CW: Suicide, Descriptions of Death

Shortly after my friend Alex committed suicide, someone asked me: did losing your mom ten years ago prepare you for Alex's death?

On first blush, I thought: no, no way. Each loss was different, and awful in its own way. Losing my mom was a four-year process of supporting her through cancer treatments that progressively wore at her and everyone around her, until her body couldn't take it anymore. We were prepared for a long time to see Mom off.

But losing Alex? One week he was here, proposing hikes and talking about art, and the next, he was dead. No one was prepared for the sudden way Alex was just... gone. Nothing could have prepared me for meeting his mom for the first time, for cleaning his apartment, for seeing his chat avatar and realizing that he'd never, ever, be coming online again.

But then again...

Hm.

I.

I remember the precise moment, after coming home to see my mom, that I broke down crying. It wasn't any of these moments:

• When I saw her, intubated, on the hospital bed
• When they removed the tube because there was nothing left to do
• When all the family members present sang a song to her as she suffocated
• When she took her last breath

No, the first moment that made me cry was this:

My mom passed away early in the hours of the morning. We dressed her body in fine clothes and prepared to receive visitors. There were a few of us in the room; myself, my brother, and my dad, Lou. We began inviting close friends in, and one of the first was Lou's coworker. He took one glance at my mom, brokenly said, "Oh, Lou," and embraced him tightly.

They both broke down into tears - and so did I.

That was when I learned that, though death does not affect me greatly, genuine displays of affection do.

II.

The Thursday after Alex passed away, his mom, Linda, flew up from Texas. Linda seemed like a cool person, but we'd never met before. We didn't know what to expect. An older lady from Texas, meeting up with a bunch of Seattle liberals? Surely a recipe for disaster.

One of the friends was Alex's recent ex, Emily, whom he'd broken up with just a month before he committed suicide. Understandably, Emily was incredibly worried about meeting his mom under the circumstances. How much would she have to explain about this painful breakup that Emily hadn't gotten, and would never get, closure on?

The night started well. Linda was extremely warm and welcoming. Emily, while nervous, told a couple of stories, and held her composure well. That is, until we started getting into the details of how Alex died, and what he might have been thinking.

Emily started getting emotional, and eventually began crying. Linda just kept talking about Alex, but she stood up. I wondered where she was going. Was this the confrontation we were expecting?

She circled around the table, right to where Emily was sitting - and threw her arms around her. Linda started crying too, holding Emily, telling her everything was okay. And seeing this, I broke down.

I'd already known that death would not affect me greatly, and genuine displays of affection would, so it was no great surprise to me that this was the first time I'd cried since learning Alex was dead.

III.

In 2015, I flew back with my dad to China, where we put my mom to rest. It was her wish to be buried in the old home; a tiny village where my parents had grown up. We observed all the old ceremonies; kowtowing, burning fake money, pouring liquor, and so on.

Of course, it wasn't really my mom that we put to rest there. It wasn't even her body - too impractical. Instead, it was a box that we buried. In Chinese, we call it a "gu hui he", literally, "bone dust box." A box containing her cremated remains.

It is a particularly strange thing to look at that box, and know that the hands that crocheted you a blanket, the arms that encircled you when you were sad, and the face that you loved, are all contained in that box.

IV.

The day Alex's mom was due to leave Seattle, some of Alex's friends met up with her for lunch. It was a bittersweet farewell, and a fitting sendoff after an incredibly exhausting couple of weeks.

Afterward, a few of us walked Alex's mom to her car. As we approached, my partner suddenly had a thought: "Oh, is Alex with you in the car?"

"Yes, he is!" Linda responded. "Would you like to see him? He's here, in this box."

My partner was taken aback, but she said yes, she would like to take a look.

Afterward, as we said our farewells, she was a little quiet, subdued.

Alex, reduced to a box. Unsettling, and yet - I was already prepared.

V.

There were some things for which I was not prepared.

After Alex passed, we reached out to mutual friends with the news. My partner and I told many people. A lot of people. Initially, we fumbled a little. We told them directly about his mental illness, about his suicide, about his last words. I think some of these details, people could initially have been spared.

In one conversation, my partner felt that someone was competing with her in how well they knew Alex. She was drawn into it, and left that conversation feeling terrible. And there were numerous people we accidentally left to hear third-hand, through the memorial, or Twitter.

So here's the lessons I've learned:

• Open with a very light glossing of the details, and ask if they want to know more.
• If you find that you cannot hold space for the person you're telling, take a break. Have someone else tell them if you can.
• Tell as many people as you can, even those friends who were a little estranged, or the ones you don't particularly like.

I'm learning these lessons, even if, in the back of my mind, I wonder if it is okay to learn and grieve at the same time.

VI.

That question - "Did losing your mom prepare you for Alex's death?" - makes me nervous. It implies that I have been seen as "prepared", that I have exhibited some qualities of "knowing what I am doing", which usually come with experience. It makes me nervous because it indicates that I am being seen as a role model.

Sure, I have some experience. But really, I just want badly to be doing right by Alex. He was a very good friend to me, and I have strong beliefs about what that looks like. That used to look like hanging out, and talking about art, and helping him through rough times. And now, that looks like telling people about his passing, and cleaning out his apartment, and organizing dinner with his mom.

I want it to be known to everyone that I was a good friend to Alex, that we did everything that we could, and are still doing everything that we can. I was his good friend. I am his good friend.

I just hope that I'm doing the right things. I hope I'm setting a good model for others to follow. Maybe they, too, will feel a little more prepared for the next time.