My Life After His Death

It’s been 10 weeks and 3 days. Your friend Grant posted a picture of Mary’s grave with a statement about your last visit and Mary being your only “real” love. I’m not sure why that bothered me so much.  It was a true statement.  Perhaps the thing that got under my skin was that I felt it was such a deliberate slap in the face.  I wouldn’t have known had it not been for someone else who is still connected to him on Facebook.  As you might have remembered, I actually unfriended Grant.  He is the first person that I have ever unfriended.  

I have thought a lot about your friends and particularly Grant.  I am angry about the Kim you portrayed me to be.  Some of it was accurate, most of it was not. Either way, Grant has suddenly become your mouthpiece from the dead.  I find it interesting because you really never seemed to like him that much. You constantly told me stories (probably not true) about him and the various women in his life.  I wonder how he would feel if he knew what you told me?  I wonder if he would continue to defend you?  I wonder if he would continue to blame me.

Saturday was difficult.  Your daughter set up a team “Da Banana” at the Out of Darkness suicide walk.  I did not want to go.  Yet I picked up my personal support system (Jan) and grabbed Toby, who probably deserved more than most to attend, and drove into the city. I knew that several of the bike club members were going to be there and I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I would receive.  Steve and Tim awkwardly hugged me, but their wives overtly ignored me. After you died, I not only became anonymous, and to some, even repulsive. This is probably what you hoped for, planned for…

I think the hardest part of the walk was the glorification of suicide victims.  The glorification of YOU. I had to walk away.  Your actions gave you god-like status, and I knew otherwise.  I wondered if that was true for other families who were walking.  I wore red beads. That was the color for partners or spouses. I noticed there were few people with red beads. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because partners and spouses have a difficult time with the objectification of their victims.  It’s hard to walk around wearing a t-shirt with your spouse’s face across your chest when you are still dealing with abuse, terror, anger, lies, financial deficits, funeral details, abandonment.  Never forget, we are the inner circle and we see you for who you really are.  Or really…we SAW you for who you WERE.

  

It’s actually been two months.  I just got off the phone with your daughter.  She is mad.  Mad that she has to deal with your shit.  We are all dealing with your shit.  Remember that ring that I bought for you?  Paid nearly $1,500 for it?  Found out it’s only worth about $57.  You probably knew that and as a result, never tried to pawn it.  

We inventoried your belongings and valued your truck, your motorcycle and your gun collection. (minus the Glock you used, of course as it is still considered evidence.) Your entire estate is worth about $25,000.  That’s all you left us. Crap worth $25,000.  And now we have to figure out how to liquidate it as your daughter clearly could use this to take care of herself and the grandson you will never get to know. She has generously offered to split this with me and she didn’t have to.  I think I will create a spreadsheet (to keep it straightforward and non-emotional) of money you owed me and ask for that.  I’ll include the medical costs I paid out of pocket for you, the trip expenses to Los Angeles for one of your crazy get rich ideas, car repair, and the storage locker rent.  And I’ll add the cost of the crime scene company who had to come into my garage and wipe the remnants of your brains off the floor.  Yes…I need to be reimbursed for that.

Your daughter is learning more about you too. Her mother is finally sharing stories of your time together.  She had a great conversation with your friend, Don, too.  Seems that Don never had any clue that you were a manipulative liar.  He truly loved you and is devastated that you didn’t go to him for help.  He shared with your daughter some of the things you said about me. I can’t believe what I heard.  No wonder you never wanted the two of us to get together.  You thought Don would find out that the Kim you described, never really existed.  And then he’d know you were a liar.  

Scott, he knows now.  Your daughter told him that you were a chronic liar and cheater with her mother, with Deb, with Mary, and with me.  Got him to understand that there was no way four women would fabricate the same stories.  None of us had ever really met each other. As I used to say, the common denominator always was YOU. 

This reminds me of all the crazy stories you told about your ex wives.  Stories of cheating with your brother, stalking, physical abuse…crazy stories that sounded incredibly outlandish when you were talking to me that I KNEW were lies.  Yet when I questioned you, you got angry and defensive. I honestly think that you BELIEVED these lies and that the more you told them, the more they became your truth.

