Today, we celebrate life, the loss of people we love and admire. We celebrate lives lived no matter how long or how short. We celebrate because the people in our lives have touched us and it remains our duty to pay tribute to their name before it simply becomes forgotten.
Today, I’m celebrating the life of my Aunt Tammy. She was a daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. What I remember about her the most are the stories she read to me while sitting on my grandparent’s sofa in front of the living room window that overlooked a quiet street. Grandma Phyllis would be washing dishes in the kitchen while Grandma Bob sat silently still, eyes aimed at the local TV news. The sound of his oxygen tank matched the pace and tone of Aunt Tammy’s literary commentary.
After ending her position as a nurse’s aid at Luther Hospital in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, she read to me a couples times a week for a year. At age nine, you know very little about the effects of depression, the services of a psychiatrist or bouts of suicidal ideation. All I knew while perched alongside her was that it wasn’t safe for Aunt Tammy to be alone. And for me, it became a special privilege to visit her as she spoke the words of Dr. Seuss and Disney.
After a while, the visits became less frequent. I was told Aunt Tammy was sick. Later, I learned she began to lose control of her self, her emotions and her thoughts. She became obsessed with the intricate details of living and surviving. Everyday seemed like an overwhelming challenge for no particular reason. My grandparents became emotionally exhausted with the rituals of what doctors called a temporary depressive illness.
After a dinner with her parents, sisters and brothers, Aunt Tammy felt confident she was okay to spend the rest of the night with her daughter and husband at home. My grandparents felt confident with her decision as she exhibited personality traits throughout the evening of the daughter they had favored once before.
The next thing my memory can piece together is having the confidence to approach my fifth grade teacher to tell her I would no longer be participating in a Track and Field event scheduled at the end of that week--struggling through tears I whispered to Mrs. Pearson there was a death in my family and quickly returned to my seat.
The image of suicide was left on her neck, covered by a scarf at the wake. That sight remains vivid in my memory.
Tammy was 34 years old when her life ended on May 8, 1998. She was survived by her 3 year old daughter Erin and husband Brent.
Stories of suicide are often filled with sorrow and pain, but I want to remind others its better to tell your story rather than leave it tucked away in a drawer filled with both anger yet love.
By telling you my story, I hope it raises some awareness to a subject many feel is too dark and uncomfortable for conversation, but its real and its serious.
I wish Aunt Tammy was here today to see her daughter with the same blonde hair and blue eyes as she. I wish she could have witnessed Erin boarding the bus on the first day of Kindergarten. I wish she could feed Erin’s amusing curiosity. I wish she could help her as she prepares for her driver’s education test. I wish she was still here.
Today, we celebrate life.
