A week ago today a dear 83-year old man ended his life.
You don't know his name. And perhaps you do know him because suicide shredded your heart with the loss of a loved one. He's one of the 34,000 sweet souls who take this action every year in the USA.
As a writer, all the "UN" words whoosh to mind....
He was a part of our family. Diagnosed with terminal cancer last week, he felt this was his only option to protect another dear one, my mom, from an extended Hospice exit.
Now that I'm swirling in this tsunami of grief, the waves of suicide-related facts, emotions, and words rage on.
I also feel an aching regret.
I regret my unkind thoughts and words about him.
Words that were used to make him appear small and me BIG.
He was this. And that. He wasn't my dad.
Blah, blah, blah.
What purpose did any of my words and thoughts serve?
My new mantra is...
Sounds simple. Cliche. Trite.
I don't care.
P.S. Please forgive me Mr. Al.
I appreciate your many kind acts to my mom and me.