Sometimes you lied to other people as you told stories of things you and I had experienced together. I would listen to you exaggerate or embellish a description and wonder if you were even aware that what you were describing never happened anywhere but in your head. If I questioned you later on your story, you gaslighted me, trying to make me believe that I had a bad memory.  There were MANY times when I replayed my own truth in my head over and over so I wouldn’t lose it.

Sometimes the stories you told were so over-the-top, I worried about how you were being perceived by your friends and I cringed when I heard you tell them.  You told your parents that you were a millionaire and were frustrated that they never acknowledged your successful business acumen. You told me this as well when I first met you, and then followed that up with a description of your “ranch” where you once had over 50 horses!  Imagine my surprise when I actually visited it and found a dilapidated old farm house sitting on a seven acre parcel with a rusty round pen and two horses.  The only nice thing on the farm was your shed…large enough to house several horses in the back and your horse trailer.

The truck was old.  The horse trailer was old.  The bobcat was old. Your furniture came from the local thrift store. The property was unkept, full of weeds and long grass.  You talked about mowing but rarely did it. I could see lot of promise, but you simply lacked the ambition and the resources to make any kind of substantial change.  

You told me it was worth half a million dollars and that when you chose to sell it, people would be falling over themselves to purchase it. Little did I know that you had actually stopped making house payments and after we left for Buffalo, it would be taken away from you.  Of course, you ignored all the mortgage notices, you ignored the sheriff sale and actually said that the sheriff was doing this to screw you.  It had nothing to do with the fact that you had simply stopped making payments.

And you told everyone that you were a successful small business owner.  The more I knew you, the more I saw how you had misrepresented your “company” and I believe once again, that in your mind, you were the President and CEO of a multi million dollar corporation. The truth was that you borrowed money to purchase gloves, masks, medicine, and bandages, and then filled first aid kits monthly at about a dozen small companies.  Then you kept your fingers crossed that the money you made from selling them would cover the loan. You made it sound like everyone LOVED when you came on your visits yet I noticed that the clerks rarely noticed you. And I really did feel sorry for your distorted perception.

I wonder if you see this now.  I wonder if death gives you clarity. I wonder so much about you and your experience being dead.  I wonder if you have wisdom you didn’t have when you were alive and I wonder if you are able to look back at your past actions and feel a sense of regret.  I wonder if you would change anything about your behavior. I wonder if you would admit and own your narcissism. 

And then I think about what being dead did to you. You used to believe that the soul lives on in animals and there is a part of me that sees you in nearly every bird, in animals, in shadows, even in Toby.  I often look out the windows and see that stupid cardinal and I can’t help but wonder if it’s you.

I dream about you constantly, too.  Several weeks ago, I dreamt that you suddenly walked in the door and demanded that I call your daughter to tell her that you weren’t dead and that you had just been playing a game to see what we would do.  I forced myself to wake up.

The horrible thing is that I’m not sure which was worse: The nightmare that you weren’t really dead, or the reality that you actually are.  

It’s been six weeks and two days since you killed yourself.  (There…I just said it.  Time to be direct.)  A lot has happened since that day.  After we inventoried your storage locker, I took a box of your motorcycle gear back to the townhouse.  In the box were shirts, jackets, hats, items that might be considered special to others in the club. I knew there would be some who would want something to remind them of you. I put these items on the club’s Facebook page with truly the best of intentions. Even though I was mad at you, I knew others weren’t and there would be those who wanted a special hat or shirt to wear in “remembrance of you.”

What started out as a good deed went south because of your “friend” Grant. I use those quotation marks thoughtfully and purposefully because you did consider him your friend, although in reflection, I’m not sure you understood what that word truly meant. Grant’s responses blindsided me and although I know his opinions were formulated through grief, I wasn’t prepared for the backlash that followed.

So first, let’s talk about Grant. You were constantly telling me not to talk about our relationship with my friends and you assured me that you were not sharing information about us with anyone.  OK…that was clearly a lie.  Your narcissistic skill of manipulation was clearly used on your friend as you wove a picture of the woman you claimed to love as a lying, cheating bitch. During the past few weeks, I have learned that you spread these lies to your parents, your daughter, and numerous friends.

