Tomorrow is Rick’s memorial service, up in Urbana, Ohio. It’s been a little over three weeks since his sister called me with the news he had committed suicide two days before. I’m not going — I’m still mad at him. I know it would be the proper thing to do, but to hell with that.
You hear people tell stories about how they didn’t really know their spouse or significant other, usually when they learn about a bigamous relationship or secret child. But to have worked side by side with a man for 18 years and not really have a clue about the demons that tormented him? It still makes me shake my head.
I’m mad, too, because he had to know how much his death would hurt all of us, his co-workers and friends. And a gun? From the man who hated guns? And the web of deceit he wove to friends and family about his plans for the future? It was a calculated, long-planned suicide, not a moment of sadness or loneliness. And I can’t get past it.
I won’t be there at the Nazarene church, Rick. You would have hated it — church, family, being the center of attention. And I have to hold on to my anger. Because if I don’t — if I let the next stage of grief take over — I’m not sure I can handle it.