This is my week. This is “The Week.” This is the week that I allow myself to relive that night in May 2009 when my world was turned upside down; the night my husband, without any warning, took his own life. The night that would forever change not only my direction, but the direction of his entire family. This is the week that I allow myself to be enveloped with grief if I feel the need; the time to reflect on this unintentional journey; giving myself permission to cry and be sad for a bit. This indulgence might appear to negate the progress that I have made, but in reality it brings to light the everyday joy that I am now able to find in life again.

So, please, allow me to share some of my thoughts and feelings that guide me through “my week”.

It’s hard to believe that I’m in the midst of the sixth anniversary of Michael’s death. Sometimes it feels like yesterday that the police officers were knocking on my bedroom door, and other times, it feels like a lifetime ago, or even yet, someone else’s lifetime ago.  And yet no matter the perception, the reality remains that this man has been gone for six long years. You know, there’s going to come a point in time if I live long enough, that he will have been gone longer than we were together, and that will make me sad.

Even today as I rummage through old photos, I am reminded that there will never be any “new” pictures of Michael. All of our images of him stopped in 2009. And as the lives of his family have continued, and our own images have, and will continue to change, his image will remain frozen in time. As I flip through the photos, my breath is taken away when I see all the “last” images of him. The last photo of him with Lexi (the only grandchild he got to meet), his last Christmas, his last Easter, and sadly, the last picture taken with his son Brandon and daughter Heather.  I weep at these sights. And not just for me, but for Michael and all that he has missed. I weep for his children, Brandon and Heather, as well as for my children, Heather, Robin, and Shane.   I break down in sobs knowing that his grandchildren (and future grandchildren)  will never know the wonderful man that they would’ve called “Poppy”.

Michael was an incredible man. He was a giving man, a selfless man. He was one that would take on your burdens and make them his own. He was the last one to sit down at the dinner table to ensure that everyone had everything they needed. He would give a stranger the last dollar in his pocket if they needed it. He was my emotional rock and my best friend. Michael was always quick with a smile, generous with his hugs, and a kiss if you allowed him. He loved with his whole being, he gave with his whole heart. He made everyone around him feel special, important, and loved.

Michael loved life more than anyone I knew. So, the obvious question would be “Why would he take his own life?” This individual that appeared to be in charge of his own happiness, a man that portrayed strength and control. Why?  I don’t have the answers, nor will I ever. I can only speculate and to do that really serves no purpose. He made a decision, a very poor decision and it cost him his life. I have moved on from seeking an answer, as it only sends me into a spiral of sorrow, self doubt, and confusion.

There have been numerous times when I have asked the rhetorical question. “How could you do this to me Michael?” My own sister has vocalized the same question to me. Funny though, when she asks the question I feel defensive of Michael. I sat down one night and wrote these words while tears were streaming down my face and I was choking back sobs.

“I never would have done this to you,
This pain that you have put me through.
This hell called healing,
You left it all up to me to deal with.
I never would have done this to you”.

It has taken time for me to realize that Michael didn’t do this “to me”. I, along with his other family members, were merely casualties left behind in his act of desperation. I don’t blame him anymore, I only have love and sadness for him. The anger ship sailed long ago.

 Although having a loved one pass away in any other way is devastating, the nature of a death by suicide adds to the complex act of grieving. I know many individuals that have witnessed their loved one struck down with cancer and other life threatening illnesses. I have seen the heartache and the desperation of them watching their soul mate fight for their life and ultimately succumb to the illness and pass away. And I’m left thinking, “God Michael, WHY DIDN’T YOU FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE LIKE THEY DID?” That is the added ingredient in this process of grieving for a victim of suicide.

So, I’ve learned a few things about being the widow of a man that took his life – through my own experiences and those of others. I suspect these thoughts are probably universal to survivors.

• If you’re my friend, never be afraid to talk to me about Michael. I’m always ready to hear stories of him, your memories of him. That keeps his memory alive.
• Unless I bring up the act of suicide, I don’t want to talk about the way he died.
• Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m pretty strong, I’ve been through hell – and in some ways I’m a better person to have gone through this.
• Never – ever – tell me that everything happens for a reason.

My family agrees that if Michael had waited until daylight, we might’ve had a different outcome. So please, if suicide has ever crossed your mind, just wait.

Wait until daylight. Wait until you see your child’s smile again. Wait until you hear a bird’s chirp, or a choir singing God’s praises. Wait until your love kisses you Good Morning. Wait for that sliver of light, because it’s there to be seen. Just wait, because life is worth living. Life is worth the heartache. Life is worth the wait.

Above all, it is my wish that Michael be remembered for how he lived his life, the legacy that he left behind; not how he chose to end it.

Love and peace to all,

Cat Corrier