On October 13, 2005, my boyfriend Alfred committed suicide in a moment of dark depression and despair. I stood outside his locked bedroom door and heard the crash and sound of his choking, but I could not get inside the room quickly enough to stop the desperate act. Below is my account of that morning. I wrote this several months after Alfred's suicide, but I wrote it as if I were writing on that day.
This morning, I called Alfred at
In a panic, I screamed (a deep, guttural cry–“NO!!!!!”–that came from someplace very dark and seemed to come from someone other than myself) and cried and ran over to try to get him down. However, the rope was so tight that I could not get it loose, and all I could do was to lift up his body to relieve the pressure until the paramedics could get into the house and cut him down. I was standing there holding him up for what seemed like forever, balanced on the nearby radiator so I was essentially at eye level with him. His eyes were empty and tears streaked down his cheeks. When the paramedics cut the rope, Alfred still had a faint pulse. They worked on him all the way to the hospital, but they were unable to revive him, and he passed away just as they were arriving at the hospital.
Since Alfred left no note, I can only speculate about what happened between our saying goodnight the night before and the 6:30 a.m. phone call. I knew Alfred had been struggling withh depression brought on by a number of circumstances, although I had no idea it was so severe. Numerous times before, when he was feeling low, I would talk to him on the phone or go and stay with him to try to cheer him up. My best guess is that sometimes that night, he hit a very low point of depression. But this time, rather than calling me, he did not have the strength to call and ask for help. The pain must have been overwhelming and suffocating and he could think of nothing other than escaping from it. And thus, I found myself holding my boyfriend's body in my arms and laying him on the bed in vain hope that the paramedics could somehow revive him.
To this day as I write this, months after Alfred's death, I have very patchy memories of the hours and days following the moment the policeman received the call from the paramedics and told me Alfred was dead. I remember, in the moments leading up to that call, I called Alfred's uncle and told him that Alfred was in the hospital and he needed to go there quickly. That is all I could say, and I hung up. Barely able to move, I then fell on my face in Alfred's living room praying and crying out to God to somehow show mercy and allow Alfred to live. When the policeman told me Alfred was gone, I lost all strength, all mental focus, all ability to function. I sat on the couch, barely crying, my mind grappling with this piece of information that it simply did not know how to process. Something instinctive reacted, though, and I became sick to my stomach and threw up.
As I came out of the bathroom, it slowly began to dawn on me that the policemen, though professional and courteous, were not treating me as a grieving boyfriend, but rather as a potential murder suspect. In hindsight, I understand why this is necessary, since they saw me holding Alfred's body as they walked into the house. I can remember being frustrated that the paramedic did not move quickly to cut Alfred down, but I now see that he was hesitant because he didn't know the circumstances and was initially uncertain what my role was in all of the events. For the next 3 or 4 hours, I was questioned by two or three policeman, a detective, medical examiners, and a crime scene photographer. For in any death that is not from natural causes, the police have to treat it as a crime scene until they can establish that it actually was a self-inflicted death. And I was the one who was there when they first saw the body, so I was the prime suspect. Still, this balanced perspective is in hindsight; at the time, the inconceivability of being considered a murder suspect simply boggled my mind that was already wanting to shut down from the pain and shock of losing the guy I loved so dearly. Eventually, though, as it became clear to the authorities that I was indeed innocent of any wrongdoing and in fact devastated by Alfred's death, their professional courtesy changed into kindness and concern for me. One of the policemen even gave me his own phone number and told me to call him anytime if he could help me in any way.
