Who's to Blame?

It’s March the 11th, 23 months since Jon’s passing. As the two year anniversary draws near, I have found myself tossed between a myriad of conflicting emotions. I have longed for the day when this grief would loosen its grip. I have wished I could fast forward to a time when the tears didn’t fall at the mere mention of his name. And at the same time, part of me would rather go back to those first days - a time when the sound of his voice still lingered in the air and the memory of his touch was as close as yesterday.  

Immediately following April 11, 2017, every moment of life was counted by the number of hours and the number of days it had been since I last held my love.  Eventually, days turned to weeks, and then the weeks turn into months.  Finally, it became a year, then a year and a half, etc.  Up until the 2-year mark, it’s still acceptable to count time in terms of months, but after that, well…….  I’m just not sure I’m ready to count the years. 

Counting the years means he is farther away. Counting the years means life has moved on apart from him. Counting the years means we have new routines, new facets of life untouched by his presence. We have new friends who never knew him personally and only know OF him by the story of how his life ended. 

I look back on life 24 months ago and wonder what happened. How could I have missed it? Two years ago there were signs.  Two years ago I didn’t see them. Two years ago I thought the depression was only temporary. I thought…no, I KNEW, he would get better. So, if you’ll allow me this moment, I need to reach back in time once again and ask myself the hard question, “How did you miss it, Jenn?” 

Two years ago, we were in Nicaragua. His depression was worsening and cause for great concern to both of us. We had only recently embarked on this adventure, this new life in a foreign land. But this time of great excitement was mixed with a bit of fear as he faced a daily struggle with the dark side of bipolar disorder. He was doing the things you are supposed to do….medication, counseling, rest, reading, prayer, meditation. We talked, worked in the yard, went for long walks, sat in the pool. I tried encouraging him. I tried acting like it was no big deal. I tried distracting him. I tried letting him be. Sometimes I was patient and sweet. Sometimes I was frustrated and angry. Sometimes I said the right things and sometimes I’m sure I said the wrong things. I tried all the ways I knew to try. We fought and prayed and loved and believed. 

But somewhere in that last month, he gave up. I don’t know the day it happened. I missed it. I don’t know if it happened on April 11th, or if he had already made up his mind. There are so many things I’ll never know. And so many things I could spend years questioning.

When someone ends their own life, people want answers. They want to know the reason. They want something or someone to blame. They want to know the moment the scale was tipped. I understand it. I, too, have wanted someone to blame. In the last 23 months, I have blamed disease, misinformed doctors, anesthesia, dangerous medications, and mostly, myself. How did I miss it? 

Most of you would be shocked and even angered by this, but there are others who have cast blame in my direction as well. There are others who think I should have seen it coming, I should have done more, I should have known. And believe me, I understand because I was the first to accuse myself of the same. 

But blame….ugh….blame is a perilous road.  And “what if” land is a dark place to live. 

So many questions we may never be able to answer, but there are things I do know with 100% certainty. I know who Jon was. I know how much he loved me and loved his family. I know how much he loved God and valued His relationship with his creator. I know he never would have wanted to hurt me or any of our kids. I know that his thoughts were confused and irrational that day. I know he was suffering from bipolar depression, which is a beast of a disease. 

Yes, April 11th was a horrible day, but it was just 1 day. It was 1 day out of 4,300 that we had been together.  The note he wrote that day was 1 confused and irrational note, out of a hundred cards and love notes he had written in the years before.  And the choice he made to end his life was 1 choice, 1 choice out of thousands he had made putting others first. It may have been his last choice, but it doesn’t nullify the thousands of good choices he made, the many loving, giving, serving and sacrificial choices he made over the years.

23 months later, I still have moments of self-doubt, days where I am shackled by self-condemnatory thoughts. If you have been there, then you’ll know what I mean when I say it is possible to drown in the sea of “if only’s” and “why didn’t I’s.”  We must be quick to grab the lifeline of truth. We must kick our way to the surface and deeply inhale the air of mercy. We must reach out our arms and grasp the buoy of certainty that this day… this day that has come to have so much power in our lives, so much presence in our thoughts….was 1 day.  One day when God was still on His throne. He did not turn His head that day. He did not forget me or forget Jon. He didn’t lose His power to heal or help or intervene. His mercy and grace and goodness did not fail. His compassion and kindness and love did not falter. Though I may not have answers to some questions, this I know with unshakable conviction.

I write this today as I reminder to you, to love yourself and be kind to yourself and to steer clear of the path of blame. And I write to myself, in this 23rd month, that I may be quick to grab this lifeline of truth:

“Wherever I go, your hand will guide me;

your strength will empower me.

It’s impossible to disappear from you

or to ask the darkness to hide me,

for your presence is everywhere, bringing light into my night.” 

Psalm 139:10-11, The Passion Translation