Regrets

Today marks eight years since my sister Julie died by suicide. It's not an anniversary I look forward to, and having it permanently connected to the Memorial Day holiday weekend makes it especially hard to navigate. The weekend is full of sad memories and emotional triggers. Things that I rarely feel or remember tend to get dredged up from the dark, protective places my mind has tucked them into. I've spent quite a bit of time in my head the last several days, replaying memories and revisiting that horrible day 8 years ago and the events leading up to it. 

I've come so far from the broken, grieving, guilt-ridden person I was in the first few years following Julie's death. I truly feel healed and as at peace as I think someone can ever be with prematurely losing someone they deeply love and cherish. I've worked diligently to regain my equilibrium, mental strength and resilience. I forgave myself for not saving her. I've studied and learned about mental health, suicide and suicide prevention. I even changed careers in order to work in the field of mental health. I feel whole again. If there's one thing I still feel though, it's regret. 

Merriam-Webster defines regret is as: 

1 : sorrow aroused by circumstances beyond one's control or power to repair

2 : an expression of distressing emotion (such as sorrow)

Last night I dug out the police report and the coroner's summary report related to Julie's death. I'd only read them once before about a year after she died, then filed them away in my basement. After re-reading them I was struck by some of the details that I'd forgotten. Regret filled me as I read the timeline of events and summary of her phone and text communications in her last few hours of life. 

Surprisingly, I knew very little about mental illness and suicidal ideation before Julie died. Even though my sister had struggled with bipolar disorder most of her adult life, back then I was unbelievably naive and unaware about what that really meant for her. I'm shocked now at my ignorance. As the saying goes, hindsight is 20/20. Despite our closeness and sometimes near daily contact, we almost never talked about her illness or how she was, or wasn't, managing it. I didn't know how to have such a conversation, and I certainly had no idea how to effectively come to the aid of someone experiencing a mental health crisis. 

Today at work I was talking about all of this with one of my employees, who also happens to be an experienced mental health counselor. When she talks to patients and others about mental illness, depression, etc. she compares it to someone with diabetes. They are both diseases that if not properly managed are potentially fatal. The patient should know how to manage their disease, which includes having a good network of caregivers and supporters around them. Most importantly, their loved ones and supporters need to know how to best help them manage their disease, including how to help them if they're in crisis because of it. It's a simple, and I think very accurate, analogy. Sadly, although I think it's safe to assume Julie viewed me as one of her key supporters and helpers - especially that night - I had no idea how to come to the aid of my sister during her time of crisis. 

It's easy to think that knowing how to intervene when someone is suicidal or in another type of mental health distress isn't something you'll ever need to know. But what if you do? Just like medical First Aid and CPR, I believe everyone should be trained in Mental Health First Aid. On that horrible night eight years ago, I was powerless to change the ultimate outcome because of my lack of knowledge and training. I can't change what happened. What I can do is learn from it and share that knowledge with others. Please take the time to learn how to potentially save a life. Here are some resources:

Eight Ways to Help a Friend with Depression from Mental Health First Aid

Mental Health First Aid Info.  from Mental Health First Aid USA

How We Can All Prevent Suicide  from the Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Utah Suicide Prevention Training & Classes from NUHOPE Suicide Prevention Coalition

Love you forever Jules

In her element

In the waves at Cape Cod

Besties - Amy & Julie

Hannah reading to Aunt Julie at grandma's house

Inside the Old North Church with Atticus

Julie, Grandma French, Keicha

Julie and Jason

Sisters

Relaxing poolside after running the Georgetown
 to Idaho Springs 1/2 Marathon

Shopping for running shorts at the dollar store

Message From the Past

Sometimes I’ll be doing the most ordinary, mundane thing when it happens. It happened Thursday night when I was downloading old pictures so I could transfer them from my old PC to my Mac. I was efficiently clicking through folders, choosing pictures, having a nice trip down memory lane when. I came across a file in one of the folders that seemed out of place. I clicked on it and up popped a group instant message from 2008 between me and my sisters.

