When his phone rang as we were getting Grasshopper ready for bed, JR and I both rolled our eyes. How many times in one evening could his employees possibly interrupt us?
I wish now that it had been one of his managers calling to ask when thus-and-such delivery was expected.
Instead, it was my mother-in-law, and since it was not too many hours ago, I have yet to even begin to sort out all of the implications and ramifications of what she told us.
My husband's only nephew, his oldest sister's only child, has committed suicide.
He was thirty-one years old. The same age as me.
Thirty-one years is too short. Thirty-one years is just getting started. Thirty-one years is simply not enough time to truly LIVE.
My heart is breaking for my sister-in-law who is experiencing a pain that my mind will not even allow me to contemplate. For my mother-in-law and father-in-law who have lost their first grandchild, and until our Grasshopper came, their only grandson.
My heart is breaking for my husband, who has been estranged from his nephew for the past few years and is feeling more guilty for this loss than he wants to let on.
Mostly, my heart is breaking for a man whose thirty-one years of life were enough to convince him that he did not want any more. That all of the questions, the pain and the guilt that his passing has left were a worthy legacy if he could just not breathe any more.
I wish, as we the Left Behind always do, that there was something I could have said. Something I could have done. I wish that he could have seen the world, just for a little while, through the eyes of a child again. I know that doing so keeps me looking forward to tomorrow.
Go in peace B. I miss you now, and will likely miss you even more tomorrow.