Missing You

Once upon a time there was a little boy and a little girl, fraternal twins in fact, named Lindsey and Michael. They were beautiful (both of them), and smart, and loving, and I miss them. They were born September 7, 1978 and would have been 33 years old today. They came into this world minutes apart, and although they didn't leave it that way, I’m sure they are together now. 

Happy Birthday wherever you are, Lindsey and Michael.

This is the saddest story, no doubt about it. I've been working through this one for a long time, and hope in some small way, I can get out what I've been holding in for so long. There are many of you who knew them and this tragic tale, I want to share the parts that maybe you don't know. The Lindsey and Michael that I met when they were 7-years old and I was engaged to marry their first cousin, Jeffrey.  I remember, like it was yesterday, thinking how cute they were and then I have to smile when I recall Michael’s first thought about me, "She's a dog,” he said. Nice, a real confidence builder from a 2^nd grader. We laughed about it for the next 22 years. His twin was like the baby sister I never had. I watched her grow from little girl to young woman. I brushed her hair and took her shopping for her wedding dress; images frozen in time.

Lindsey was adorable. I'm not just saying that, I don't have daughters so it's easier for me to be objective. Her smile was genuine and her eyes were deep, dark brown. When she hugged you, she meant it. She had so much love to give, and gave it freely. She let me give her fashion advice and occasionally boyfriend guidance. She babysat for my boys every chance she got; playing on the floor, reading stories and making ridiculous snacks, and they loved her too. One day before I knew it, she was all grown up and getting married. We went dress shopping and fought over strapless or not, laughing till we cried with the rest of the selection crew until we found one. There was a shower at my house; we made a paper hat and opened presents. It was a fairytale and the princess had found her prince. She was scared to move away, but ready to fly, and all that was left was happily ever after. What happened next is hard to explain because beauty can mask hurt. She had struggled with depression and it's complications on and off through her young life. Although I knew she still fought some demons, I thought she had won the battle. When we talked (I wish it had been more often), I suspected she was hurting more than a newlywed should be. I tried to play the cheerleader; it worked when she was younger. "Stop it" I'd say, “you're fine, you're beautiful, be happy." If I said it enough she'd have to believe me. But it wasn't enough, and she was too far away to know if she was smiling or crying. In September of 2005 she came home for Nana P's funeral. I had a million other things on my plate; 3 kids who had just lost their grandmother, the third funeral in as many years of an immediate family member and a husband and sister-in-law who had just become "orphans." It was the first week of school after a long summer of hospital visits, I was 43 years old and it was too much, too soon. I tried to give her the attention that she needed, but I was preoccupied with my own issues. She did what she could to be there for me, helping with the boys, offering trips to the movies and playing with them for hours in the basement. Unfortunately, they were at that funny age where she had shifted from cool cousin to "grown up" and they weren't as receptive to her company. She wanted to be needed and helpful and I couldn't make that happen. We did find a few minutes alone, in my closet of all places, and she told me she wasn't feeling well. I brushed it off because I'd heard it before and thought she was looking for attention, and I didn't have any left to give. She couldn't find her place that week, and left for home with hurt feelings sooner than expected and we didn't speak much in the weeks that followed. I was lost myself for much of that time and hardly thought I would be losing her too. On October 17th of that year, Lindsey found her escape from the sadness that consumed her.  I know I couldn't have saved her, but I wish I had somehow helped her save herself. I can't begin to imagine what wall you have to be up against to take that step and my deepest regret is that I couldn’t see the wall that she saw. I had to tell my boys that Lindsey had an accident, because how could I explain what I couldn't understand.  

Michael was one of a kind. He was handsome from the very start, as if destined to be a model or a movie star. Equally as attractive on the inside, with a heart that was open and fragile. He bravely faced his homosexuality in his teens, pioneered the gay/straight alliance in high school and proudly fought for and with his peers as a young adult. He wanted to find the good in everyone and trusted that the rest of the world was as genuine. He was loved by anyone who met him and made friends instantly and for life. He dressed with style and gave me honest opinions about my choices, even when I didn't want to hear them. Men and women alike fell for his charm and sense of humor. Michael visited me at work often and told hysterically detailed stories of his frequent adventures. When Michael was “on” there was nothing like it, and when he wasn't, I didn't hear from him. Like his sister, Michael suffered from the illness we can't see. Without her, he seemed to struggle even more (perhaps she took some of his strength with her). He slipped away slowly after she was gone, reaching out and getting help and slipping back again. I listened to his tears as many times as he would share them with me. An unanswered cell phone call left me his voice in a message, which I saved long after his calls stopped. Sweet, kind Michael couldn't fight anymore and peacefully went to be with his sister on July 28, 2008.  

I'm still grieving for both of them, only finding solace in believing that they are together again.  As I wrote this entry I used and deleted the word "choice" multiple times. Part of the process of my understanding is coming to terms with the notion that suicide is not a choice. From their vantage point, it was the only cure to what they saw as a terminal disease. I’ll never fully comprehend the depth of mental illness, no telltale scars or surgery (or even symptoms sometimes), but deadly just the same. It hides far beneath the surface, too obscured for most of us to notice. I wish that I could have known the magnitude of their pain, or eased even a moment of their torment, but I have finally accepted that doing so could not have kept them here any longer. I wish they could have celebrated 33 today; they wouldn't be my little cousins anymore, they would be my friends.

One final note: This is my Lindsey and Michael story. I purposely don't mention the mother and father who somehow keep breathing without them. There are no words for that.