Death and Taxes, Picture O' The Day

A Question of the Macabre Kind

I was out with some friends the other day and I learned more about a really sad situation that happened last year when the son of one of the teacher’s at my music school committed suicide.

The suicide itself was bad enough.  But I was utterly shocked and stunned when I found out the rest of the story.

The gentleman who committed suicide had set things in motion so that his Mom would be the first one to find out what he had done and to discover his suicide note.  She flew to a different state to visit him at Christmas.  At the airport he had arranged to have a limousine pick her up from the airport and take her to his apartment.  She even said she thought this was a nice treat he had arranged for her.

At his apartment he left a note on the door for her to go in whereby she discovered his completely empty apartment with his suicide note and his legal documents on the bed.  He even described where he had left his body in case the police hadn’t found it yet.

On a visit?  At the holidays?  With a limousine?  And a note with the placement of your body?  So disturbing and sad.  So very, very horrific and horrifying.  Not just because of the end of a life, but because of the manner in which it was done.

I’m told that this person thought of his Mom as his best friend.  But still.  It’s NEVER, NEVER okay to do this to your parents.

And this is where my conversation with The Guru probably got a bit weird and macabre.  My brain refused to accept the information I had just heard and I had to explore it and poke about in every dark, lurid cranny and crevice before I could let it go.

Me: So, if you did ever decide to commit suicide who would you call in?

Him: That’s a really bizarre question.

Me:  I know.  I’m sorry.  I know that you would never do that.  But still, who would it be?  It couldn’t be your Mom.  She’d have a heart attack.  Your Dad wouldn’t do much better.  (He’s an only child).  It can’t be me because I’d call you back from the grave and strangle you for it.

Him:  This conversation is way too strange for me.

Me:  It’d have to be your uncle.  He’s a cop; he’s probably dealt with worse in his time.

Having settled on who he should call in for this situation, I started to contemplate who I would call in for the same situation.  I know.  I know.  Really, really morbid.  Like I said, I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it even though I knew my thoughts were going in this scary, grisly direction.

Eventually, I decided it would have to be one of my friends or possibly my uncle who is a retired fireman as I felt he wouldn’t be completely scarred for life.

So, there you have it.  A spooky, dreadful question perhaps, but who would you call in if this was your situation?  Edgar Allen Poe?  Edward Gorey?  Great-aunt Matilda?

“The Suicide,” illustrated by Edward Gorey (1925-2000), date unknown.
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Death and Taxes, Friends, The Family That...

Too Much Bad News

You all know the old saying.  When there’s bad news there’s a lot of bad news.

Oh.  That’s not the saying?

Well, it’s close, eh?

My friend’s Dad is in the hospital in intensive care again.  He’s been progressively improving since October when he had a spot that could have turned into an aneurism.  He was in rehab, but is now back in the hospital in bad shape.  I hate to see my friend so unhappy!  This is too much stress.  Stress not good.  Stress does NOT make anyone a happy camper.

Another acquaintance’s husband passed away last week.  While, I can’t say that I was ever on the best terms with her, and sometimes even wanted to strangle her for her weird passive-agressive nature, I worked with her for a number of years and know that she was really devoted to her husband.  It’s a blow that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  Friend.  Enemy.  Or frenemy.

Last, but certainly not least, my husband’s cousin had a stroke.  I found this out while we were waiting for his Dad to go into surgery for his knee.  Only 26.  Just married.  Just graduated and started working as a nurse maybe a year ago.  Tragedy.  Shock and dismay.  A massive bleed.  Deep in her brain.  First thing I think?  It’s almost better that she doesn’t wake up.  I think this, but knowing that some people already see me as a cold-hearted witch try to refrain from saying it out loud.  I just know that I wouldn’t want to live out the rest of my days unable to move, talk or really do anything.

Quality. Of. Life.  That’s all I’m saying.

These and some other things are the reason I’m saying – enough is enough already.  No.  More.  Bad.  News.

Alright, universe?

please

and thank you

with whipped cream

and cherries on top