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My Son’s Death: I Wanted to Forget
A plane ride to almost anywhere appeared a solution
He died by suicide. I couldn’t help but ask how. I was informed he had hung himself. It didn’t help to know. I’ve tried to stop thinking about the days and moments before he took his life, but that’s becoming more difficult.
My son died sometime in early March—my brother on April 25th. There is a blurred time in between when we dealt with the responsibilities of death for my boy and weeks at the hospital with my sibling.
Two days after my brother died, I was on a plane from the West Coast to Toronto to visit my daughter and grandchildren. Tickets had been purchased before I knew where life (and death) were headed.
While in Toronto, I could barricade my emotions from what had just happened. Days were filled with activities different from home and with people and sights that were unrelated to what I had just left behind. I blocked off the losses and lived in the moments. I knew the grief would come when I let it, but I wasn’t ready to do that.
Two weeks later, I stood at the airport before our plane took off for home, looking up at the electronic board filled with destinations. Lists of places to go and ones people were returning from. I imagined grabbing my suitcase and credit card and booking a…
