Today, I was thinking about a particular person and an accident they’ve encountered when all of a sudden I stopped focusing on the physical part of their accident and started thinking about the mental part of their accident. As we all know, every thing that happens to us in life shapes us, changes us, makes us the people that we are today. Goodness knows that my life is completely different today than it was 10 years ago and I’m a much different person today than I was back then. Back to my original thought — I started thinking "what was it like for this individual when their accident occured?" "Was there anything in their life that they wished they had done differently ? Anyone they wished they had told they loved or that they forgave them?" etc.
After those initial ponderings, I started wondering "was anybody there with them?" "Were they alone?" And those two thoughts brings me all the way to the title of this post: "Sucide Memories". This story is not one that I talk about very much at all. Not like you can say at a party "hey, want to hear about the guy who committed suicide in front of me?" Not a great ice breaker, in my opinion.
It was December 26, 2001. Yes, the day after Christmas. The day when either the happiness and love of being with family and friends are still in your heart or either it is the day when you realize that you just spent the day before totally alone and depressed and wonder "why am I here?" Obviously, for the person in this memory, his thoughts must have run a little more towards the second question.
I was in New Orleans and driving back home. My mother still lived there. This was before Katrina. T was in the car seat, just a toddler at the time. I rounded the bend by the Superdome and was following a little sedan. Not too closely, thank goodness. I drive right under the overpass , nearest to the Dome, when the car in front of me swerves out of the blue. I look directly at the road to see that there is someone now laying on this very busy roadway. I had seen something fall in front of the car but I really thought someone had thrown garbage off of the overpass. When I realize that this person has just jumped from above, I pull over on the side of the road (leaving T in his carseat) and I’m the second person to reach this individual. A paramedic follows behind me very closely. A preacher arrives from somewhere and kneels and starts praying over this male’s head. He is praying so loudly. I hear no other sounds around me. There is blood near me. I remember being almost afraid to touch this person because I was concerned of catching AIDs somehow.
I took his hand and held it. I started thinking "if this was my child I wouldn’t want him to be alone". I guess my maternal instincts kicked in. I stayed there and held his hand until the ambulance got there to take him away. I knew there was no way he was going to survive. He was doing "agonal breathing" and there was obviously a lot of internal damage. I remember getting up and realizing that the traffic was still zooming by us. That the noise from everything was deafening, but yet, I had heard nothing other than the preacher praying.
I watched the newspaper for days afterwards to see if I could find out his name. I did. He was 19 and at home from college on Christmas break. He had left a basketball game (I think) that he had been watching with his family and walked to this overpass and jumped off. The family said they had no idea anything was wrong with him.
To this day, I’ve contemplated contacting the mother and just telling her "He wasn’t alone. There were a couple of us with him. We did all we could." I’m just not sure that the mother would want a wound like this to be that compeltely reopened again, so I’ve left well enough alone.
To say that the drive home that night is a blur is an understatement. I don’t remember it. I remember thinking "how can someone do this? What was so wrong that the day after Christmas they kill themselves?" It made me very sad for a long time.
To this day, I can not drive under that overpass without reliving the whole scene.
The end.
