“I can’t even do this right,” Susie complained, after failing once again to end her life. She had hired an Uber driver to take her to San Francisco and leave her and her wheelchair by the bay. She’d had a lot to drink, and she thought that the alcohol would prevent her from suffering too much in the cold waters off Fisherman’s Wharf. The alcohol also made her so unsteady that she fell out of her wheelchair before she could reach the edge of the bay, and she suffered through the cold, inebriated night before she was found, hospitalized, and returned home.
On Friday she did it right . Once again an Uber driver took her to San Pablo Reservoir, a half hour drive over the East Bay hills. She waited until the park closed, the fishermen left, and she was alone. She found the kayak launch ramp and headed down into the water. She was found the next morning.
“It’s the sixth time since August,” her mother said, “and the sixteenth time overall,” she added. Susie was still in high school when she hopped on a bike and rode into nearby Tilden Park, intending to end her life by riding over a cliff. She was found the next day, paralyzed from the waist down.
But this isn’t about Susie. Although her parents ministered to her for the years between her first attempt and now successful effort, they still have to overcome the awful of losing a daughter, having spent so many years watching out for her, checking her medicines, fixing her wheelchair, taking care of her in so many ways, and hiding the resentment that these burdens were put upon them by a conscious, avoidable decision of a young girl whose brain was not fully formed and would have paid dearly to change the impulsive decision she made so many years ago. “This is what she wanted to do,” said her mother last night, “but it’s still a punch in the gut.”
Susie is dead, but her life and death will linger in their lives forever. Perhaps they will reassure each other that they did everything they could to prevent her first failed attempt, then again in the years they cared for her. It’s still a gut punch, leaving nothing to overcome, because overcoming this awful isn’t possible.
I had lunch with Susie’s father last Friday. “We picked up her ashes this morning,” he said. “I don’t know where we’ll spread them.” I knew he was doing well, but Susie’s mother’s life changed when Susie’s first attempt went awry. “How long was she in the hospital?” I asked. “Two million dollars worth,” he replied. First to John Muir Medical Center, then to a place where there were spinal experts somewhere down the Peninsula,” he responded. In speaking about his wife he responded, “Now I don’t know what she’s going to do. Her whole life these last fifteen years revolved around caring for Rosie.”
(The expression “overcoming the awful” were words from a friend, inquiring about my well-being. I can’t let go of them.. That same friend, after reading my post, reminded me that I had misremembered what she had said. “Don’t let the awful overwhelm you,” were her words.)