After

Content Warning: Suicide

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I read a description of the loss of a daughter as "It was as if I grew magical gills so that I could breathe underwater."(Steven Levine, Unattended Sorrow)  Such clarity in those words.  I am not sure that what I envision is what he intended, but it rang of truth through me:  the intense pain of gills opening up tender flesh, the gripping pressure of trying to inhale something that feels foreign and thick and utterly wrong. Learning how to breathe when it feels like labor and there is no will to do so. This is my experience of loss.

All the things that I remember from that night - that horrendous, never ending night - and those first days make me fold in on myself, clutching at breath, feeling like I will start to drown in it. I want to ignore it, watch television, eat until I am numb, ignore the ever-present lurking pain. I see it in my sons: my beautiful, aching sons, whose blue eyes mirror the changes in their father's and mine, a tenor of constant, quiet despair, even on the occasions that they smile or laugh. Hannah is the first person that either of them have really lost; I worry that this sadness will drown them some days. The idea that I could lose one of them as well is terrifying.

I see her in my mind sometimes, running upstairs to William's screams. The door to her room was jammed, but I didn't know why. I pushed, and pushed, trying to get in there, finally squeezing through the door;  seeing her in his arms. Her legs were what had barred the door.  I didn't understand at first. I wondered if she had passed out, if he had hurt her somehow, then all at once I realized what was happening. Who called 911?  I don't remember. William laid her down so that I could do CPR, staring into her face and trying to make her live, bargaining with a god I don't know to exchange her life with mine while the stranger's voice on the phone told me what to do. Her small face was not afraid. Still shaking with fear I pushed on her chest, tipped her neck, breathed in her mouth, pushed on her chest, "stayin' alive, stayin' alive,"(how fucking ironic), tipped her neck,  breathed in her mouth - pushed on her chest "stayin' alive, stayin' alive" over and over again. A policeman showed up and offered to take over. I wouldn't let him. I had to keep trying. I kept going, the gurgling as I breathed into her mouth not abating, a wheeze at each compression as I pressed on her delicate chest. In full PPE, a paramedic came in, and another - not enough space to work on her in her room, where should they take her? They carried her into my room, shoved the furniture away so they could have more room. Now three, four, five? of them. I was told to go downstairs and wait with William, then told to go outside. Was that a kindness so I wouldn't hear what happened next?  They worked on her for over 2 hours, while William and I sat on the curb, crying, then numb, then crying, then angry, then numb, trying to call her father. The phone rang and again and again I had to hang up, explain to my parents, my brothers, that she had hung herself and to leave William and I alone. People are watching us, watching the firetrucks and police cars in the street. More and more and more calls to her father, whose phone was off. A PPE clad man came downstairs and said that they couldn't bring her back. She was gone. 

There is nothing that I can say about what happened next. There are only feelings and sounds muffled like I am underwater - a scream, mine? William's?; holding each other; people talking with us; her father showing up, I don't know when, finding out that my son in Seattle already knew (because my mother had told her). Hard sidewalk, gravel digging into calves and wrists and knees. A chaplain arriving, gently guiding us through the next things we need to do, who to call to pick her up, the next decisions we need to make. 

In the days after Hannah's death, people came forward in ways that I can never repay.  My brothers, who live almost 700 miles away, immediately drove up here, alternating between being at our house and my parents' house, just sitting with us, talking.  I can't remember any of what was said, but I am forever grateful to them for just being there for us for my parents, whose suffering is also deep.

Neighbors who I barely knew left notes and food and flowers, while we numbly accepted them and the words of compassion. My oldest childhood friend set up a fundraiser. The outpouring of love and donations was overwhelming. Friends came by with groceries and meals, which were gratefully accepted and choked down, tasting like ash and sitting heavily.

When her friends found out about her death, I received message after message telling me how much they cared about her, how smart and wonderful she was, and all I can remember from this now is thinking "Why the hell didn't she know that? Why didn't they stay in touch with her?" There were professors, high school teachers and employers sharing their affection for her, and I felt no warmth from it. I felt angry at them, at myself, at Hannah for not saying enough or the right things to make her want to live.