A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the Way to School...

As I so eloquently opined in my last entry, it only takes a brief moment to change so many things, and on a much smaller scale than that night at Willow Street Pizza, I had one of those experiences today.

I was out walking Q on my way to Jackson's school when a wave of emotion came over me, and I began to sob walking down the street. It felt like it was going to be a pretty enduring moment, when one of my neighbors turned the corner in her truck. I gathered myself just enough to wave hello, with every intention of returning to my little breakdown once she had passed, but right behind her was another car, a green, American-model sport sedan. Out of its windows poured the loud and crystal clear sounds of "Cruise Control," a great tune by one of my all-time favorite bands, the Dixie Dregs (from their album "Unsung Heroes," left). It's important to note that in the 24 years I've been a Dregs nut, I've never, not once, heard the Dregs blasting out of a passing car (though I've done quite a bit of the blasting myself). In just a few seconds, I was taken from an unexpected pit of grief to the unbridled joy of air-playing a Steve Morse guitar lick.

The fact that I got to enjoy that burst of the Dregs was part of what makes the moment so significant. Rox pretty much hated the Dregs. She was unwilling to listen to their CDs with me, and there was no way she'd ever have gone to one of their live shows. And while we were married, this really steamed me. I felt she should have at least made the effort to share in my total enjoyment of all things Dregs, just as I accompanied her to see Phoebe Snow and countless chick flicks. But now I realize how lucky I am that she rejected the Dregs, as not only am I free to enjoy them, baggage-free, but I know I can turn to their music to heal and lighten my soul in a whole new way. I can't say the same for the Beatles, Joni Mitchell, Stevie Wonder, Tracy Chapman, Los Hombres Calientes, and countless other music acts that she and I loved together.

Anyway, given all of this background, to be stumbling into a little emotional trough and have a guy drive by blasting the Dregs at that exact moment, well, that just strikes me as way beyond coincidental. If Vincent Vega were in the house, he'd say it was a fucking miracle.

A Trip Back in Time

I've thought a lot about my first posts, and where I was going with this whole project, and now I realize that if I ever intend to put together the book this story deserves, this is where it needs to happen. And where else to start the story of my life with Rox than at the beginning.

It was August 14, 1992. For me it was just like any other day at that stage of my life. I had been in San Jose a year, waiting tables and gigging with my jazz combo, LMNOP, at local venues, but mostly at the ultra-hip and sadly short-lived Ajax Lounge. It was Friday night, and I was working a shift in the trendy little Willow Street Wood-Fired Pizza in Willow Glen, San Jose's original suburb that had evolved into one of those charming, old-growth neighborhoods everyone wants to live in. It was a typically bustling night, lots of turnover of tables, people ordering and drinking generously, lots of spirited back and forth between me and my co-workers.

It was that night that Rox walked into my life. Unlike me, this was not an ordinary night for her. That very night, Alex and Owen were attending their father's second wedding, and Rox was out with friends to celebrate her newfound independence. Fate, in the funny way it works, put her at a table where she'd be served by the father of her future child--me.

It's been so long now, I can hardly remember what attracted me to her initially. Was it her flighty, sexy persona? Was it her unblemished skin? Perhaps it was the raucous, infectious laugh? It was probably all those things, and more, along with the fact that she was crazy, which, as my history illustrates, is an intangible quality that draws me like a bee to honey, at my peril, of course.

What I do remember from that night: She and her friends ordered a couple of bottles of Chardonnay (blech); at my recommendation, she ate my favorite Willow Street dish--the fettucini with chicken in tequila cream sauce; when it came time for her to leave, I handed her a card with my number on it and asked for a hug, which she grudgingly agreed to; and after she was gone, one of the waitresses, who I'd told that I thought Rox would never call me, urged me to go after her and say something else, so I ran out onto our patio and shouted to her down the street, "Roxann, I'll be really disappointed if you don't call."

Rox always insisted it was those words that turned things, that she never would have called me otherwise. Ah, I could write a book about the combination of pain and pleasure, joy and sadness, craziness and insanity, and love and hate that resulted from those critical 15 seconds. Or a blog.

Rox in Action

It occurred to me as I posted the photo in the entry below that nothing can bring a person to life on a web page like video, so here's a snippet of Rox from the 2003 San Jose Jazz Festival.