And that’s the narrative Grant was promoting. And he played right into your hands after your death.  He turned my post into an opportunity to point out how cold and calculated I was, trying to give away items that belonged to your daughter.  Told everyone the terrible lies you said about me. Directly blamed me for your death.  

I wonder now if you knew you were going to kill yourself, had been planning on getting some sort of revenge, all along? You succeeded in making yourself the ultimate victim…kicked out by the lying, manipulative girlfriend, dead on her garage floor among the items she had moved out of the house. I am breathless with this realization and it dawns on me that you’re that good.

And the grief is turning into rage and betrayal. Is this part of the grieving process?

 

So yesterday was the official “one month” anniversary and yes, your friends in the club mourned your absence.  They are going through their own stages of grief, and they have thankfully left me alone to go through mine. I get text messages from time to time. Otherwise, my days are filled with other friends and family members trying to provide a protective cushion around what they perceive to be my fragile being. I am tired of people whispering around me.  I am tired of people asking if I’m OK. (I’m not, by the way, but I would never admit that.)

I went back to work within a few weeks.  I tried to jump right back into routine and that actually helped me.  I did best when colleagues simply ignored me.  It was hardest when they wanted to talk. I never know how much they want to know or how much detail they are comfortable with.  With suicide, the questions always come down to:

• How did they die? 
• Do you know why?

I am to the point where I hate both and I know when they are coming. I tend to be blunt. You shot yourself in the head in my garage.  Sometimes the shock of that abrupt answer results in no further questions. There is always a pause that hangs in the air as the other person struggles for an appropriate response.  The thing is that there is none. 

And it doesn’t matter if I am blunt or vague.  The question ALWAYS brings me right back to the picture of you laying on the floor with the puddle of blood surrounding your head.  I wonder if the person asking the question realizes that.  I wonder if he can tell the way my eyes glaze over and my voice changes. 

The other question about the “why” actually is harder for me to answer and it angers me the most.  If I say that you had a history of mental health issues, they nod sympathetically and then will often follow it up with, “That must have been so hard for you.”  Most of the time, however, there is silence. And I feel like the arrow of blame is once again upon me. 

I hate songs about suicide.  I hate public service announcements about suicide. I hate when a musician interrupts a concert and tells the audience that you can save a life by reaching out to those who are depressed, and that it’s your responsibility to intervene if someone you love is suicidal. 

I tried all those things with you. “Survivors” have enough to deal with without being blamed. Our relationship began when you were grieving Mary’s death. You started the so-called “cries for help” through texts, phone calls, conversations about death.  Remember that night when you called me while you were sitting on the floor with your shotgun in your lap? I begged you to put it away and call your counselor, the police, anyone that could help you. You told me that if the police were called it would be “suicide by cop.” I called your counselor and she told me the words I have clung to since the very moment I found you, “He’s an adult. If he wants to kill himself, he will.  If you get in the way, you will be a victim too. You will not be to blame, but yet you will be blamed.”  

And that’s why I hate all those “stop suicide” messages.  Those must be made by people who have never tried to convince someone they love to stay alive over and over again.  They must be made by people who haven’t opened the garage door and found a gun next to a dead body.

And everyone wants to know if you left a note. My response is always no. Yet I was cleaning out Facebook messages and found the last message from you.  In all the trauma, I forgot about it.  You wrote, “Has anyone held you accountable as strongly as you hold myself and others?”  You then wrote, “I am sorry for me being in your life.  I will be gone tomorrow.  Not an intended game or power struggle. When you are gone people play the game. That empowered somebody?  No reply needed.”

