It’s now four weeks to the day I found you.  I find myself wondering what you did that morning.  I remember that you didn’t want me to let our dog, Toby in your room.  That was unusual.  Perhaps I should have said something.  When I came in to say goodbye, you asked me to hug you one more time.  I remember thinking that was a really strange request, but not out of the ordinary for you, especially because I thought you were going to move out that day.  I obliged.  To this day, I’m not sure why.  This is the one detail I’ve left out of the public narrative regarding your actions up to the “event.”  I can’t bring myself to talk about it.  Your voice sounded so mournful.  I should have said something.  I should have caught that.  

But you asked me to hug you.  One last hug.  I didn’t know it would really be one “last” hug.  You sat up in bed and put your arms around my waist, laying your head in my chest.  I pressed your head into me.  We held each other for a while.  Too long, I thought when I left.  Not long enough when I thought back to it after you were dead.  

What were my last words to you? Did I say, “I love you?”  I don’t remember and it brings me to tears that I might not have told you that.  Did you say, “I love you?”  I can’t remember that either.  I remember leaving thinking that you were going to move out and knowing that this was going to be a painful day for you.  Honestly, I had a brief flicker of a thought that you might kill yourself, but you sounded so peaceful on Sunday night.  You sounded like you had a plan, which I misinterpreted as a place to stay and plans that would have kept you alive after I left.  When I think back on the night before, you left clues everywhere…from the ride with John, the hummingbird analogy, cryptic comments.  

Did I know?  Did I let it happen?  When my deepest level of metacognition allows itself to be entertained in the light of day, I think about that. Did I wish it?  I knew I had to let you go and struggled with breaking up.  (Will have to address that whole issue later.) I think I always knew I would never truly be free unless you were in Florida or dead.  OK, as long as I am admitting to this, I should go deeper.  I actually fantasized about how you might die and what would happen, how I would react.  When you actually killed yourself, the scenario played out much like I had already rehearsed.  

Except that I didn’t think you would do it in my garage.  I didn’t think it would be at my house. I knew you harbored deep resentment towards my townhouse.  I know you saw it as a barrier towards a happy ever after in Florida and it was definitely a signal that I would never be happy there.

  I thought you were going to do it at Otsego Park.  You had spoken about how much you loved it there. You went to the park often while I was at work and liked to photograph the river. I’ve never been there and I doubt that I ever will now. Honestly, I’m glad you didn’t do it in the park. Your search and rescue experience would likely have steered you to a final resting place that wasn’t public. Even on your worst day, you wouldn’t have wanted a child to find you. You understood exactly how this trauma would forever impact a person. That’s likely why you chose my garage.

I also thought you might go back to the farm.  I often pictured you sneaking back to your old property and finding that mound in the pasture where you buried Cowboy, your favorite horse.  You would lay down on it and then both poetically and violently, end your life. This would represent the coming together of every spiritual belief you clung to. It would fit.

But I didn’t think it would be at my house. Why didn’t I think this?  To this day, I’m still puzzled by this strategic decision on your part. The only thing that makes sense is that you wanted a last “fuck you” and you believed that I would never be able to set foot in the house again, would sell it at a huge loss due to a death occurring there, and thus, my peaceful life would be forever ruined.

And that’s exactly why I choose to stay.  Jan wanted me to come home with her.  Others offered to give me a room. Not a chance. You are NOT going to chase me out of this house. It’s been hard and I still see you everywhere I look but I refuse to let you win. 

That brings me back to my musings about what you were doing/thinking exactly 4 weeks ago today.  Did you kill yourself right before I came home?  If so, were you thinking about it and debating about whether to proceed all day?  What did you do in those hours between that last hug and pulling the trigger? I’ve looked at your phone’s call records and I know that there were no calls or texts sent out on that day. No facebook messages or even “likes.” I can’t imagine that if you were alive all day, that you wouldn’t have reached out to someone.  Why didn’t you try to call me?  Call someone? I don’t understand.

You told me you wanted to be cremated. You had recently filled out a form to donate your body to the University of Minnesota’s medical department. Remembering this, your daughter and I contacted them immediately.  They would only take your body if it had been less than three hours from your death.  The police told us that the condition of your body put your time of death around 3:00. Only you know the actual time, but I don’t believe that.  It really doesn’t add up.

 I am still convinced that you listened to me leave in the morning, put on your jeans (no shirt, not needed), didn’t put on socks, boots, pulled your gun out of your vest, walked downstairs, (did you say goodbye to Toby?), laid on the garage floor on the carpet, put the Glock to your temple and pulled the trigger. (Funny, I originally pictured you standing when you pulled the trigger, but it made more sense that you were either laying down or sitting. I have actually spent hours and hours during the past few weeks trying to find an answer to this macabre question.)

I think that if you had to think about this all day, you would have talked yourself out of it. Would you have gotten some help? I doubt it. My guess is that you’ve probably gotten to the point of holding the gun to your head before, but always decided to back off at the last minute.  No. This time you knew you were going to get up and do it.  Otherwise, you would have put socks on.  You always put socks on.  This is how I know. Strange, that almost four years ago, I was thinking the exact opposite.  I knew you had pulled yourself out of your suicidal funk after losing Mary because you bought new boots.  Those new boots became a (temporary) survival statement.  Like your socks, I noticed they were not on your feet when you died.

I’ve been reading a book about suicide survivors.  (An odd phrase, since no one actually survives suicide.)  This is what I have learned so far:  

• I will think about this my entire life.  
• I will never forget the scene in my garage.
• There will never be answers to all my questions.
• Your decision has permanently impacted your daughter, your grandson, your parents, your friends, your brother, your nephew, and me….whatever you want to call me. YOU screwed us all.  I can’t forgive you for that, even though that’s what the book says I must do.