I AM FRACTURED INTO A MILLION DIFFERENT PIECES

Christian waited until I was in Nevada visiting my mother before he took his life. On the morning of his death, we had had several phone conversation. He told me of his intentions and I tried to convince him not to do it but, of course, failed. I spoke with him just minutes before he pulled the trigger.

I am so grateful that we got to have our last good bye, to be able to tell each other how much we loved one other. So many others are left not knowing the whys and not being able to share those last minutes together. There were many reasons that Christian made this final decision. There was not just one thing. No one person or circumstance is to blame. This very personal decision was his. So let there be no "what ifs" or "if only I had". He left me a letter and in it he tells me how much he loves me and how all his family and friends had touched his heart. He sent his love to each of those special people in his life.

He was with Patrick when he ask him to stop the car. Where he died was a place special to both of us - a beautiful meadow where elk graze. The grass is so green and the mountains appear above the tree line. Such a peaceful place. The air was cold and crisp that morning. The sky blue. He made one last phone call and then took his life with a single gunshot wound to the head. The person he last spoke to called me and said "I think Christian just shot himself."

I waited a while in agony before calling Patrick. I knew he would be doing all that he could and all that was necessary. He confirmed what I already knew. He told me the medics were there working on Chris but it didn't look good. He said he would call me back. I waited and waited with no return phone call coming. I finally called Patrick.

January 18, 2010

"Did he die? "Yes. Yes he did."  I am fractured into a million different pieces.  I feel myself being pulled apart.  There are so many different emotions. I cannot name them all, explain them all, identify them all.  My heart is being torn and ripped and cut.  I feel blood pouring from my mutilated heart.  It fills my chest.

STOP.   I must over ride my feelings, become numb, there are phone calls to make, things that must be done.  No tears - not yet.  I become robotic.  I must change my plane reservation and fly home tonight.  Thankfully my brother, Steve, takes care of that.  I do my laundry and pack and then wait.  Heavy winds.  Flight  delayed.  Finally I'm in the air and flying home.  I dread the questions I must ask and the answers I will receive.

Emotion returns.  Still on the plane.  My body begins to shake.  The blood that has been building around my heart breaks like a dam and flows down my cheeks.  I cannot breathe.  I am being stabbed over and over again.  I am cold.  So cold.  I feel a part of me dying.  The death is slow and agonizing.  The pain goes on and on, unending.

I arrive at the airport.  Patrick is waiting.  His skin is white, cold.  His face full of the pain and trauma he is feeling.  We embrace.  We cry.  We start the long ride home.  Questions asked, answers received.  I am fractured and torn into a million different pieces.  A new pain begins that will never end.