An Unavoidable Conclusion

A couple of realizations hit me today. The first came while I was out on a walk with our dog, Q, pictured below with Rox and Jackson at the famed Alice's Restaurant in Woodside in the fall of 2003. I realized that the emotional roller coaster I've been on of late has a theme that should have been obvious--namely, that about 90% of my "moments" happen in the house, and most of those while Jackson's at school.

Being alone here during the day definitely takes its emotional toll, but I can't seem to address that. I work at home (have for more than 11 years now), and even though I have my laptop
now, I typically do something physical mid-day (swim, play hoops), so the most likely time to go hang out at a local coffee house is between about 9 and 11:30. Somehow, I always decide it doesn't seem worth it, and there's always stuff I need to get done around the house. What I am abundantly clear on now is that every month that stay here will pull me down a little bit further. So regardless of my decision about moving us, I definitely need to at least get us into a rental sooner rather than later.

The second realization came while I was in the shower. (What is it about the shower that brings out grief and anger and all the most intense feelings related to a loss?) It suddenly hit me like a load of bricks that since I was in Florida when Rox did the deed, she had somehow decided to leave Jackson at a moment when she was the only parent within thousands of miles. If something had happened to me on the chaotic trip home--a car accident, plane crash, whatever--Jackson would have been parentless. Suddenly, feelings of anger toward Rox rushed to the surface, and I began pounding my fist on the shower wall.

Once that rage died down, I started feeling intense disappointment that Rox gave credence to my mom's longtime sense that she was essentially a narcissistic person. I always argued that she was not, and I still believe that to be the case, but suicide leaves an inherently narcissistic wake. This afternoon, I was on the web site for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, and they had a promotional poster that has the slogan, "Every 16 minutes, someone in the U.S. dies by suicide. Every 17 minutes, someone is left to make sense of it." What could be more selfish than to leave your loved ones to an eternity of grappling with a surreal, self-inflicted death?

To be fair, I don't think Rox or any of us could ever have understood the eventual aftermath of her actions. Rox couldn't see beyond her pain. I couldn't see beyond what I thought was a dramatic attempt to get me back. Unfortunately, all of us who are left can see the impact clearly now, but the one person who could have done something with that knowledge isn't around anymore.

All of this brings me to the simplest, most obvious truth I need to be embracing, even if it's also the most difficult task I've ever faced: It's time to truly let go.

Who Am I Now?

That fundamental question has been swirling through my head today, perhaps not in those words, but certainly something close enough. Yesterday marked 18 months since Rox passed, and I feel like I should be further along. I wonder, how long will her tragic end define my life? After 18 months, I continue to feel like there's a zombie-like quality to my life. Whereas during those first months, emotions were overwhelming me like a hive of bees buzzing around my head, today I feel dazed, dulled, foggy. My feelings aren't sharp about anything, because they almost always quickly come back to Rox, whether I want them to or not.

This morning, at the end of my yoga class, the teacher, Nancy, and I had a long talk about a wide range of things, the most memorable of which was her telling me of a friend who lost her husband to suicide 4-5 years ago. I asked if her friend still feels like it dominates her life. Nancy said that it's still with her every day, and she wouldn't be the person she is today had it not happened, but that in general, she had moved on, and was living her life again without it being a black cloud over her. I couldn't help but think, I'm really looking forward to that day.

That doesn't mean, however, that I'm in a rush to make that day happen ahead of schedule, which is the main reason I recently ended a budding relationship with a younger woman I met through an online dating site. We had a great 7 months together--it was easy, fun, physical, and refreshing. It got my engine going again in many ways. But at some point, I realized that by forming this new relationship, I hadn't allowed my relationship with Rox to run its course. I wasn't close to finished with the mourning process, which was put on hold for the new relationship. Now, since I broke that developing tie, the mournful feelings have returned in a big way, and I find myself wondering whether what I did was a healthy move necessary to achieve proper closure, or a refusal to move on.

All I know for sure is, I don't want to be a prisoner to this bizarre turn in my family history. Which makes me wonder, why on earth was I in my email archives today, re-reading terrible, hurtful emails Rox's brother sent to me during a disastrous fracture that unfolded in the weeks after Rox's death? My therapist (whose name also is Nancy) told me to delete those messages the instant I got them, that there was no reason to subject myself to such poison. But that's not me--I want to remember them, hold them as family history, so that 50 or 100 years from now, there's some kind of record of what transpired. Yet, it's hard not to wonder if I read them because I want to stay imprisoned on some level.

Which seems like an ideal opportunity to mention one other thing Nancy (the yoga teacher) shared during our talk this morning, something an ill friend of hers once said, words that seem utterly applicable here: "I have cancer, it doesn't have me."