In the weeks and months after Julie died I went through every email and IM I could find searching for any electronic correspondence between us. Not trusting technology and fearful of someday losing them, I printed and saved each one I found, desperate not to lose the memory of her written voice and record of our ordinary, everyday correspondence. For a while, I read them pretty frequently because they made me feel connected to her in some small way. Now they’re all filed away along with my other personal papers and memorabilia, saved like letters were in the days before email, texting and instant messaging.

Sometimes Amy, Julie and I would have group chats via IM. They seldom had a purpose, they were just another way we stayed connected with each other, sharing little details of our daily lives. We did the same thing over the phone, one of us calling the other and then conferencing in the third. I read the copy of our pointless, scattered conversation over and over, smiling at the memory of our silliness and then overcome with sadness, reminded of my loss and missing my sister all over again. 

Our chat on January 30, 2008 started at 8:30 a.m. and ended at 8:39 a.m. We were all at work just starting our day, probably drinking coffee while we checked our emails. Nine minutes. It’s amazing how many memories and feelings can be dredged up by reading such a short conversation. Julie’s words as she left the conversation that day are what really got to me. One of the many painful things about her death was that she didn’t give us a chance to say a final goodbye. One day she was there and then she was just gone, leaving everyone who loved her with unsaid goodbyes. I wouldn't have wanted to ever tell her goodbye or let her go. But if I had, I like to imagine her goodbye as cheerful and lighthearted like the one she gave us as she signed off that morning five years ago.

Julie: “Got all dressed up in a cute outfit and then decided to look out the window and it was snowing.”

“Grrr…!”

“So I had to change.”

Keicha: “Is it as cute as the one I have on in my IM picture?”

Julie: “Amy, do you know what the male species of elk are called?”

Amy: “ I don’t see an outfit in your picture Keicha.”

Keicha: “What is a male elk called?”

Amy: “Ask Julie”

Julie: “What did I call them?”

“Men elk?”

“Elk men?”

Amy: “Men elk. They’re actually called bull elk.”

Julie: “I like men elk.”

Keicha: “ Only if they’re in full rut though, huh?”

Julie: “Ha!”

Julie: “You two.”

Amy: “Keicha started it.”

Juile: “Nice picture.”

Keicha: “Sorry. This is too much. I’m reading emails, instant messaging and answering messages on my Blackberry. AAGGH!”

Amy: “Would you say Jon is near East Boston?”

Keicha: “ Like I would know. Ask Julie. Cute picture Julie.”

Julie: “He is actually in the south suburbs.”

Amy: “OK, I want to send a balloon bouquet.”

Julie: “Oh.”

Julie: “Peace out sistas.”

The Sister Club

I used to belong to a very exclusive club. There were only three members, plus one honorary member. It was called The Sister Club, founded many years ago without fanfare and with much giggling and laughter by me and my two sisters. My stepdad, Jim, was invited to join several years ago, the first, and only male member allowed. There weren't any rules, bylaws or even regular meeting times for our club.  Really it only existed for the sole purpose of enjoying each other and laughing together as much as possible.  

On May 29, 2010, without any notice, and definitely without agreement from all three members, the club abruptly ceased to exist. I really miss my sister club, more than words can ever express. Sometimes I go through old pictures, looking especially long and hard at those showing the three of us, The Sister Club, in action. This is the first picture taken of us, the day newborn Julie came home from the hospital to join our family. It's faded and blurry and I'm only partially visible in the left edge of the picture. Still, it's hard for me not to be struck by the image of Amy and I looking down on our baby sister, completely enthralled, ready to love and protect her always. 

