post-mortem

I read the medical examiner’s report today of my friend who committed suicide. It was brutal in its simplicity—the reduction of everything he suffered, everything his family and friends continue to suffer, to a few words. Not even sentences—no nouns and verbs—just the barest idea of a life ending.

The toxicology report indicated dextromethorphan (the meth in cough syrup) was present.

But the real toxins—at least, the things that are toxic to me, and that I believe were toxic to my friend—weren’t listed. Fear, Anger, Loneliness, Faithlessness, Hopelessness, Despair (among others) are all toxic to my spiritual condition.

If I have no Hope, then my drug of choice is irrelevant: I have chosen death over life—I have chosen to withdraw into myself, to constrict my world, to limit my ability to see with clarity, to hear with sympathy, to have charity, to receive love, to be a part of the world, to be open to the possibility of being, and learning, and doing, and making, and….

I love my life today. I am sad my friend is gone, but I will not remember him as a coroner’s number. The man I knew was warm, and kind, and generous, and full of laughter. But the man I knew was sober, and meth-free. The person who died is not someone I ever knew, though it was someone I used to be.

I’m reading some old Stephen King, and I ran across a passage today where he describes Heaven as another name for the clearing at the end of the path. It gave me comfort somehow to think that while we may be taking different paths, we might be together again in a clearing.