At this juncture, suicide clearly does still have me. The question is, do I wait, zenlike, for the process to run its course and release me, or do I fight to release myself? There's probably no answer to that question, only a journey.

The Search for Inner Peace

A friend I just made on the recent suicide-awareness walk Jackson and I did in San Francisco brought up the whole pursuit of inner peace thing after reading my entries thus far, and it has me thinking about what that whole search is about. I told her that I've had bouts of inner peace throughout my life--through yoga, through my saxophone playing, through my bond with Jackson, through the interludes of intense love I shared with Rox--but that it's been elusive for me in general.

Anyone who knows me would laugh if they merely heard me say that I don't have a quiet mind. (That's because I certainly don't have a quiet mouth.) I remember Rox describing her ongoing inner dialog, and understanding it because I have it, too, although hers was admittedly in a whole other terrifying dimension. But like her, I find it difficult-to-impossible to quiet my mind down enough to have peace on a lasting basis. If I find a good meditative state with my yoga, it's only so long before I can't help but think about undone tasks, past mistakes, future plans, Jackson's emotional health, financial stress...you know, the usual stuff that keeps people awake at night.

It would be easy to look upon our pending move as part of a search for inner peace, something to combat the feelings Rox's suicide has left us with. But that's putting too much pressure on our surroundings, wherever they may be. The search for inner peace must be a side process that continues ad nauseum as I conduct the business of trying to rebuild our lives in a new place. The move might bring a blast of peace, but nothing that will last on its own. A great new house that's all mine will bring a modicum of lasting peace, but only for a part of me. Seeing Jackson adjust and settle into life in a new place will bring a sense of parental peace. But there is a deep level on which inner peace must be achieved that will take lots of work on my part--work that has nothing to do with our move. Work that will require me to quiet my mind, forgive my mistakes (past, present and future), and get comfortable with who I've been, who I am, and who I will become. Granted, I know that peace for me can't ever happen in this house, with all of its memories of Rox bouncing off the walls, but I also know I can't expect the mere act of moving to have a lasting healing effect.

No, my move will be like the perverbial gardening analogy--I'll be planting a new seedling, and watching it grow initially will be easy. We'll be in a new place, and all the energy that comes from that will be self-sustaining for a while. Meeting new people, learning new places, building new routines. But once that newness rubs off, I'll have to exert effort to keep the plant alive. I'll have to water it, weed it, prune it, keep an eye on the soil quality, and shield it from frost. And while I'm doing that, the roots will take hold, spreading and forming a solid foundation that will help the plant--my inner peace--prosper amid life's myriad challenges.

Guess I better brush up on my gardening skills, and give my search for inner peace a boost.

A Tribute to the Cycle of Life

This weekend, I took Jackson for a quick camping getaway to Manresa State Beach, south of Santa Cruz. It was a welcome respite from the single parenting grind--we played football on the beach, I did yoga as Jackson used his feet to write his name in huge letters in the sand, and we cooked up a delicious rack of lamb and followed that up with the inevitable s'mores...anyway, the real reason I bring it up is that this morning, while we were frollicking on the beach, I noticed a boy and his dog, and the dog was aggressively barking at a bird standing at the water's edge. Everyone once in a while, the bird would lunge at the dog with its beak, and then I noticed that when a wave washed up, it would knock the bird over and carry it 15-20 feet before trickling out, the dog barking all along. This happened a few times before I headed over to check out what was up with the bird.

As I walked up, it was clear the bird was either sick or wounded. It just was not moving right, and it seemed incapable of flying. I also couldn't tell if this was some black-colored sea bird, or if it had been covered in a light layer of crude oil from a spill. The kid had no idea what was going on, and eventually he started pulling his dog away down the beach. At this point, I sit down and look the bird in the eye, and I may be crazy, but its expression was unmistakeable--this bird was ready to die. It let its head droop onto the sand, and there it lay, only the motion of its breath and the occasional blink of its eye revealing life within. I felt an eerie responsibility to sit there with the bird in its last moments--I talked to it, trying to provide some kind of audible comfort, even telling it that it was okay to go--just as I'd said to Rox 18 months earlier. (Jackson must have felt something strong, too, as while the bird was still breathing, he named it "Pete.")

