Filling That Vase

by Douglas Young

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

When I got off the phone with the mortician, I knew the first person to tell was Bill. The last thing I wanted was for him to overhear the news via campus gossip. Since it was almost time for his 6 p.m. class, I figured he would be finishing dinner in the college cafeteria. Walking briskly to join him, I resolved not to hint at the news yet, worrying that he’d be unable to lecture that evening. But, since the funeral was in just two days, I asked him to stop by the house after class. When he asked what was up, I just said I needed to talk about something.

When he arrived, we exchanged a few pleasantries before I asked him to take a seat. Suddenly too nervous to sit, he wanted to know what was wrong. Having rehearsed how best to break the news, I simply stated Pamela had committed suicide. Looking like all the air had just been sucked out of him, Bill leaned his head back, groaned, and started wandering about the house, finally putting his hand against a wall. He repeatedly asked if it could be someone else. But then I told him about her obituary.

Bill’s anguish was the more acute since he had been closer to Pamela and had continued to get calls from her since she moved not to the West Coast but to yet another mental institution. His grief was compounded by a fear he could have somehow helped avert her tragic fate. I kept trying to assure him he had helped her more than anyone on campus and was likely her best friend.

For the next couple of hours we sat on the front porch consoling each other while looking across the street at the old house where Pamela had rented a room. I recounted the day my brother and I were children riding home from visiting our maternal grandparents when our mother began to weep. When we asked Daddy what was wrong, he said she was sad Mamaw and Papa were now very old and sick. But years later she revealed the true source of those tears. She had an overwhelming sensation she had seen a close relation for the last time, since he was killing himself with drugs. Her intuition was soon proven correct. I implored my distraught friend to try to appreciate that if this successful man’s family couldn’t restrain him, how could he blame himself regarding Pamela? I unexpectedly ended up crying at the memory of my mother’s grief, but hoped Bill got the point.

I couldn’t bear to go to Pamela’s hometown funeral. Emotions were raw and, though I’d soldiered through a pair of grandparents’ funerals growing up, I doubted my stamina to get through this one. I also selfishly feared students seeing Mr. Young break down. Coming from a pretty emotionally reserved family, I’d always had difficulty letting tears flow, especially in public.

Bill and three students did go to the memorial service. Upon hearing how terribly broken up everyone was, I was relieved not to have gone. Besides, I rationalized, the Pamela I knew was the troubled late adolescent from the college, not the hometown child I had never met.

It was encouraging how many faculty, staff, and students signed the sympathy card. No one who knew her was shocked, but it was mighty moving to learn just how many people had been touched by Pamela, had worried about her, tried to help, and wished her folks well.

It was a few months before a day slipped by without thinking of her at least once. There were so many daily reminders everywhere. A pair of her strawberry stickers still graced the office door. Gradually, I could remember happy moments with her. But, as inevitable as the night follows a pretty sunset, an emotional pallor would soon darken such musings. Dear God, the poor child. Her suffering family. What should or could have been done to prevent this? Had we done enough?

Decades later, I occasionally think of Pamela and can revive some pleasant memories without becoming sad. Though time soothes wounds and deepens our perspective on mortality, a premature death remains especially sad because of the permanent loss of so much unfulfilled potential. There’s also no forgetting how utterly miserable and hopeless Pamela must have felt for so long to resign herself to suicide.

How horrible for the survivors as well. I try to imagine her parents discovering her, and I still cannot finish the thought. How perfectly horrendous to find your daughter like that, to have to clean up the mess, and then later to dispose of her belongings. Pamela’s pain may be over, but her family members have had to somehow continue to bear this shattering blow for the rest of their lives. There’s always an empty seat at the table and a vacant bedroom. Birthdays and holidays are forever marred. Will her mother and father always be second-guessing their actions? Are they angry at a never-ending anguish, God, or even Pamela? Or are they relieved her ordeal is over? Have they been able to let go and move forward with their lives? How differently have others treated them since the tragedy, and how differently have they treated each other? So many marriages fall apart after the death of a child.