Was this a suicide message for me?  I never shared it with anyone because I was afraid it would reveal that I was indeed to blame.  I have read and reread your words over and over.  Some parts of it make complete sense to me.  This is what I believe to be true:

1. You asked about anyone holding me accountable. Everyone in my life has. My ex husband, my children, my parents. All the people you tried to keep out of my life and our relationship.  I told you this so many times.  You never listened.
2. I am sorry for being in your life. I will be gone tomorrow. When I read this at 10:30 at night, I was relieved.  You finally understood that you needed to leave.  This nightmare was going to be over.  I did not think it meant you were going to kill yourself.
3. When you are gone, people play the game…etc.  Like so many emails and messages you have written before this one, the rest of your words made no sense to me.  I turned these words around and around in my mind and never found any interpretation that actually worked. 

So that brings me back to the question of whether these were meant to be your angry final words to me.  I didn’t feel that anger in your hug the next morning.  I think that if you had stayed angry, you wouldn’t have done what you did.  (A new euphemism for “killed yourself).  Anger feeds into your bad decisions, but not permanent ones.  I remember reading that text at 10:39 at night when I was hoping to be sleeping.  I rolled my eyes because it was the same as all the other texts you had ever sent me after you had been drinking and I had offended you in one way or another. I didn’t respond because then you would have known that I was laying there awake and you might have tried to start up the argument all over again.  I was so tired of arguing. And I think I was a little afraid that I might cave in and allow you to stay.

Tomorrow we will go to the storage unit to clean it.  The day after your death, friends came and moved everything that remained in the garage that was remotely associated with you to your storage unit.  (Actually it was my storage unit as I paid for it.) There were a few things I left at the townhouse, your leather vest, your hats, a few shirts that still smelled like you.  Everything else, even horse-themed dishes from your farm, went into the storage unit.  Your family and I decided that we needed a few weeks to catch our collective breaths before we started going through your material possessions. I am not looking forward to this except that perhaps it will be healing in some way. 

Your mother, father, brother, nephew, and daughter will all be opening every box and itemizing the contents. I know what’s in those boxes and I’m afraid some of what’s in them will tarnish your family’s perception of you.  That’s why I have already thrown away some of your journals and your tablet. Did you even think about this task when you made your decision?  Did you even think that someone was going to have to go through all that crap?  The thought of the job ahead of us on what will be a hot August day makes my heart beat unusually fast. I have to stop typing.  I’m shaking again.  Please make this stop.

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.

It’s time. It’s been almost six years. Six years since I found his body in a puddle of blood on the floor of my garage. Six years since my world came to both an abrupt end and an abrupt beginning.

It’s been almost six years and it never completely leaves my mind. It’s been almost six years of keeping all the emotions, questions, stories, rage and terror deep inside. Six years of pretending that I’m OK…strong…unaffected.

It’s time to be honest. I’m ready to push the letters that I wrote TO YOU out to others. I think I finally have come to the point where I know I won’t get answers to the hundreds of questions I have posed. You are dead.

And so here it is. Letter Number One.

To you… 

Three weeks and 3 days

It’s been three weeks, and three days since you decided to take your own life. Kill yourself?  Shoot yourself in the head? Suicide?  I don’t even know what to call it anymore.  In this short period of time, I have heard people call it many things.  I’m at work right now.  Can’t focus on what I need to do.  Inside, I’m still a mess.  Last night I had dreams about this. I dreamt that you sent me a text message that said, “I’m alive.  I’m with someone else.”  I dreamt that I tried to find you and it wasn’t you.  It was an imposter.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  Deep inside, I always thought this word accurately described you anyway.

Did you know that leaving me this way would permanently scar me?  Was it your intent that I find you, the trail of blood leaking out of your head, spreading across my brown carpet and onto my garage floor?  Is this how you wanted me to remember you? Did you imagine how I would react?  Did you want to see me cry, scream, fall to my knees, sob? You always accused me of having issues with showing my emotions.  Maybe this was your last attempt to pry those emotions out of me. Force me to scream so hard my throat hurt for a week afterward.  Force me to pull deep, wracking sobs from the bottom of my lungs.  I didn’t know I was capable of that.