About 10 minutes went by, and I stood up, wondering how long the bird would survive, aware that we needed to leave (we were approaching check-out time), but not wanting to leave its side. Then, almost on cue, it lifted its head, arched its back awkwardly, fell back to the ground, and lay motionless, its eye now bereft of color, reflectivity, life. Within seconds, nature was onto what was going on, and at least 2 dozen flies had descended and were already climing all over the carcass, including several walking in and out of its mouth.

Clearly, my reaction to this was different that it would have been had Rox not died. The responsibility I felt for keeping this dying bird company came from a place of profound and palpable respect for life and its passing, and it made me furious on the bird's behalf that people were walking by as this drama played out, totally oblivious to the fact that a life--which had been filled with ups and downs, incredible sights, perhaps some opportunities to mate, the gift of flight, and ultimately, some mysterious cause of death--had just ended, right here, before them, on this beach. I thought about how most death occurs without even the slightest tribute, and how that bird deserved to go with dignity as much as any human. And maybe it was the sum total of all these things, and of my still raw feelings about watching Rox die, that led me to sob as I walked away, as if I'd known this bird for years and had formed a tight bond with it.

What I learned is that the grip of death has me now--it will have my attention forever, and I will never, ever look at it the same. I will respect it, I will pay tribute to it, I will do honor to the dying by either recognizing their accomplishments, or at least trying hard to imagine what they were, what the deceased's life was like. At the very least, we owe them that.

Portland, Here We Come?

The most important decision looming for Jackson and myself is where to live. If Jackson had his choice, we'd stay right where we are, in the secure little San Jose neighborhood that's the only place he's ever known, in the school district he loves, with the friends he cherishes. Alas, for a multitude of reasons that start with the need to get out of this house and the ghostly past that emanates from it, and end with a desire to greatly reduce my financial obligations, that's just not possible, or even advisable. So I've been grappling with places that make sense, weighing our connections here against the possibilities elsewhere. And as the time for this decision approaches, one candidate is emerging from the crowd and making more sense to me every day: Portland, Oregon. We have family and friends there, it's easy to get to and from, and I could buy a house outright with the equity I now have.

But moving is a scary proposition. It's not like I'm 25 and can squeeze everything I own into a Honda Accord hatchback any more. I've got a whole house full of stuff, and two people's lives that are rooted here. If Jackson hates it there, I'll have been responsible for adding yet another traumatic development to his childhood, and face the potential for driving a wedge in our relationship. I'm also acutely aware that now is the time for a bit of risk. We have every reason to make a move, and there's no second adult to negotiate with. I can do my job from anywhere, and I could very well end up with a mortgage-free house AND a tidy little nestegg leftover. What's more, we'd be moving to a more manageable city that still offers big-city culture, world-class cuisine, incredible natural surroundings (including great nearby options for snowboarding and river-rafting), and affordable flights to most of the Western U.S.

So even though it all feels very right, why, oh why, do I keep feeling like I'm getting ready to do something terrible to Jackson?

***

As I was writing this entry, Jackson called me from his bedroom with a question. "Daddy, if you were going to die, and I could be brave and save you, but it would mean I'd die, would you want me to do that?" I don't think I have to say what my answer was--it's not even important anyway. Every time I hear Jackson ask a question like that, a big piece of me mourns. It's an ominous reminder that he carries the stench of death in his psyche, and I worry that it could become an obsession. More of that wonderful legacy Rox left us.

The Lasting Legacy

I don't know what's taken me so long to write about this--I mean for people to read. Maybe it's been my compulsion to keep moving forward, neurotically tidying up my life until there are very few traces of what came before. Eventually, my son, Jackson, and I will be living in a new house, most likely in a new city, making new friends, going new places, doing new things, breathing new air. New, new, new. Anything to make the lasting legacy of suicide fade in the rear-view mirror.

Roxann--or Rox, as so many of us called her--died nearly 18 months ago, on April 9, 2006, taking her last meager breaths in front of sobbing loved ones who had held vigil at her hospital bedside for more than a week. Nine days earlier, she had made the final decision of her depression-filled life, looping a noose fashioned from a robe tie over her head and stepping off the edge of the canopy bed we had shared for more than a decade. It was 15-20 minutes before Owen, her then-21-year-old son, came looking for her and uncovered a tragic scene beyond anything he could have imagined.

The paramedics came quickly, and they managed to revive her, rushing her off to the county trauma center, where she was immediately taken to intensive care, in a coma, and placed on a respirator. There she remained for seven nightmarish days, through test after test, streams of those who loved her coming to pay their respects, while her intensely devoted daughter, Alex, then 25, remained almost constantly at her side.