I recall after finding out Alfred was gone that I felt lost, like a small child at the fairgrounds who has been separated from his parents. Nothing seemed familiar, everything seemed bigger and out of proportion. I wanted to run, but I didn't know where to go. Instinctively, I called my parents. They were in Georgia for work, and my dad answered the telephone. As soon as I heard his voice, I began sobbing. I could not speak for several minutes, during which time my father grew greatly concerned. As I slowly was able to tell him what happened and how I had found Alfred, I could hear him begin to cry and he said over and over, "Oh, I am so sorry." Just as I got the basic facts out, the policeman told me he had some questions for me, so I told my dad I would call back in a few minutes. When I called back, my mother answered the phone and once again I began crying. At this point, I seriously reverted to a child-like mentality, calling her "mommy." Here I was, a 30-year-old man, shattered, saying over and over again, "Mommy, I don't know what to do." She offered to call a pastor, and I told her I would call back after the police were done with me. I then called my best friend but he was on the highway and I didn't want to tell him while he was driving, so I asked him to call back, which he did a bit later. By this point, I knew I needed someone to be there with me, so I called a friend who was in college but I knew had the day off. He immediately came over and basically took care of me from that moment (maybe
I don't remember much about the rest of the day, with one exception that I will mention in a moment. I remember my friend went to 7-11 to get me some food and something to drink. I remember the phone ringing constantly, until I got to the point I could not talk to people anymore. I remember having Alfred's cell phone and its ringing constantly throughout the day as people tried to reach him, not believing the horrific news they were being told. I never answered his phone. I remember eventually the policeman telling me I could leave, that the death was ruled a suicide and I was not a suspect any longer. I remember being at my friend's apartment, vague memories of being in a taxi on the way there. I'm not sure what I did while at his apartment nor how long I was there. Eventually I know I was back at my place, though I don't know when that was, either. At some point, my best friend got home from work and stayed for a long time. And he and my other friend took me to a nearby cafe for dinner (I highly doubt I ate anything). For several months, I had no memory of that dinner, until one day early in 2006 I went there and saw a sign that had struck me that day, one of their advertising slogans that read: "Pinch me, I must be dreaming." When I saw that, suddenly I remembered having been there that day. I'm not certain where I stayed the night, whether it was at my place or at my friend's, but I remember the next morning (Friday) waking up and going to Jamba Juice then seeing my mother pull up with some family friends as we came down our street.
On Thursday, though, there is one memory that stands out more vividly in my memory than any other from the point I learned Alfred was unable to be revived. I knew that, before going to bed, I had to go back to Alfred's place because his dog was left there and needed food and to be walked. So, along with my two friends, we returned early that evening to get the dog and its stuff and take it back to my place until arrangements could be made for him. As I returned to his house, I saw the sad scene once again, this time without policemen and paramedics walking about.
But it was at the moment that I walked into the bedroom that I began to hyperventilate and cry until I could not stand. I sunk to the floor next where I found him and sobbed. I saw that Alfred’s final hours were obviously ones of deep sadness. In places around the room there were tear-stained tissues. Next to where he had been hanging, I found the Bible that I had loaned to him and some sort of inspirational book. His bed sheets were mangled and draped along the side of the bed. He was wearing sandals, but they had fallen off in his struggling, and they were lying askew on the floor beneath where I found him. The curtain by the closet had been disturbed by the rope, which was still tied to a pipe at the ceiling. And the air conditioner that I had pushed into the bedroom in order to climb in through the window was still lying on the floor. Also, in the living room, I found some photos that Alfred had torn into small pieces, photos of a circuit party, I believe. They were lying on the floor by the couch, obviously having been thrown in emotion after he tore them up.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to “fix” the bedroom. I made the bed, closed the curtain, straightened up the shoes and some nearby clothing, threw away the tissues, took the air conditioner into another room, and just tried to arrange things neatly. I was beside myself with grief, and barely with knowledge of what I was doing, I wanted to make the room look nice for Alfred, so others would not see how it looked in his sadness. My two friends stood outside the bedroom door, probably very concerned as I would not allow them to come into the room….I felt I had to make it all perfect. Alfred couldn’t have left how he did. Surely if I cleaned up the room like I always had in the morning, he would call me after work and everything would be ok again. It was the moment at which I came closest to having a complete breakdown….I have never felt so lost and anguished as on that day.
How did October 13, 2005, change my life? In every conceivable way.
I wrote a poem to Alfred after his death, which I placed with him when he was buried. It expresses the joy, pain, sorrow, and hope of this person who changed my life and who had to leave us far too soon.for Alfredo
Friends, nothing more
Several years, casually
Knowing, but not noticing, each other.
Until a warm spring evening
A simple kindness awoke me
And I saw what had always been there but overlooked.
A heart that looked to others
Even those unknown, if you could help
You would take them in your arms.
Lovers, and becoming more
Only months, intensity
Loving, and needing, each other.
A frenzied summer
Your love awoke me
And I saw what happiness you could bring.
Your heart was mine
And mine was yours.
Each night you held me in your arms.
Travelers, stumbling together
The final weeks, crumbling
Hurting but then forgiving each other.
The beginning of Fall
Our love never fell
But we saw the pain that sickness could bring.
Our hearts ached together
I wanted to help
But all I could do was hold you in my arms.
Departed, I wanted more
The time went by too soon.
Yet even at the end we had each other.
A clear October morning
Your call awoke me
But then I learned the sorrow that nothing else could bring.
My heart is broken
I couldn’t help you
I held your body, asleep, in my arms.
Memories, and so much more.
My lifetime I will never forget you.
To cherish that we loved each other.
And each new morning
As day awakes me
I have the hope that one blessed thought can bring:
For just beyond what my heart could see that morning
Angels helped you stand
And joyfully, peacefully placed you in God’s Arms.
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