. Had there been any cops around, I'd not have got there at all. I spent much of the drive going 140 miles an hour in my big 1969 Dodge Charger. Also fortunate was, it was too early for most church services, so the road was nearly empty. I knew it was Mark, and I knew it was bad.
Dad couldn't even stop himself. He immediately blurted "Mark's dead. He killed himself with a shotgun this morning." Well, no sense batting it around, I suppose. Both parents said I turned white, and dropped on the couch. I didn't black out, I was just...stunned. I think I stayed in a kind of shock for the next six years. Dad made the cops come back with the notes Mark had left. They had blood and brain spatters on them. The second I saw them I got angry at the cops. "These aren't incoherent. They're written to me in code so you won't understand them." I translated them into what he said, which was a demand that I personally deliver the Eulogy at his funeral, and that no minister from the church we'd attended and hated was allowed to be there. I flexed the rules. I let my folks' minister sit with them, I just wouldn't let him speak. I had to DO something with myself, so I called my roommate to come get me, drive me around to notify some people, including his sister, whom my brother had been having a stormy relationship with that led to his killing himself.
There was a lot of pain and a lot of questions to ask and answer. I'm not going to rehash the whole thing. I had to perform the funeral services twice, once here and once in Yale, Oklahoma, where Mark was buried at his beloved Grandfather's feet. I did my crying in private.
My parents were in the middle of fulfilling a lifelong dream. They'd bought some land, got financing, and were building a house further north on the island. They nearly cancelled it all. They had to go into debt to fly my brother's body back west, pay for all the arrangements, casket, burial, etc. They, too, were in a sort of shock that would stick with them the rest of their lives.
I became an expert on suicide after that. Studied everything I could get my hands on, talked to people who'd tried and failed, to the families of some who hadn't failed.
Suicide is bad news. Not to the one killing themselves. They're solving all their problems in this life. Christians and non-Christians alike believe they're gaining a whole NEW set for later, but we don't know all the details of what happens next. I assume we'll find out when we die. No, the people who get trashed are the ones who love you. You may not always feel appreciated enough, loved enough, get enough attention. But this ain't the way. You ARE going to hurt someone, and hurt them deeply. Maybe a lot of people. Mark had graduated high school the year before. A LOT of girls and a few boys showed up for the funeral. There was a lot of crying going on. I'd not seen my father cry since his father died. This nearly broke him. Some dipwad pseudo-Christian asked Dad after the services how he handled knowing Mark was going to hell. Dad said he didn't know that Mark was going, since he wasn't a born-again Christian.
His beliefs were slightly different.
It's best I heard about that conversation later. I'd have killed the guy. Crush his larynx, throw him in the nearest unoccupied grave, and pissed on him. I was a little extreme back then.
Twenty-seven years later, I'm watching Titus, the comedian, doing his stand-up routine, and he is discussing his mother's suicide, then giving advice to others. "Take a minute," he advises,"put the gun down, just for a minute. Take a deep breath. Then put the gun away, climb down off that cross you put yourself on, and use the wood to make a bridge. Then get over it."
Fine, fine advice, Mr. Titus. I salute you.
Watched "Extreme Home Makeover" tonight on TV. Best show on TV right now, far superior to these asinine reality shows. So is the makeover show for people with deformities or just worn-down bodies. Plastic surgery, exercise regimen, small new wardrobe and they're different, happy people. Really nice, and they're really doing something, the crews of both shows. Otherwise, I watch Law and Order reruns and X-Files.
Debonair Suaveroot, signing off.
Shoulda called me Saturday, hoser. I'd have been there for you. No wonder Dad hates Christmas.
Now just stand still and stop being a dork, because you need a hug. {{{{{{{{Arn}}}}}}}}}
For what it's worth...
If there's one thought that completely incapacitates me, it's the prospect of losing either of my little brothers. I never say it enough to them, but they're both more precious to me than my own life. I've had morbid visions of what it'd be like to be suddenly bereft of either or both of them, and those visions have been bleaker than hell.
My father once told me the most touching thing I've ever heard from anyone: "When you three boys were born, I couldn't imagine a time without you." I'm seven years older than my brother David and ten years older than Sean. I helped change their diapers and rock them to sleep from an early age. I played with them and fought with them, made them laugh and cry. I know exactly how Dad feels. It's impossible to remember a time without David and Sean.
I can't know the pain you went through and still experience, but I can sympathize, man, I can sympathize. Losing your bro isn't like losing a limb: it's like losing your heart. I'm sorry you had to go through that, and don't envy you this part of your personal walk. But I hear you.
Blessings,
Kevin
Perhaps I know some of that reason in this case.
I found out tonight an old friend from my Karate days swallowed a bottle of pills last night. His woman got off work early and unexpectedly, and found him in a not-quite dead state, so she got him pumped out and revived. He finally did what he should have done all along, which was reach out to me.
I've got family and friends watching him, since I can't get to him till the weekend, but I already told him You WILL stay alive, and we're going to have an intense heart-to-heart this weekend. His comment? "Ok, I think I need that."
Yeah. No shit. I had forgotten, in my own hurting, that his mother died of cancer 8 years ago, the day after my brother died. He's handled it a lot of years, although he was holding up well till I got to the funeral parlor, then he held onto me and cried for 20 minutes. You'd think I'd get a CLUE. His mother liked me a lot, and we had some fascinating conversations, usually about him. She was quite proud of her son and his achievements. His father's not all bad, but he's a bit of a screwup as a husband and parent.
So, it's time to dust off the old war-togs and go do battle with depression. At least it's somebody else's, and I'm confident I can fix him.
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