Cognosco

Tomorrow will mark one year since my brother-in-law shot himself, taking his own life.

 Frank Albert Patterson was the first born son of eleven children. He was my husband’s one and only older brother. My mother-in-law’s only first born child. She has many other children, but he is the one who made her into a mother.

My first born son was named after Frank, who was named after both of his grandfathers, Frank and Albert.

His wife witnessed the act after she had tried for several hours to dissuade him. Can you imagine?

He left behind two children who are now nine and seven years old. They started playing football this year. Their father will never witness a game.

He was an air conditioning technician with all sorts of fancy certification that most people don’t have. We fought with our home warranty company and three different air conditioning people all summer in order to get our unit fixed. Every time we had to deal with their incompetence was like a slap in the face to my husband.

In a twisted coincidence, my ex-husband’s best friend also shot himself to death on the same night. He was one of the few friends of my ex who I really liked and felt comfortable with.

I miss them both even though I rarely saw one and hadn’t seen the other in a few years.

That’s the thing about death—even if you don’t see someone often, just knowing they are alive and out there somewhere is so different than knowing you will never see someone again.

And the thing about suicide–no one ever sees it coming. No one never knows why. Even if there are notes left behind, they never provide real answers.

If some part of them lived on beyond their bodies, I hope they are free of pain now. And anyone who says that suicides go to hell or some other equivalent is an asshole. Because I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that if someone hurts enough to end his own life, that is not someone who deserves punishment. That is someone who deserves compassion.

R.I.P. Frank and Jeff. You are missed.