But when the last test made it clear that the best-case scenario for Rox was a life of assisted living, diapers, and little or no recognition of people or surroundings, we decided to remove the ventilator and let her finish acting out her terrible wish. She lived two more endless days--50 hours filled with the most contrasting of emotions: anguish over the inevitable and unimaginable loss we were all about to face; relief that she was out of the ICU and the end would come surrounded by family and friends, and free of the tubes and needles and sensors that had enveloped her for seven days; and profound fear that she would go on living in her vegitative state, a path that surely would have destroyed any remaining hope our family had for future happiness.

To say Rox's last moments were ironic would be gross understatement. This woman, who had lived a life filled with so much emotional angst, who had brought such turmoil and passion and conflict to our marriage, who had chosen a dramatic, premature and violent end to her life, emanated her most peaceful aura as she prepared to leave us. We spent many quiet hours in those two days, sharing stories of our lives with Rox, helping each to deal with the intense mix of sadness, confusion and anger we were no doubt all feeling. Ultimately, there were six of us in the room when, after hours and hours of consistently spaced breaths, Rox suddenly stopped inhaling for what seemed like minutes but was probably closer to 30 seconds. We all realized simultaneously that this might be it, and, in what must certainly be a universally common sympathy behavior, we collectively held our breath, trying without much success to hold back the wails that wanted to explode from us. Out of nowhere, another breath, and a collective exhale from the six of us, followed by another, longer gap, and so it went for what must have been five minutes. As the last, constricted breath entered Rox's body, a CD I had thrown together as background noise for the "comfort room," as they called it, was playing the Beatles' "In My Life," a song that now will never fail to bring tears to my eyes for the rest of my life.

Roxann and I had been separated for more than a year, but the few months that preceded her death had made me feel anything but. At some point the previous fall, she had come to realize that she wished she hadn't asked for the divorce, and she began making overtures toward reconciliation. When I rebuffed her not once, but twice, she proceeded to slip down into the abyss. Only this time was different. This time, no medication was going to pull her back out.

For several weeks, my life was consumed with the drama of Rox's declining state. All of my non-working hours were spent either taking care of Jackson, since Rox was growing increasingly catatonic, or talking Rox through her endless circle of irrational fears, which she repeately admitted were due to her own self-destructive behavior. Finally, when she started making allusions to not wanting to live, it was time to seek professional help. We took her to the very hospital where she had worked as a nurse for 27 years, the last 18 on the labor and delivery unit, and checked her in with severe depression and suicidal ideations.

And so began the end.

Rox spent the next 11 days in the psychiatric ward, behaving mostly like she belonged there--largely consumed by fear, unable to talk about anything except how badly she needed to get out of there, and unable to take charge of herself on any level. I hope to never have a more disturbing experience that walking my 8-year-old into the psych ward to visit his mother. Or, worse yet, waving good-bye through those industrial hospital doors as Mommy's face and waving hand are framed by that tiny little window.

The day after Rox got out of the hospital, it quickly became clear that the whole 11 days had been a complete waste. At 8 am that morning (Monday, Feb. 27), I went to check on her after dropping Jackson at school, and life took an even more surreal turn when I walked in on her popping a bottle of sleeping pills. The next 15 minutes were a chaotic blur as I woke up Owen, and he and I lugged Rox's now gelatinous body to the car and rushed her back to the hospital, this time the nearest one. As it turns out, it's basically impossible to kill yourself with a bottle of 30 Ambien, but Rox's actions were clearly still seen as a suicide attempt, and she was placed on a 72-hour hold. When she awoke that night, she was somewhat manic in her embarrassment. The next day, she agreed to go into the psych ward at this second hospital, where she spent a soul-sapping eight days. The surroundings were like something out of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," the therapy was condescening, and Rox was growing more despondent, not less.

From the psych ward, she entered a two-week outpatient clinic, and she hated every minute of it, including my insistence on driving her to and from to make sure that she went. I simply didn't know what else to do. I'd tried to get her transferred to Stanford, with its vastly superior psychiatry department, but Rox wouldn't go for it. She had tired of telling her story. We talked about pulling her out and sending her to stay with a friend in St. Louis, but the doctor called us in for a meeting, arguing that doing so would be a huge mistake, and declaring that Rox was much improved and should be back at work in a couple of weeks.

