Joining the Suicide Survivors Club

Written by Cathie Godfrey

It’s Tuesday, December 19, 2000, the day my life changed forever. I pick up my daughter Jennifer after school promptly at 3:35pm. She is ten years old and in grade five. She hops into the backseat of the van, her blonde hair peeking out from under her winter hat. She quickly removes her scarf once she is buckled into the vehicle. It’s extremely cold outside and even the short walk from the school to the van is worth covering her face. My son, David, who is fourteen and in grade eight, arrives home soon after. He is already over six feet tall, with light brown hair and beautiful brown eyes, like his dad. 

Brian is not there. Strange, I think. And stranger yet, there’s no note, nothing to tell me where he is. This is so unlike him. Where could he be? I search the house room by room, calling his name and looking for clues to his whereabouts. A little voice in my head tells me, look in the kitchen cupboard. See if his Demerol is still there. The bottle is gone. My body starts to shake. My intuition tells me, something is wrong, very wrong. I fight back those thoughts and tell myself, you’re being too dramatic. There must be a good explanation. I call two of my neighbours to see if Brian is at their house. No luck. 

I put on my coat and go outside. Trudging through two feet of snow, I walk around the perimeter of the house. I even look at the roof, as if, for some ungodly reason, he might be up there. Nothing. No sign of him. I knock on other neighbours’ doors, “Have you seen Brian?” I ask. I’m sure they can hear the panic in my voice. Tears well up in my eyes. No, they haven’t seen him. As much as I try to remain calm, I can see on their faces they are at a loss for what else to say. 

I return home. Almost two hours have passed; my kids are hungry. I quickly make them something to eat. The voice in my head keeps telling me, do not panic in front of the kids. I take the phone downstairs to the laundry room where I think I will have the most privacy and call the Calgary City Police. 

“What’s the reason for your call?” the authoritative male voice asks.

“My husband is missing,” I say, trying to keep my voice from quivering. “He’s in a lot of pain and his prescription of Demerol is gone.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” 

“This morning.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, his voice slightly softening but still in professional mode. “We don’t accept missing person’s reports until twenty-four hours has passed.”

“Are you kidding me? Is there nothing that you can do?” I plead.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he says with compassion in his voice. “Those are our procedures.”

I thank him for his help and hang up the phone. Shit, shit, shit! What do I do now? Tears flow down my face and my chest tightens even more as the panic rises. 

I look around the very small laundry room that doubles as Brian’s office. The floor is covered with piles of documents and file folders. A drawer in the filing cabinet is open, and it looks like he has pulled out every file and thrown all the contents on the floor. Clean clothes are heaped on top of the dryer, waiting to be folded. The picture on the wall is crooked, as if it has been hit. The room is in chaos.

My kids come into the laundry room. There is a bulkhead at the entrance to the room and David must duck to clear hitting his head. Slowly, they look around the room at the mess on the floor and see the tears running down my face. “What’s wrong? David asks, his voice filled with concern.  I wipe my nose so I can speak. Trying to comfort them, I say, “I don’t know where Dad is and I hope he will come home soon.” But my voice is shaky and the tears keep leaking. My son pulls me into his arms and holds me. Too old to be a child and not quite yet a man, he is old enough to recognize his mother is having a meltdown. 

* * *

The World Health Organization estimates that close to 800,000 people die by suicide each year. I never thought I would join the Suicide Survivors Club, but sharing my story has opened the door for others to admit their membership and tell their stories. One of my favorite lines in the movie Avatar is “I see you.” In a world where survivors can feel misunderstood and their pain overlooked, I want to say to them, “I see you.

This story is excerpted from Cathie Godfrey’s memoir, Your Suicide Didn’t Kill Me: Choosing to Live and Love Again After Loss. As a former social worker with experience counseling suicidal youth, Cathie never imagined her husband of fifteen years would die by suicide. She is now a Certified Grief Educator, happily remarried, and giving hope and inspiration to all survivors of suicide loss.

Written by Cathie Godfrey