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Sparkle (4)
I checked the mail today. Inside was a large yellow envelope addressed to me from the Regional Supervising Coroner’s office.
This envelope, I hoped, would contain some answers about my husband’s death that had been unclear. When the police told me they had found my husband they took a guess as to what had happened. A day later they retracted. At any rate, it was clear there was uncertainty.
I have held on to a few beliefs over the past nine and a half months. I believed that Neil had not committed suicide but had made some very unwise choices that resulted in his death. The investigators said their investigation did not lead them to believe it had been suicide. Their reasons were because they had found no note, he had ordered cable, and watched a movie the night before. He had also continued to book appointments with friends and our Pastor. He was reaching out, but then he would drink and cancel his appointments. The point was however, he was trying to connect. Each of these actions were a sign of someone who was trying to keep their life going, not end it forever.
The only missing piece the police were waiting on was the toxicology report which takes six months to get. The toxicology report would show if he had a regular amount of medication in his system, or if he had overdosed.
My greatest fear about opening this envelope was that it would be inconclusive. That there would be a lack of answers. A lack of closure. I was never one for lingering in limbo. I would always rather know and lay it all out there, then hid away, and live in the in-between of the unknown or the unsaid.
Because it took six months to get the report, by the time I could have access to it I had already grown so attuned to my belief that his death was accidental. I didn’t think the report could make a difference.
Then one day, it was suddenly important for me to get more answers. I think part of that was because I am continually lacking closure from choosing not to see his body when he died. I sometimes wrestle with whether he actually has, or if I’m dreaming this all up and he’ll suddenly appear in real life again.
I wrote to the coroners office and today their report was delivered.
The large yellow envelope sat on my kitchen table starring back at me, knowing something I didn’t. I was eager to rip it open but my daughter had not yet gone down for her nap. I acknowledged the slight possibility I might react badly to what lay between those yellow sheets.
I tried to distract myself for as long as possible. I asked myself questions while I was trying to pass the time. “Will these answers make any difference at all? What will it change? Will I feel responsible if it says his death was intentional?”
I lasted about seven minutes and then I couldn’t take it any longer. The only thing between me and understanding another layer within my husband’s death, was this yellow envelope.
I ripped the envelope open. Immediately my eyes locked on one word. Stigma spelled “s-u-i-c-i-d-e”.
Adrenaline rushed up my throat. I looked at Alexis. I should have waited until she was having a nap. It did make a difference. It made all the difference in the world. I started to think about how it made a difference. He didn’t leave a note, but if it was intentional he could have, right? He didn’t take advantage of all the people who were reaching in to his world, so he’s to blame for doing this to himself when he could have gotten help, right? He could have sobered up and made better choices that would not have led him down this path, right? Maybe. And this maybe was making me angry.
I told my daughter I had to go potty. I locked the bathroom door and sat on the floor and cried. For nine and a half months I believe a truth that just got snatched out from under my feet and I had to start all over again. The feeling in the pit of my stomach was like the feeling I had when the police told me they had first found my husband, and that he was deceased. I didn’t know how to process this. All I felt was anger that