During her days at the clinic, I'd be packing and organizing for what I'd deemed to be an absolutely essential sale of our house. (I lived in a nearby rental.) In the afternoon, when she returned, she'd sit, lifelessly, as I went through boxes in the garage, asking her what she'd like to do with this or that. Almost every time, her answer was a listless "throw it away--what do I need it for?" I should have picked up on the signal, but I was too frustrated to notice life's subtleties.

The week after her clinic ended, I went back to work, cautiously, checking in frequently. That Friday, I was to leave on a business trip to Florida, one that was pretty critical because I'd been away from work for weeks, and I'd be hobnobbing with my company's brass. My mom (who might as well have been the anti-Christ so far as Rox was concerned--but that's another entry) was coming to town to watch Jackson.

When I got on that plane, I knew I was leaving a shaky person, but despite everything, I was still convinced I had nothing to really worry about. I viewed her past several weeks--the hospitalizations, the sleeping pills, the endless ruminating, the panic attacks (of which she had a few)--as simply a step up from her typically intensely dramatic persona. I called her from Houston (where I had a connecting flight), and then when I landed in Jacksonville, just to let her know I was safe and to find out how she was doing. She sounded unchanged.

Then, at shortly after 5 pm eastern time on Saturday, I returned to my room from the resort pool and saw that I had a voice mail--the voice mail that would turn my life completely upside down. It was Owen. I'll never forget his words. "Uh, hey, it's Owen. I don't know how else to say this, but mom tried to hang herself. She's in intensive care at Valley Medical Center, and she's in a coma." I was numb. Could I have had heard him correctly? I mean, I knew that I had, but the idea that Rox had actually tried to hang herself was so wholely unexpected and repulsive and shocking and unreal and painful and un-freaking-believable that I just couldn't grasp it, no matter how hard I tried. No tears came at first. I needed confirmation. I called Owen. He was almost unintelligible. I called the hospital and talked with the nurses, and they were somewhat cryptic, mostly urging me to get there as soon as I could in order to make important decisions.

I still can't believe Owen actually left this news for me as a voice mail, but I suppose he had no choice, being that he was the one who found her and it was clear he would be the only family member with Rox, and available to hospital staff, for many hours.

The next 22 hours were probably the longest of my life. A couple of co-workers I will never forget convinced me to come and sit with a group of colleagues in the bar, and then stayed with me in my room until late into the night, refusing to let me be alone until they could no longer keep their eyes open. I don't even remember crying the whole evening--I just remember being in a confounding state of disbelief. I remember that the NCAA Finals were on the bar TV, and I wondered if I would ever care about sports again. I wondered if I would ever care about ANYTHING again. (For what it's worth, such cares do return, and I've emerged from my mourning-stage zombiehood a diehard sports fan once again.)

The soonest flight was the following morning at 6:30, so I had little choice but to try and sleep. The cab was coming at 4 am. I got into bed shortly after midnight, thinking I'd better try to get a couple of hours at least. No such luck. A few weeks earlier, I'd watched this disturbing Sopranos episode in which a captain who wanted out of the family hangs himself, and every time I tried to close my eyes that night in Florida, I'd have these bright flashbacks of that Sopranos scene, only instead of the wiseguy hanging from the rope, it was Rox. A horrible image that remains burned into my psyche today.

The trip home was somewhat of a blur--except that I had several drinks on the way, which was highly unusual for me, and I burduned a flight attendant with my crazy emotions. I don't remember landing. I don't remember getting my bags, or taking the shuttle to the parking lot. I don't remember paying for parking, driving to the hospital, or parking my car. I don't remember the walk from the hospital parking lot, the ride up the elevator, the walk through the hospital corridors. But from now until the day I die, I'll remember with hyper-clarity the gut-level horror I felt when I walked into that ICU room the first time and saw her lying there--the woman I'd fell in love with nearly 14 years earlier; the woman I'd ridden beside on life's ultimate rollercoaster; the woman who'd lovingly said, "I do," carried my only child, built a home with me, and ultimately, broke my heart into itty bitty pieces.

There she was, the greatest love of my life, rendered nearly lifeless by her own confused, wounded and misguided hand. What I'd been through the previous 15 months, that wasn't separation. THIS was separation. Oh, how it hurt. Oh, how it still hurts. But now I prepare to seek out the new, in the hope of shedding myself and, more importantly, Jackson of this terrible lasting legacy known as suicide. If these past 18 months are any indication, it ain't going to be easy. I do know this, though: It is going to be (new, that is). I have no choice. My son's future depends on it. And so my plan for this blog is to devote future entries to that pursuit, documenting our search for a new, happy life. Wish us luck.