The two-year anniversary of my husband’s suicide came and went this month. As I may have mentioned, he was never depressed in the 45 years we were together, but after several battles with “fatal” cancer, his lungs were so damaged that even if we did finally manage to remove the cancer from his body, he’d never be able to breathe normally again—or do any of the things that he loved to do. So he decided to end it all, and the day I heard the single shot and a thump as he hit the floor in his carpeted office was the day that changed my life forever.
As I raced down the hall and saw my beloved husband, the man I was still completely in love with, lying in the entrance to his office, the emotions exploded and raced through me, from the astonishment at how careful he was to make sure he landed face down, so I wouldn’t have to see that face I loved mutilated by the bullet, to the tears and exclamations (“Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . ”), to the realization that there were two suicide notes carefully laid out on his office workspace, each inserted into a clear plastic holder. One for me, which I have since framed and memorized, ending with “I will love you forever,” and one for “the authorities” which explained why he did what he did and to “Please treat my wife kindly. She does not know this is coming, and will probably be in shock.” Read more