I still sometimes ask myself if I could have done more for Pamela. After reviewing all the failed attempts to persuade her to ditch the dope, take her prescriptions, and get therapy, just the hours spent together as friends were likely my best efforts. I absolutely regret not hugging her tightly and telling her how wonderful she was and how much poorer the world would be without her.

Could others have done better by her? Certainly the “friends” who exploited her kindness and plied her with poison. Perhaps even worse were those in positions of responsibility who refrained from “getting too involved” in a clearly difficult case.

I’ve also struggled to sort out Pamela’s accountability. Was she just the victim of defective brain chemistry? How much did all those professional therapists and expensive hospitalizations really help? Indeed, she bemoaned how their medicines drained the life out of her. At least her illicit substances may have eased some of the agony, however briefly.

But did anyone insist Pamela ingest dangerous, illegal drugs with such plainly terrible consequences or include within her circle some bona fide deviant losers? Or worse, could suicide be construed as the ultimate selfish, narcissistic act, the greatest cop-out of all, going AWOL forever from all life’s ills? She likewise left her family — who loved her and did more for her than anyone — utterly devastated. It is the survivors who must soldier on, permanently scarred.

But do I have the right to judge? I never felt Pamela’s emotional turmoil. What’s more, who among us has not at some low point considered, however fleetingly, the same recourse? How productive is such condemnation anyway?

Arguably the worst aspect of a suicide is it taps open disturbing speculations regarding life’s most basic mysteries. How could a caring God permit this nightmare to befall such a gentle girl (and family) who meant no harm to anyone? Is life merely a genetic/environmental crapshoot in which poor Pamela simply lost out? With apologies to Einstein, maybe God really does play dice with the universe.

My deepest instinct says this is an unduly bleak take on life fueling the very hopelessness that can spur a suicide. There’s far too much good, joy, love, art, and possibility in this world not to realize how cherished life should really be. Though there are still manifold afflictions and untold heartbreaks, modern medications have literally been lifesavers for so many other Pamelas. Maybe they could have been for my little friend too had she only found the right ones and taken them diligently. How I wish she could have comprehended that death is forever. And yet I forgive her for potentially sparing herself another 60 years of torment.

In any event, I never again assumed suicide wouldn’t intrude upon my acquaintances. After Pamela’s death, I referred far more students to counseling and have been increasingly inquisitive — downright forward — with anyone in my path who appeared inordinately down. But I also appreciate just how remarkably well so many people conduct their lives despite being burdened with so much psychological baggage.

Much as when I walk through cemeteries, looking at Pamela’s empty vase impresses me with the urgency of not taking life for granted. As Gregg Allman sang just after his brother Duane’s untimely death, “Ain’t wastin’ time no more, ’cause time rolls by like hurricanes, chasing after subway trains.” Precisely because our existence is so tough and short to boot, I resolve to fill my vase to capacity, and no other day has more time than this one. Indeed, how dead-on was Woody Allen’s declaration that “The saddest thing in life is a missed opportunity.” Now I try to tell loved ones how much they are cherished TODAY. Good intentions are nice, but only positive actions can make a difference and avert guilt.

At 59 (or, as I told classes, 49 plus interest), I’ve long been persuaded the only person who can finally transform my life is me. Period. But what about someone like Pamela with a major mental illness out of her control? When in the grip of delusions, can such a person be accountable for her actions? Perhaps she did the best she could. There’s a profound difference between emotional difficulty and severe mental illness.

Pamela certainly personifies how vulnerable we are and how fleeting life is. For those of us blessed to have our sanity, how much greater is the imperative to do what’s best for ourselves AND our Pamelas. Precisely because life can become inundated with unhappiness and pain, we should make every effort to cherish what’s good and help each other from ever leaning too far over that occasionally tempting precipice. Exactly because, as novelist Harry Crews noted, “The world doesn’t work,” we should resolve to make it better. Ultimately, as Jack Kerouac understood, “life is holy and every moment is precious.” The alternative is death -- which arrives too soon anyway. At least if we’ve given our best, matured to our fullest in the time allotted, and done all we can for others, it’s not a tragedy.

*
* *

Author’s note: The personal names in this account have been changed in the interest of privacy and discretion.