PUTNEY — I remember seeing my friend David crossing a busy intersection with Oliver, my 2-year-old son, in his arms. I watched as Oliver relaxed, eased into the embrace, and lay his head on David's shoulder - I watched as pure joy spread across David's face and enlivened his step.
This was a month or so before the Academy Awards, 2006. David and I dressed up for the awards, he in a tux, me in black and glitter. We drank red wine out of tiny hand-blown tumblers and laughed uproariously.
That Friday, the one after the awards and the wine, was the day when we could not buoy David's spirits, no smile crossed his lips, every memory of his was a regret, a highlighted misstep. His wife, my husband, and I could not break through the depression that was quickly engulfing David's life.
David became a regular visitor; he seemed to be calmed by the bustle of a house inhabited by a 5-year-old, a 2-year-old, a wacky stay-at-home mom (that's me), an eccentric artist, and two cats. Shortly after the Unbuoyable Friday, David asked me if he could move in with us until he could figure out his next move.
I didn't hesitate, I didn't waver, and I gave him an immediate and resounding yes.
Sometimes it's hard to tell if you've done the right thing, the ethical, humane, compassionate thing. I knew bringing David into our home - our lives - was unquestionably the right thing to do. We loved him, and he needed help.
* * *
I had a front-row seat to David's descent into serious, psychotic depression. I reminded him to eat, I washed his clothes, I drove him to therapy when driving seemed too daunting for him. I made him enchiladas, I walked with him, I watched A Room with a View twice in one day with him.
But mostly, and most importantly, I listened. I listened to the same laundry list of regrets, complaints, sorrows, and mistakes, over and over again. And I know the thing that I did most right was to listen.
* * *
In June of 2006, my husband, my children, and I went to California for a vacation. The day before we left, David and his wife (she would be staying with him while we were gone) came for dinner.
I remember the way that he looked at my children - a memorizing, bittersweet, memorializing look. I could see that he loved them, knew that he loved us. I also knew that he was seeing a psychologist, and I saw a smile on his face that afternoon, and his excitement about the World Cup, and a possible move to Japan.
To me, the horizon looked exciting, hopeful, a new day dawning brightly. I felt like we'd weathered a storm, and the story of the storm would be like an old war story, full of adversity, drama, and - ultimately - triumph.
We arrived in California on a Monday. On Thursday afternoon, my husband took me on a walk to the beach. As we sat in the sand watching the waves, he told me he had bad news. My first thought was that he wanted a divorce; we'd been rocky for years and are now divorced. As I braced for terrible news about us, he told me he had received a call from David's mother-in-law. He'd killed himself.
Blurred vision, numbness, sinking, palpitating, uncontrollable crying - I had never known such sorrow, and it was all encompassing. I never thought he'd kill himself. I never imagined.
The day before his death David had been given a diagnosis of psychotic depression. He was given a high dose anti-psychotic drug; he refused to take it. That evening he spent the night alone in our house while his wife finished up the last night at another housesit. He had an appointment with a new physician the next morning.
His wife called and called, leaving increasingly panicked messages. When she arrived at our house, the front door was locked, but the side door was open. When she entered, she immediately saw her husband hanging, by his belt, from an industrial fan in our living room.
He felt warm to her touch. She retrieved a knife from the kitchen and leapt repeatedly from the wood stove to the fan until she was able to cut through his belt. She called 911 and was talked through resuscitation attempts. State troopers and an ambulance were quickly on the scene.
David was dead. He left a suicide note - a note saying he was happy with his decision; a note saying he was finally able to smile again and he was smiling down on his wife.
* * *
I fell apart - I fell apart hard. I loved David, I love his wife. The next few months were a blur of hysteria, sadness, depression, and valiant attempts at hiding it all from my children. But I went through it all - I felt every square inch of sorrow - I let it envelop me, embody me, pass through me.
And I came out the other side. I did it with talking and crying and being. And through it all, I felt confident that I, and we, had done right by David. I had been there for him. I listened, I laughed, and I cried.
One of the functions of loss can be to make one a more compassionate, less insufferable human being.
And that is where I am, thanks to David and this journey. I'm brimming with compassion and empathy, and I want what I do in this life to be helpful and meaningful.