There's another, very similar image of the three of us that exists only in my mind. In it, Amy and I are again gazing down at our younger sister, loving her, taking in her every feature -her beautiful curls, her slender, graceful hands and her face - trying to imprint them in our minds forever. Except, instead of being cradled in our mom's arms, Julie is in her casket, and we have only a few minutes left with her. The memory of those last few moments with just the three of us is the most excruciatingly tender, yet painful memory of my life. Neither one of us could bear to say goodbye. We were both dumbfounded and numb as we stood there, playing out a scene that can only be described as a nightmare. When our time was up and we couldn't keep people waiting any longer, we left the room together quickly without looking back, not wanting to witness the finality of her casket being closed. Even now, I'm not sure how we both didn't die right then and there from our broken hearts.

Not long ago, someone said to me that they admired the work I'm doing for suicide awareness and prevention education. My answer was that I don't see my advocacy work as a choice. I feel compelled to do it. How can I not? My sister Julie is gone forever. Our sister club is just one of the thousands of things that was destroyed in the wake of her suicide. If I can save just one life, prevent even one death, allow even a single family to keep their sister or other family member, that's enough for me. Every time I get tired, or sad, or resentful about my loss, I conjure up that last image of us in my mind. That's why I do what I do. That's why I'll never be quiet about preventing suicide, why I'm a broken record, why I'm willing to make others uncomfortable by talking about a subject that is still taboo to so many. I couldn't save my sister's life, but I am determined, focused with a purpose and intensity I don't have for anything else, to make sure her death wasn't in vain. I will tell her story, and my story, as often as I have to in order to bring the spotlight on suicide prevention.

*updated*
This week, September 4 -11 is National Suicide Prevention Week. Please join me this week in supporting suicide prevention efforts across the country.  For details on how to support suicide prevention efforts, click here https://afsp.org/

The Cruelest Month

Easter used to be my favorite holiday. Breathtaking sunsets that stop me in my tracks never used to make me sad.  Those are just two examples of things that changed when Julie died. There are thousands of other things that will never be the same for me.  

This year what would have been Julie’s 36th birthday falls on Easter Sunday. The day will be a bitter reminder of my loss.  My sister, our family’s Spring baby, whose birthday has always been celebrated during glorious April when the flowers are in bloom and the world is reawakening after a dreary winter, is gone.  Having to face her birthday on Easter, a holiday filled with symbolism about life and rebirth seems especially cruel.  

I’ve spent most of this week trying not to focus on what was coming.  I should be over it by now I tell myself.  It’s been almost two years, why now? Why this year?  Last year it wasn’t this hard, but last year her birthday wasn’t on Easter.  Two years ago we were together for Easter in Colorado.  I wrote about that weekend here.  My contentment was complete.  I never dreamed something I cherished so deeply, our sisterhood trinity, would end so abruptly, without warning or choice.  

Amy and I tried to prepare ourselves for our sister’s birthday, knowing we’d both be feeling bereft and unmoored when April 8 rolled around.  We made plans to run a half marathon together in San Francisco on the 8th.  It would be the perfect way to remember Julie and acknowledge her birthday.  

I knew better than to register for an early spring race.  Winter training is challenging for me. I’m a fair weather runner and despise running indoors on a track or treadmill.  I also have severe spring allergies that trigger my asthma. Two weeks ago I was literally sick in bed with asthma, struggling to breathe.  Needless to say, my training has suffered.  Amy too has struggled to find the time to train.  Earlier this week we both admitted we were far from ready to run 13.1 miles and neither of us felt like walking the course rather than running it.  We cancelled our trip and I was once again left trying to figure out how I was going to navigate an emotionally loaded day.  

Celebrating her birthday doesn’t sit well with me.  What is there to celebrate?  I wish I was in a place where I could once again celebrate the day she was born, but I’m not there yet.  Her birthday is a sad reminder to me of how young she was when she died--a life cut short, defeated by depression and hopelessness.  If she were alive, I’m almost certain she wouldn’t be celebrating it either.  She didn’t like being reminded that she was growing older and was still unmarried and childless.  Her birthdays in recent years were reminders to her of all she had failed to achieve.  Sure, we did the cake, candles and singing.  We celebrated her because we didn’t see her in the same harsh light she saw herself.  We adored Julie, and her birthdays were true days of celebration for us, a day to acknowledge our thankfulness for being blessed with our beloved sister, daughter, aunt, granddaughter, niece and friend.  

