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.
About Me, Friends, NaBloPoMo 2012

My Heart Weeps

I found out this evening that the son of one of the teachers at the school where I’ve taken voice lessons for several years committed suicide on Christmas.  My brain absolutely froze when I found out.  My heart feels like a lump of stone.

The woman that this happened to is a kind, talented musician with a quiet, peaceful, rock-solid presence.  I shudder thinking of the pain and anguish she must be feeling; this was her only son.  She was flying up to see him in New York when it happened.  He was in his thirties.

If you need help or a person to talk to PLEASE REACH OUT TO SOMEONE. 


Do it for your loved ones and yourself.  You are NOT alone. 

In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255.

Take a breath, Make a call, Give it 5 minutes. Please.

The worst part of learning this news?  Admitting that on occasion I have had these thoughts.  Deep down, I know this is no option.  But sometimes, when my mood is at its lowest, it makes a small, small bit of sense.  I’ve lain on the couch crying, been standing in the kitchen, or been driving along, and been struck by this “simple” solution.

Thankfully, I’m a chicken.  I also have a crazy level of sense memory and almost vomit imagining what something will feel like especially painful things.  I’m glad about that.

Pray for those suffering.  Reach out to a friend.  Forgive yourself.  Love.