I was outside when the snow started on Wednesday night, walking between bars with a friend I hadn't seen in months. Brent is on the last final revision of his book and I have several projects going, so we were both animated. The snow felt almost warm ... as the wind beat it into our faces.
On the drive home I kicked the back end of the Jeep out around a couple corners. I had been emotionally tested and made it through semi-happy. Aside from Brent, everyone I talked to, on my one night out, was going through something. From paranoia to schizophrenia to suicide to ... there's really nothing to list after suicide. The whole day was buzz kill which made the first real snow of the year an event.
When I got home my wife met me at the door, frazzled. "[the older child] is still up."
I took over. She was in her bed, the top bunk, coughing and quietly crying. I climbed up the little ladder and squeezed in beside her along the railing. I talked softly, covered her up, and slowly rubbed her back. It didn't work. She was still restless. "Have you gone to the bathroom?" I asked. Sometimes it helps to just get up and move around. You realize how tired you are and how good the bed felt. At the very least you get something done.
"I think I'll try."
I got her to sleep. By then it was two-thirty. Her Mom and I went to bed assuming we would not be getting up early to take the kids to school. The snow was still coming down sideways and no 2nd grader should be sent to school on five hours of sleep, especially not with a runny nose and hacking cough.
Sure enough, everyone stayed home, even the little one, who wasn't sick. We simply were not up for the battle, so we let her skip preschool. Also, if there are two of them here they will entertain each other, which they did with the help of tv.
I wanted to get back to work on the book, but it was too cold to go to the lake. I tried my office in the basement. Also too cold. I set up in bed, but it didn't work. I kept nodding off. The sun was hidden. The backyard and streets were drifting. The darkness of winter had arrived and I was already sick of snow -- after 14 hours, a new personal record. Finally, I grabbed the used book I bought at Uptown Bill's before the open mic and read the whole thing. I still nodded off occasionally, but it distracted me.
When you find out someone you know took blood thinners and slit his wrists shortly after you were talking to him -- or not, in this case -- you are forced to wonder if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Worse, you wonder what you might have done to cause it. When he left that night he had been upset because he couldn't keep up with our conversation. He felt excluded. And I understand. I've been there, on the alternate level, wishing they would just stop and listen to me, yet unable to say what I wanted to even when they did. The answer to my wondering, in either case, was nothing. It's not up to me to walk around telling people not to kill themselves. He's a fifty year old man with a beautiful mind and problems that few of us can imagine. He called the ambulance immediately. It wasn't his first call for help.
I hope this time he gets it. And I hope this winter doesn't last forever.
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