Day 1

I spent the day after my husband Andy died in what I loving refer to as “the nest”, otherwise known as my parent’s house, where I spent nearly my entire childhood. My family gathered around me and the kids as we unconsciously moved throughout the day. Most of it was a blur. I remember a lot of crying, and countless phone calls, filling in the pieces of my husband’s secret struggles with suicidal ideation to close family members and friends. From day 1, storytelling became a form of therapy, a way to release the weight of the responsibility and the secret I had not wanted to keep. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the beginning of learning to live an authentic life, a window into my true past, and a revelation of what Andy had been up against for years. As I embarked on a quest to try to understand how this had all happened, how Andy’s story unfolded and prematurely ended, I told the story again and again. Many friends and family members knew that Andy was going through a difficult time, that he struggled with aspects of his mental health, but very few knew the depths of his illness. He wore the mask so well, concealing the darkest thoughts and portraying a picture of someone who was taking time off to focus on himself and his next chapter.

I talked for hours to each person, quietly in my childhood bedroom with the wood-stained trim and red walls. The room with the 2000 piece Coca-Cola puzzle I completed over 6 months and glued together when I was 10, efforts to prevent my 2 year old sister from destroying it; a puzzle Andy would tell people about, a sign that he knew me and my history from such a young age.

Periodically, I emerged from this room, walking with heavy feet and vacant eyes. A level of disbelief I could never even imagine persistently penetrated my thoughts; a feeling it would take me nearly 9 months to shake. I could not comprehend that this was actually my life, I began for the first time to wonder whether I had jumped into an alternative plane of the universe. But I never lost sight of being a mother to Colin (age 12) and Natalie (age 9), who had lost their father forever with zero notice. They knew Andy was “sick” with a mental health illness, and that he frequently was unable to join us for activities and outings. His isolation practices were familiar to them, all I had to say is “Dad isn’t feeling well” and the kids knew exactly what that meant. A mother’s main responsibility is to protect and shelter her children, and I was unable to turn the clock back and prevent this from happening, from making them orphans. While I came out of my room to check on them, I wasn’t able to support them. I relied on my family to carry them through the day. My sister, Michelle, and her husband, Adam came. Adam baked his famous enormous chocolate chip cookies with the kids. A wave of relief passed over me as I saw them absorbed in the activity, a welcome distraction. I was in awe of their ability to keep moving forward in life in the midst of the most horrendous tragedy they will likely ever face. Later, my daughter, Natalie took to her phone and showed me pictures of Andy, her go-to strategy to remember him. I wonder now about the roles of photos to ingrain memories, especially when you know no new memories will be formed. Perhaps the photos helped solidify the experiences so she wouldn’t forget them. With each photo she showed me, I smiled and nodded, but internally was suffocating. Eventually I had to walk away, the sobs rising in me and my eyes pricking with tears. How could he have just been here, but now gone?

We sat down for a taco dinner, and I looked at the plate with disgust. My appetite had vanished, and the thought of eating made me nauseous. I knew I should eat, and try to keep up my strength, as well as put on a good show for the kids. I choked down half a taco, all I could manage.

Later that night, my dad took the kids out for ice cream. Just before leaving, Colin said in passing, “I texted my friend about dad”. I felt a blow, but managed to keep my composure. I asked him what he said, and he told me that he told him that his dad died of depression. In the exact same moment I felt pure pride for my son, who less than 24 hours later was strong enough to not only talk about his dad’s death but shirk the stigma of a death by suicide, but also intense heartache. No child should ever have to say these words, and I hadn’t prepared for how the kids would navigate disclosing the news of their father’s death. I was enshrouded in the newness of this reality, which felt so foreign. Yet, I was immediately faced with moving forward in life, and beginning the long, painful road to recovery.