I can’t erase the picture of you laying there, on your back, your left arm cocked slightly.  The gun (I think?) on the floor.  I thought you were sleeping, passed out because of the heat, had a heart attack, were just dramtically laying on the floor from exhaustion.  It was hot that day. I didn’t notice that you had no shirt on. (Odd detail that all the police officers noticed, but not me.)  As I walked into the garage, I was angry.  You told me you were going to move things out.  I expected you to be gone.  The bike was still there with it’s stupid banana and skull, capturing my attention as I opened the garage door.  Seeing you on the floor wasn’t totally surprising to me.  Finding you dead wasn’t really either.

I called out your name. Several times, as I walked closer to you. I remember having very fleeting thoughts that you might have had a heart attack and maybe I should move faster so I could check your pulse, start CPR (oh the irony of that!), call an ambulance. Be your savior once again. As I got closer (those few seconds are now in slow motion), I saw the blood and I knew what happened. Your face was gray. As I stumbled out of the garage, screaming, (Did I say, “Scott, oh my god, what did you do?” or was that my imagination?), I heard your voice in my head informing me in a matter of fact way that a person’s face goes gray right after they die. I remember thinking, “Damn…you’re right.”

I couldn’t go back into the garage. I couldn’t bring myself to check your pulse. To touch you. To even look back. I remember moving towards the driver side of my Jeep and then realizing that my phone was on my the passenger side and that I might accidentally catch a glimpse of you when I had to reach over to get it. I called 911. I was hysterical. I fell to my knees on the driveway, trying to answer questions from the dispatcher, listening for sirens, hoping that some neighbor would see me screaming and would bring me back to reality. The dispatcher kept asking me if I had checked to see if you were alive. I told her no. I knew you were dead. It simply didn’t occur to me that there might be a chance you were alive. Deep inside, I knew when you made the decision to die, you would make sure you didn’t screw that up. How could I explain that?

The police went to the wrong house.  I had to stand up to wave them over.  I was selfishly mad.  I thought I might accidentally catch a glimpse of you again.  They descended on the house. Checked you.  Yes, you were dead.  Called off the ambulance and called the medical examiner. I asked for Toby.  Suddenly, I was terrified that you had done something to our dog.  I know that would be out of character for you, but I hadn’t heard him bark in all this.  I could only think how scared he must have been when he heard the gunshot.  I can’t even think about the moment when you told him goodbye.  (Did you? Or did you just walk out to the garage and pull the trigger?  You didn’t even put your boots on. Again. I didn’t notice this.  I was told this by the police, who also noticed that you left your rings on the table.  How odd.)

The next four hours are a blur.  Answering police questions. Did you know (of course you did because you were once a RESERVE sheriff) that I would be considered a suspect?  That my hands would be swabbed and that my gun would be taken away? Did you know that I would be subjected to questioning by three different investigators asking the same questions, looking for inconsistencies?  They kept asking me whether you were right or left handed.  It bugs me but I honestly could not remember and I got stuck thinking about how you put the gun to your head with your dominant hand, therefore you must be right handed. 

They wanted more evidence that you were suicidal.  That was easy. I provided an investigator with an email you sent me asking for your ashes to be put into some Hawaiian blowhole. I brought up several phone calls I had made to the police asking what my options were for getting you to leave.  They asked if I was afraid of you.  I said yes. I was afraid you would kill yourself and had fleeting thoughts that you would take me with you. That documentation was evidence and I’m thankful I made the call.  

The medical examiner and the police investigator came to a quick conclusion. Yet, I still felt guilty.  I pondered this as I sat in the back of my jeep with the tailgate open. I refused to look at the activity behind me.  Thankfully, they quickly shut the garage door to spare me or the neighbors any accidental glimpses of your dead body on the floor.  No one needs to see that. The police stayed with me for what seemed like hours. I asked questions about whether they clean the scene, who collects the body, whether I could live there…questions no one should ever have to ask of anyone.  

Then they moved your body into the medical examiner’s van.  They suggested that Jan take me for a little ride for 10 minutes so I would not have to see that.  I’m so glad I did. That image would have been difficult to shake although I have imagined exactly what it looked like with you zipped up in the body bag being loaded into the van countless times.  I’m not sure why but I knew THAT was going to happen. 