Julie on the dance floor - January 2010

Well-meaning friends have suggested that I remember Julie by celebrating the way she would have.  Ha!  Julie would have been goaded and cajoled into going out, resisting every step of the way.  She would have most likely chosen a country bar with plenty of cowboys, maybe the Grizzly Rose in Denver.  Then she would have started shooting tequila.  After about three shots she would have been surly and ready to start a fight.  Either that or she would have been up on a table shaking her booty, showing off her exceptional dance moves to an appreciative audience of men until I found her and convinced her to come down from the table top. Been there. Done that.  

Yep, that was my sister.  Sweet, funny, silly and more than a little unpredictable.  She was the one who after refusing all night to come out and join my friends and I on the dance floor, ended up dancing solo to Pat Benetar’s Heartbreaker, while everyone stepped back and watched.  After ending her dance with a big air guitar flourish she announced, “Thank you very much Ogden! I’ll be here all night!”  

Instead of celebrating her birthday, I’ll instead be remembering and acknowledging.  Acknowledging my loss and how much it hurts and always will. Recognizing that loving someone so much that you’d do anything to save their life is futile if they don’t love themselves enough to save their own life.  Acknowledging that Easter will never be the same for me, that beautiful sunsets now give me pause, making me sad that Julie gave up on living, choosing to ignore those small moments of grace and beauty like sunsets and spring bulbs in bloom, blowing out birthday candles surrounded by loved ones, and being nuzzled by your dog, all of which make life worth living.  Remembering all of the happy times we spent together--our silly sister moments, miles logged together running, walking, dancing, hiking, celebrating, loving, living.   

Happy

Ready to see Dwight Yoakam in concert at the Grizzly Rose in Denver

The night before running our first 1/2 marathon together - Vail, Colorado 2009

Showing off our footwear to mom

Super Diamond concert in Denver 

We did it!  Celebrating finishing the Georgetown to Idaho Springs 1/2 marathon

Hiking in Zion National Park - October 1999

Thanksgiving in Utah - 2008

Happy Birthday Dear Amy!



Amy and I, 1976

Today is my sister Amy's birthday. When she was born, our four year age difference meant my place in the family and world was already firmly established. 

My early memories of her are vague. I remember a chubby-cheeked toddler with a head full of golden curls, often with her thumb in her mouth. From an early age Amy spent a great deal of time following me around trying to get me to play with her. Much of our childhood was spent with her pursuing my attention and me trying to ditch her. 

Avoiding her was difficult since we shared a room, something that was an almost constant source of annoyance to me. I was tidy, orderly, regimented and used to controlling my space. Dirty clothes on the floor and piled in the closet didn't bother Amy at all. When I tried to fall asleep at night, she was in the bed across from me chewing crackers. Loudly. Slowly. Infuriatingly. I thought she did it just to annoy me! She also had to sleep with the door cracked open and the hall light on. Because she was younger, I lost that battle repeatedly with my parents always siding with her. I got even by refusing to allow her into my world, no matter how desperately she tried to gain entrée into my social sphere.

By the time I was 14 we lived in different states and only saw each other during holiday breaks and summer vacations. When she came to Utah for summer visits she slept in the basement while I kept my room to myself. It never occurred to me until years later how painful that must have been to her. I still lived in our childhood home, sleeping in the room we once shared. As a selfish teenager, I didn't think about how it must have felt for her to be in her home sleeping in the basement like a temporary visitor. 

