Sometimes it seems like a minute; sometimes it seems like 100 years. I miss you as much as ever. I look back over the past ten years and wonder: how different would life be if you were still in it?
Mom would still have dementia, but probably not quite as far along as she is. The stress of your death accelerated the process. I probably would not be living with her yet, so more of my sanity would be intact. I would have more freedom to travel, even overnight.
I know why this is happening.
For the past week, every other night or so, I have dream installments. They involve Dan and he’s not dead. He just decided he didn’t care for the way his life was going and he wanted a clean break. A new start.
Dan tossed his cookies
The first dream was one of those that happens when you’re just becoming conscious, but essentially still asleep.
I’m going to do a cross-post here. I don’t have the heart to do two posts.
On July 25, 2007 you wrote a note at home, had a friend drive you downtown, and then jumped off a parking garage. I can’t say that I understand the thought process behind that decision, but let me speak to the last line in your note: “Suicide is painless. M.A.S.H.”
Was it? Was it really? Or was hitting the ground at high velocity a lesser pain than whatever you were going through?
Whose pain are we talking abut? Yours? Maybe it was painless. However, I think the mental anguish leading up to the actual event had to have been pretty painful.
So were you talking about the pain of the people who love you? Then I call bullshit, bro. Nine years later and I feel that pain as intensely as I did the day you took your own life.
So life goes on. After a fashion, maybe. I look at mom. She doesn’t know what day it is and I’m not telling her. Between the dementia and the pain pills for the shingles, I’m lucky if she knows her own name. And hey, she doesn’t even remember that you committed suicide. On the days when she remembers she had a son named Dan, she thinks her daughter is that son. Yeah. Fun times.
Well, now you get to meet Robin Williams. I’m sorry you two couldn’t figure out another way.
I’d sort of like to be a fly on the wall for the meeting. Two of my favorite funny men, cracking jokes. I don’t know that you would actually be making the jokes, though. You would be like that poor guy during Robin’s first appearance on Inside the Actor’s Studio — the one that had to go to the hospital because he got a hernia from laughing so hard.
Robin William’s suicide brings back so many harsh memories. I feel so badly for the family he left behind. For seven years, I have been trying to do what Robin’s wife said they want to do: “It is our hope that the focus will not be on Robin’s death but on the countless moments of joy and laughter.” I wish them success with that. Mine has been modest and sporadic. Remembering the good and laughing at the funny gets easier with time, but the horror of that night never eases; it never goes away.
I love and miss you, bro.