And then there were the phone calls.  The police would not let me contact your parents or daughter until after the medical examiner had given his blessing.  When the police first came and found me sitting on the driveway, they gave me permission to contact someone who would be my personal support.  I remember trying to think about who to call first. I called my son. He wasn’t home. I called Jan next. Jan would take care of me. She was always the kind of person that would take charge in any situation and I needed that now.

She came as quickly as she could…crying….shaking…hugging me. She was a witness to the entire collapse of this relationship and I know she felt some of the responsibility for the scene in the garage.  You didn’t know it but Jan, Gwen, Nita and I had, of course, met with our counselor only a few weeks before and Jan had already helped me move your belongings to the garage a few days ago. I wonder if she had rehearsed this outcome in her mind as I had?

Jan also contacted our counselor Marty.  Marty called me right away and reassured me that it wasn’t my fault and reminded me that it was time to move forward.  Mourn quickly and then move on.  I made an appointment with her to see her in person in a few days.  I really looked forward to that.

I called the people I could…my support system…my parents (my Dad fell apart and raged in a way I did not think him capable of), my daughter.  The police investigator wanted me to contact my boss and I ended up asking Jan to call the superintendent as he knew you better than my actual supervisor. (I know you will remember your motorcycle ride together, which was unbelievably awkward for me…having the superintendent show up at my house, in my garage.)  I didn’t realize that the investigator would later talk to him and ask for him to vouch for my whereabouts prior to your death.  I called Steve as president of the motorcycle group. He also broke down.  I didn’t realize that within a few short hours, he and several other men in the group, would come to my home and invent a narrative that would later indict me.

Did you know I had to tell your parents?  I had to hear your father sobbing?  Your mom answered the phone and I managed to say, “Scott shot himself in my garage.” She asked if you were dead.  Your father was inconsolable in the background and I briefly thought about the picture you had described when you told him about Mary’s death.  I’m sure it was worse for him when he had to hear about his own son. The conversation wasn’t long. I believe they were subconsciously or maybe even consciously expecting it. They knew from your recent visit that you were supposed to be leaving me. Your mother reflected on your last visit with her and said you were fixated on saying goodbyes.  You must have known even then.  When they came over the next day, I sat on the stairs with your mother and answered her questions.  I would do a lot of that in the days, months, and years to come.

Did you know I called your brother when he landed in Los Angeles?  (His first words were, “that fucker.”) And that he had to catch a flight right back to Minnesota?  (He hasn’t cried, by the way.)  He seems to be hiding his pain, possibly for the good of his son.  I can’t imagine how he told Aiden. Aiden adored you. I have a feeling that your brother probably has also rehearsed this conversation with his son as he didn’t act surprised when I called. I’m sure his mind sent him to back to countless conversations and interactions with you over the years where suicide was taunted as a reaction to whatever drama was playing out in your life.

Did you know that I had to call your daughter? She didn’t believe me. I can’t even begin to talk about the impact your decision has had on her. That will be part of another chapter. She told me that she came over that night. I honestly don’t remember that. Throughout the days that followed, your daughter has been amazing. She is the strong one. She handled the “next of kin” responsibilities as if she had been preparing her entire life for this role.

Did you know that there is such a thing as a crime-scene cleaning company?  There are three of them in the north metro area.  The one at the top of the alphabetized list given to us by the police officer came in and removed the blood, brain splatter, and any other traces of you from my garage.  They disposed of the bloody rugs and scrubbed the floor with special cleaning solution. They did all this at 11:00 in the evening. I guess tragedy doesn’t confine itself to daylight hours. The lady from the company was amazing and I wondered if they had special training in how to work with victims of death scenes. 

The floor was still a mess and I couldn’t bring myself to even go into the garage.  Steve, Gordy, and Tim drove my Jeep into the garage and then drove your truck and your bike away.  This is all I asked.  I couldn’t look at the truck.  I couldn’t look at the bike.  I needed every trace of you to be gone.  Gwen and Jan stripped your bed and removed everything associated with you from that room.  By midnight, It was as if you had never been there.

OK…deep breath.  I have to stop.  I can’t keep writing anymore.  I feel the tears again forming in the back of my head and I’m determined to make it through without allowing them to roll down my face.