A Gravestone Story
An initial step toward finding purpose in our teenage son’s suicide; being open and unashamed
It would be interesting to know what people think when visiting at the grave of their loved one, they read the words on my son’s gravestone. Do they wonder if someone feels guilty about how things were left between them before his passing? Or do they react in horror as they decipher the code and realize that their loved one is buried near a young man who committed suicide?
There was a time, and not that long ago, that a person who accomplished suicide would be denied burial on consecrated ground, and in many public cemeteries for that matter. While many will be aware this was a widespread Christian stance, other religions hold similar views. It was embedded into the secular psyche by none other than Shakespeare, when Hamlet lost his love Ophelia. In earlier centuries the location of the burial for a suicide was meant as a punishment; being buried outside the fence of the cemetery or at a crossroads along with executed individuals, perhaps to bring disgrace, perhaps to serve as a deterrent. And as recently as the 1970’s, a failed attempted suicide was still a criminal offence, which further back in the 1800’s could, ironically, be punishable by execution.
Traditionally, as a culture we seldom offered mercy or extended grace to the mentally ill who chose suicide, compelled to deny even the smallest of dignities in their deaths. Now, in a generation not as strongly bound by doctrine and tradition, we need to finish the task of eradicating the inhumane treatment of the most vulnerable of our families and communities.
Our Zachary had recently turned 18. And he had determined it was time for him to take charge. His act of suicide was his way of taking charge over a struggle that had gone on for at least 7 years. 7 years that he had allowed many others to be “in charge of”, and who inevitably failed. Doctor’s, psychiatrists, psych nurses, counsellors, teachers, pastors, therapists, parents. All had tried to bring about the right thing that would change him, that would take away the pain, that could fix it. The only problem being, no one really understood what the it was that needed fixing.
We chose not to disguise the fact Zac’s death was a suicide. Rather than write “Zac passed suddenly” in the newspaper obituary, we announced “Zac has fought his last battle with depression.” The clarity of that, and I hope the integrity, was somewhat freeing. It signified, though we weren’t necessarily aware of it at the time, that we had in some manner understood what had happened. It signified that we didn’t give a damn about the stigma of mental illness and suicide. It signified as a family we were up to handling any judgment or ostracizing that would come our way. It signified that we were open to exploring how it was that Zac decided that there was no other option to his distress. Instead of the inevitable humming and hawing that avoiding the reality of his means of death would entail, those mourning him could be open and talk about what mattered, and be true to their own emotional response. They could express their own sense of loss, they could ask the questions “Why?” and “How did we not see it coming” and comfort each other with unsatisfactory answers. Our answer to the one big question of “Why?” could be truthful and direct; that completed suicide is one natural outcome of the progression of a seemingly untreatable illness. Acknowledging Zac’s death as a result of suicide gave us all permission to collectively go places polite society would discourage.
It is often said that losing a child is a parent’s worst nightmare. Grieving a child is hard for any community to do, and is an even greater challenge when the child’s death comes about through suicide. There’s a sense of failure, and an ongoing angst fueled by unresolvable statements that begin with “What if…” and “If only…” After a time, the community wearies, and finds it preferable to not talk about it. Having to constantly think about a suicide, being aware that it happened within one’s circle is distressing. The community needs to find relief from our sorrow, as well as reprieve from their own anxiety.
Grieving a suicide can be complicated. The normal conversations at a memorial or visitation are usually centered on empathetic statements, accompanied by a pleasant memory of the deceased. And when it is an adult, there is the unstated but underlying acceptance that “It was his time,” that we all entertain a certain fatalism. Grieving a child, mourners’ empathy statements are often overwhelmed by the sense that “it is not his time. Parents are not supposed to have to bury their children!” Grieving a child suicide, mourners’ struggle to make sense of it all. And the abnormal situation of parents burying their child, by default, elicits a response of silence. It’s as if there is nothing one can say that makes any sense at all, and pretty much anything said is palpably inadequate. The silence becomes ok. Ones presence is all that matters.
As a family, we were aware of a need to give a message to the world; that we would not hide the fact Zac did indeed commit suicide. In one sense we felt it necessary to honour his decision, as lousy as that decision was. None of us would ever agree with someone proposing that suicide is something they should do. But respecting Zac in having found the strength, the courage to follow through on his decision, we were not going to be shamed.
An obvious place to speak out a message was through the silence of his gravestone. So any declaration on his gravestone was going to require some thought. It would need to say “We are not ashamed of our son and brother” and would need to comfort any Christian visitors, who in grieving Zac find themselves wrestling with long-held doctrines. So there would be no “In loving memory” type statements. Our testimony on Zac’s memorial was to exhort the love of God as we know Him through the Gospels of the New Testament, and to provide comfort to the grieving in declaring His grace: “God Knows and Understands”