Somehow, through all the ups and downs of our lives (and believe me there were many) we managed to maintain some kind of a connection. I was married and out on my own at the age of 19. Amy wasn't far behind me, moving out on her own at the tender age of 18. Those early years on her own were a struggle, although I was barely aware of it at the time. I was busy with married life, work and college. We still saw each other on holidays at mom's, or sometimes I'd stay for a night or two at her latest apartment. Our lives were very different then, but also similar as we were both doing our best as young adults building futures for ourselves.  

My henna tattoo - Summer 2010

Eventually, our lives were on more parallel paths. We were both married and expecting our first babies. Our due dates were just ten days or so apart, and we shared all the experiences of a first pregnancy together. There were frequent phone calls comparing notes about hormonal mood swings, cravings, baby names, bodily changes, and so much more. On October 4 Amy gave birth to her son, Mason. The next day I went into the hospital for a scheduled induction. On October 6, thirty-six hours after Mason's birth, I welcomed Gillian into the world. 

Sharing the experience of pregnancy and new motherhood together changed our relationship, deepening our bond. Talking to my sister became part of the rhythm of my life. She was often the person I called before anyone else to share my life's frustrations, challenges, joys, and simple, silly pleasures with. We could talk for hours on the phone, and often did. 

The years since then have been full of many shared moments, holidays and celebrations, many of them at Amy's house. I wrote about many of the memories made there in this earlier post: Taking Only My Memories. It's hard now to imagine that I used to go to such great lengths to keep her out of my life.


Showing off our footwear to mom.
L to R: Amy, Julie, Keicha

Along with everything else that bonds us, we're also bound by our shared sorrow over the death of our sister Julie. Amy is the only person in the world who understands this loss nearly the same way as me. Only she knows the horror of the phone call asking me if I'd talked to Julie, knowing even as she said the words that something was horribly wrong. It was just the two of us on the line together that day, waiting with sick feelings of dread in our stomachs as Jason and Grant drove to Julie's apartment with her spare key. Who besides my sister understands what it's like to lose my sister - our sister - the other member in our exclusive sisterhood club of three? 

Only Amy understood the necessity of ditching the family for a few hours the week after Julie's death, getting in the car, loudly blasting corny country music, and screaming at the top of our lungs. She knew why it was imperative that we go together to an old favorite hangout spot for tequila shots toasting Julie before shopping for an urn for Amy to keep some of Julie's ashes in. Together, we wandered the aisles of Hobby Lobby slightly drunk and grief-stricken, making inappropriate, morbid jokes and laughing at the brutal irony of searching the wedding decor aisle to find a guest book for our sister's funeral. Together, we conferred about who to ask to style Julie's trademark curls for the last time. The difficult task of shopping for clothes to cremate our sister in fell to me alone as Amy couldn't bear to be part of that shopping excursion. That was one time I really wished I wasn't the big sister. 

She made it up to me by speaking at the funeral, something I just couldn't face doing. A few months later, we got each through the difficult job of sorting through all of Julie's clothes, deciding what to keep, donate and give away. It was an almost sacred task, and such a personal one that it was agreed it should only be done by her sisters. Since that time there have been many tearful, anguished phone calls to each other as we've worked through our grief, guilt, and confusion, and learned to accept the new normal of our lives.    

The adjustment to our smaller sister club has been hard at times. Each of us had to accept that we're each the sister the other one was left with, understanding that neither of us can ever be what Julie was to the other one. We're left with only each other, warts, disappointments and all. 

Although  when Amy entered my life it barely cause a blip on my radar screen, I can't imagine my life without her. I know that no matter what, we love each other. We haven't always been a perfect example of sisterly love and support, but that doesn't matter. We're sisters, plain and simple. We will always come back to love. Today I'm so grateful and happy to be able to celebrate my sister and the joy, silliness, support and comfort she brings to my life. 

Happy Birthday Sis!  I love you. Here's to many more. 

Hugging Amy at the finish line of the 2011 Ogden 1/2 Marathon

Celebrating our finish -Ogden 1/2 Marathon
May 2011