Loss in What's up

My sister’s ex-wife killed herself Thursday morning with her service pistol (she was a cop.)

Those who have known me since the early days of OD will remember how close the three of us were. She was family. I was “best person” to two nervous, needy brides in December of 1998. (S called herself groom, tux and all, but she was as high maintenance as any bride that day!) Her own “groom’s person” bailed at the last minute, so I dutifully ran back and forth between their suites to handle every eleventh-hour detail, keep them both calm and get them to the altar on time. 

I read “Stone Butch Blues” because of S and gained an understanding of the fragility and danger she walked with every day. I spent Sunday mornings making lemon scones at their cozy home, where there was always good indie music playing and fragrant candles burning. We spoiled one-another Christmases. Stuffing stockings and wrapping gifts that included everything from tinker toys to high-end electronics and sappy cards. Two of us would shop for the third, singing “It’s the SNEAKIEST time of the year!” I spent Christmas Eves on their couch, waking early and trying to be quiet until I heard S (always S) whisper-squeal from the bedroom, “I’m so excited!” 

Wonderful dinners, movie nights, a shared love of the precision of words. Cats, jobs and homes came and went. Friends, love and chosen family were constant. 

I moved to the beach, they visited, we played in the sand. We traveled to my father’s to fry a turkey on Thanksgiving. I moved to the PNW and married just after 9/11. Jessie was livid I’d done it without her and didn’t speak to me for a year. We found our way back just in time for our mother to pass. 

J and S, X and me, my brother alone while his wife tended kids, stood in a circle in our mother’s garden and played Aaron Neville’s “Lay Down My Brother” and “Amazing Grace.” 

I moved again. This time to Maryland and to the terminal point in my marriage. J was also leaving S. The differences and parallels didn’t matter. What happened next did. 

In 2005, I suggested S talk to my X about her issues with her divorce from my sister. I didn’t agree with Jessie’s decision, but I understood it. I felt I was betraying her by even listening. With my own marriage ending, I was at emotional capacity. 

I very consciously gave her up. I couldn’t stay in contact as she became close to X. I couldn’t keep her and stay true to my sister. It felt as a sacrifice then and it still does. I thought they could help one-another—they became best friends. I don’t begrudge either of them that. 
I missed her terribly over the years. She was my sister. It was a hard—but well-intentioned—loss.

Six years later Jessie was murdered. I called S, who had never changed her number “in case Jess called.” Heartbroken and raw, she showed up. At the memorial service she sat in the front row with family.

We spoiled one another for Christmas. She was “best person” at my wedding. She stood with my brother, my husband and me at the bank of a snowy creek when we scattered J’s ashes. Something lost and mourned was returned to me and I exulted. 

Still, cracks showed in this mended bond. Her loving generosity belied her neediness to be close to our family and, by extension, to Jessie. Every conversation was a rumination, an unwelcome co-opting of our grief. I understood she was grieving too. But I couldn’t posthumously reverse a decision my sister had made eight years prior. She wasn’t Jessie’s widow and I couldn’t give that distinction to her.

I tried to be gentle in those early years. Tried to listen. I was so lost in my own grief I didn’t have the strength to set boundaries. Eventually, I did. I began to distance myself. In the end, it was only the occasional text. I missed her, but I couldn’t live in her version of the loss. 

I got the call Thursday from her friend. I was on the short list of people she asked be contacted. Once again, I had to call my brother and tell him of the traumatic, untimely and senseless death of someone we loved. 

The details are not for me to publish. I know suicide happens when pain outstrips coping mechanisms. It isn’t purposeful, or selfish or anything other than an act of desperation to make the pain stop. It is orders of magnitude more likely if one has access to a firearm. 

It breaks my heart to imagine her pain, so deep and intractable she could see no other way. I’m heartbroken for her mother, her sister and even for my X. I’m confused and conflicted. 
I’m sad we will never mend the gap, again.

Rest in peace, Sandy. I love you.

Last updated September 15, 2019