In 1992, due to my mom's failing health conditions, she moved in with me. Not long after, she was diagnosed with dementia. I suspected as much since I noticed a change in her dwindling memory. While dementia / Alzheimer's is nothing to be taken lightly, what I didn't realize at the time was that mom's health condition helped me provide her with better care. Mom was soon in a wheelchair. I'll get to why that helped in a minute. Mom's dementia raced through her brain and within last two years of her life, she was completely non-verbal. (I'm also getting to that.) Mom's been gone four years now and not a day goes by that I don't wish I could do it all over again. I miss her with all my heart. While I no longer have my mom, I was given another option. A few months ago, an ad by a local gentleman was posted in our community online newsletter looking for help with his wife who has dementia. I thought I'd apply for the position since I'd taken care of mom. Mr. J was impressed with what I offered and hired me immediately. Here's where his wife differs from my mom. Mom was unable to walk. Ann can. Mom was non-verbal. Ann is somewhat verbal. Mom was very placid. Ann is most of the time but not always. If mom's imagination still existed, she didn't have the capability to show it. Ann's is and she does. Now I'll elaborate. While mom couldn't walk and Ann can, I always knew where mom was. Ann seems to have a problem sitting still for more than ten minutes unless she's eating lunch. She wanders around constantly moving anything within her reach. That's okay but all too often, she'll move her husband's laptop and important business papers. No matter where he puts them, she'll find and move them. I'm thankful their home is small. Like all homes, there are two doors: front and back. Mr. J. found it necessary to put in a second deadbolt lock in the back door that is just above Ann's reach. I count my blessings each time I'm there as Ann tries constantly to walk out the door to “go home”. I keep inventing reasons why she shouldn't be leaving the house. I tried once telling her she was home and that didn't make her at all happy. I changed tactics and said we needed to wait for her husband since he had the key to the car. That calms her down. Don't misunderstand me. Ann and I leave the house and walk around the community several times a day, but she's determined that she needs to, as I said, “go home”. She surely keeps me on my toes. The second issue is speech. Mom's speech quickly became nonexistent, as if she had no vocal chords at all. Mom never uttered one sound. Ann, on the other hand, can utter a few words but most of what she tries to say is nothing more than buzzing sounds. I know she thinks she's speaking intelligently, but in reality, what anyone would hear is: “And that one, bzzzz, bzzz, bzzzz.” I have to study her facial expressions to have an idea of whom and what she's referring to and wonder, has it made her happy, confused, or angry and then reply with, “Oh Wow! I didn't know that!” Then Ann will say, “Yeah!” We have some strange conversations that only she really understands. Ann has also exhibited a few minor anger issues. She has a stuffed toy that she loves – sometimes. She'll cradle the toy as though it were a small child. She'll sing to it, speak to it, and often hold her imaginary conversations with it. On a few rare occasions, she'll buzz-ask the toy a question. No answer. (Reminder: it is a stuffed toy that can't speak) She'll ask again. Still no answer. This might go on for a few minutes and with each time, Ann waits for an answer that won't come, her patience wanes until finally, she snaps. She'll grab the toy by the head and shake it violently while demanding an answer, “Speak to me” “Speak to me”. When no answer comes, she abruptly stands up, still tightly holding the toy by its head, and slams it down on another chair and curtly says, “Then don't answer me! Bzzzz,, Bzzzz Bzzz.” By the time, this tirade is over (usually no more than five minutes), I've retrieved a piece of chocolate and when she turns to me, I say pleasantly, “Oh Ann! Look what I've found. I think you'll like this.” She accepts the candy, sits down next to me, and picks up her small photo album and points to each photo buzzing its description. Ann is, for the most part, a delight to care for. Easy? Not at all. Pleasant? Most of the time. Would I stop going to see her? Absolutely not! The other day right before I made her lunch, I suggested she wash her hands. She did. I stood next to her with a towel. Her eyes lit up as if I'd given her a great gift. She smiled, dried her hands and said, “Thank you. You're the sweetest lady.” And then she hugged me. It was the highlight of the day! While Ann in her own way can be much more difficult than my mom had been, she could do something my mom was unable to do. She hugged me.

We've all heard it. We've all felt it. Someone falls victim to suicide and the *nearly* unanimous cry is, “Why didn't they get help?!” “Why didn't they tell someone?!” Chances are really good that they tried. They tried really hard. But most people who are not at risk of suicide think that the path to it is paved with bright neon signs that say, “SUICIDE! THIS WAY!” The fact is that no matter what side of the political and religious spectrums you are, most people recoil from the subject of death, and the very idea that someone could intentionally end their own life goes against every fiber of our being. So, unless we are forced to deal with the ugly aftermath, we downplay it as much as possible, assuring ourselves that if we saw someone on that awful road, we would recognize it. But would we really? And do we really think that someone who is contemplating suicide sits there logically weighing the pros and cons before seeking advice from their friends and family? Yeah, I didn't think so. In order to recognize the real signs, we first need to get it out of our head that self-inflicted injury or death is about death. It's about pain. Think about the last time you got the norovirus or food poisoning. You felt horrible. It goes on and on and you just want it to stop. Your body contorts involuntarily. You can't think about anything else except that you just. Want. It. To. Stop. What if, instead of twenty-four hours, this state of being kept going – indefinitely. Now, let's imagine that, inexplicably, no one can tell that you have food poisoning. They walk by, try to have conversations with you, go about their business – all while you're being actively, violently ill. You can't speak except in single words and basic concepts. Some of the people who pass by are annoyed. They can't see what your feeling and they wonder why you won't speak in full sentences or aren't paying attention to what they were saying. Others think maybe something's wrong with you and that makes them uncomfortable, so they hurry by. Still others want to help, but they also kind of think – deep down – that you're being a big baby. “Chin up!” they say. “Everything's going to be ok! There was this time when I didn't feel good, so I started exercising and that helped so much! You should try it!” Meanwhile the life is draining out of you and you care less and less. You start to feel as numb as a rock. You may as well be one. A rock can't feel. The more pain you're in and the longer it lasts, the more you become singularly focused on just making it stop. It doesn't matter how. In your helpless state, what you need is someone to recognize that your silence is pain, that your cries are not dramatic, that you are not weak or without faith. You need someone to get down on the bathroom floor and hold your hair back. Because ultimately, it's little, real, meaningful gestures that can help guide hurting people off a path they don't even realize they are on. What signs do we need to be watching for? Everyone is different, so everyone is going to behave differently when they are struggling. Be vigilant when someone is not acting like themselves. They don't seem to be enjoying the things they usually enjoy. Smiles may be scarce and forced. They stay in bed or lay in bed for unusual lengths of times (don't we all want to curl up in bed when we aren't feeling well?). If they go as far as to communicate with us, we need to listen carefully. Don't dismiss self-deprecating language, even if it sounds like a joke. Know when to encourage socialization and when to recognize that it's too much. Recognize also that your own scope of aid may not be enough. Your friend may need gentle nudges towards getting professional help. And if we hear about someone who has fallen victim to suicide – let's not dead-shame. Instead, lets redouble our efforts and pay close attention to the hurting people in our lives. Let empathy wash away the fear and discomfort that so many of us have in the presence of pain. Embody comfort. Listen. Be there. Love.

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.  

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.