When my wife Mara attempted suicide in 1998, I certainly wasn't surprised.  I mean, I was shocked that she had actually gone through with it, after years of talking about it and considering it.  I wouldn't say threatening it, because Mara never threatened to kill herself.  It was never about anybody else; if she was going to end her life, it was because she no longer wanted to live, not a cry for attention or a warped method of revenge.   In fact, in some ways I know she felt that if she killed herself, she'd be doing me a favor, freeing me to try and live a less downtrodden life.  Sadly, she never saw that when you kill yourself, the loved ones you leave behind are left with a mountain of guilt, second-guessing, and should-haves.  When you take that mountain and top it off with the realization that the suicide was in some ways committed for your own benefit, the mental anguish can be overwhelming.

Mara's mental and physical health had been deteriorating for some time.  She never wanted to do much more than lay in bed, except for the occasional attempt at going out to dinner, which at least one time out of four would end in a quick departure when her Crohn's disease would kick into high gear.  My mother was living with us at the time, as she had no place else to go after she stopped receiving alimony.  Having her around the house didn't make things any easier.  It was an added expense, and a source of both stress and argument.  The house we were renting was never especially clean, as I was the only one doing most of the housework, and the five cats that lived with us could be quite a handful.  Now with the garage completely filled with boxes of my mother's belongings, and piles of newspapers she "hadn't read yet" beginning to form randomly in the kitchen, the entire situation was spinning out of control.

My mental health was nothing to smile about either.  I'd fought through some real depression over the summer, at one point losing my appetite for a week, surviving on just black coffee, Cran-grape, and vitamins.  Mara and I had already had one tearful conversation where I'd told her I was suffocating and needed some time to myself at least once or twice a week...but on those occasions all I generally would do was go out to a bar.  I knew she was genuinely concerned that I might intentionally hurt myself.  It had also been over three years since we'd had any sex; so long, in fact, that I really no longer felt sexual desire at all.  It was a very confusing relationship, with Mara telling me that we should just live as roommates from that point onward and I should go develop new female relationships, but staying married so she could still be on my health insurance.  But one night she'd press me on why I wasn't out with anyone else, and basically bullying me out of the house (sometimes throwing things until I left).  The next night she'd accuse me of being unfaithful, as if the prior conversation had never taken place.  I didn't know what to do, or who to turn to.

Mara's sister came down to visit for a week or so in early November, and the two of them had gotten into a screaming fight with my mother.  It was during this conversation where my mother tried to claim that a few weeks earlier, when she'd fallen on the sidewalk and hurt her ankle (in front of passers-by), she in fact had "tried to kill herself by jumping off a bridge."  By the end of the argument, my mother had basically talked herself into a corner, threatening to move out.  Instead of being defensive and retreating, Mara demanded a deadline she'd be out by, which turned out to be the end of the year.  When I came home from work, exhausted as usual, nobody was speaking to anybody.  Coming home was no longer something I looked forward to doing.

I could tell things were really getting bad after Thanksgiving.  I'd had the flu over the holiday, but still cooked us a small turkey and other dishes.  Mara wasn't showering much, or doing anything really.  She'd lie in bed, dressed in underwear and maybe a flannel nightgown, watching TV and sleeping, although sleeping was something she usually did during the day now, unless her Crohn's was acting up.  In that case she'd spend most of her time in the bathroom in terrible pain, and then take two pain pills every few hours until she was doped up enough to pass out.  She refused to call her psychiatrist for additional help, and I wasn't sure if her weekly therapy appointments were doing any good at all.

I'd made up my mind one morning to call Mara's mother in New Jersey, who I did not care much for (and always felt the feeling was mutual) and suggest she come down or give me some direction on how to handle things.  Mara, in uncharacteristic fashion, had called her mother, sister, and brother to talk to them.  Usually she'd avoid them at all costs, refusing to answer the phone or speak to them, even when I picked it up and held it to her ear.  So I took this as a sign that she might be making the rounds to say goodbye or something.  She hadn't said anything specific about suicide around me, but to be honest that in itself was a sign of bad things, since usually the subject would come up in passing at least once a week.

When I arrived at work that morning, there was some sort of system problem that had to be dealt with immediately, so I lost myself in that headache for a few hours.  Once everything was up and running again, I went to my little office (more of a windowless closet really, but that's another story) with a cup of coffee.  I returned two or three urgent calls from out-of-town customers who had their own system issues, and then took a long sip of coffee and a deep breath, preparing to call Mara's mother.

Just then my phone rang, and I found to my complete surprise that it was Mara's mother calling me instead of the other way around. 

"I was just going to call you" I said.  "I need to talk to you about Mara.  She isn't doing well."

"I know," her mother replied in a very odd voice.  "I'm here in Dallas, at the emergency room.  Mara tried to kill herself."