Two years ago yesterday. I entered my brother’s apartment to find him unconscious on his couch. On the glass coffee table in front of him was an empty bottle of scotch and several empty bottles of pills. In his stomach was 58 Ambian pills, 18 Vistaril, 7 Zyprexa, 1 Remeron, 10 Ativan, 1 Zoloft, and who knows how much Jameson.
I could see his shallow breathing, so I knew he was still alive. My phone was buzzing—Ray Romero was calling to say he thought something was wrong with my brother. I asked him to come over as soon as he could. I was able to get David to come to by, slapping his face, and asked him to stick with me and to stay awake. I didn’t want him slipping into a coma, which was a real possibility. I thought about sticking my fingers down his throat to get him to puke up what he had ingested. I was afraid to do that though because I wasn’t sure if I could accidentally drown him in his own vomit if I got it wrong. The rings around his neck from his last attempt were just healing, and there wasn’t any fresh indication that he had done something to harm himself this time.
I called the emergency number for his doctors, was connected, and began to do an inventory of the pills missing and possible interactions between all of the various meds he may have had in his stomach. Ray arrived shortly thereafter, and I had him look after David while I sorted out the immediate attention needed and then called 911. After I made that call, I called my Aunt Bettie, David’s godmother, and told her that when David came to, she was going to need to tell him that she called 911. I was worried that if David found out I made the phone call, I would have breached his trust, and to this point, we had been pretty open about what was going on. I didn’t want to breach his trust and fragile state.
This is the first time somebody other than me had seen David during a suicide event. I know Ray couldn’t believe what was going on.
A little while later, the EMT’s were on the scene. All the while, we were keeping David awake, and I was trying to take an inventory of what David might have taken to give to them. As usual, David was more groggily annoyed with us trying to keep him alive and coming up with excuses around what was going on. “I was just trying to sleep.” Watching him lie to the EMT’s always broke my heart. He was so ashamed at what he had done and very annoyed that he didn’t succeed.
I am not going to lie: It is frustrating as hell trying to save somebody who doesn’t want to be saved. I remember being super calm, as I tend to get the more intense the situation is, and also being angry with trying to figure out how to whoop some sense into David.
That’s the hardest part as being an outsider to depression and people with suicidal tendencies. Having been in some dark places myself, I recall how hopeless everything was, but I also remember coming out of it. I even recall David dismissing me as being a wuss, and I should just man up. As much as it tears down the person suffering, I would say it is equally taxing on those who are trying to help, to keep listening, and to demonstrate empathy.
You say, “It’s going to be okay.” You think, “What is wrong with you, man?” Don’t feel bad if you’ve felt like this. It’s normal. But it’s also something you should not say out loud. It doesn’t help.
So eventually, they loaded David up on a gurney, and I stepped into the ambulance for the second and last time I would with David. We arrived at the hospital, and all David could think about was his keys and cracking jokes. Since this was Ray’s first time through this, I watched David use the same excuses he used on me, when it worked. He was admitted later that day, and Ray and I just looked at one another. Hollow, devastated, shaking our heads in disbelief that a person who represented the strongest confidence, shatter in front of our eyes.
Somehow, David’s body powered through the consumption. They didn’t need to pump his stomach, but he did have to ride out the entire aftereffects of the pills. The hangover must have been awful. For me, I was drained. My tank was on empty. I cried a lot that night—I cried for almost having lost my brother, and had I not been there, what would have happened? I cried because I couldn’t find the right words or the tools to help him see why his life was something worth living. I cried because I was tired and frustrated, and I felt like a complete failure. I cried for a lot of reasons that night. It would not be the last time I cried. I cried until I sobbed—I sobbed until there were not more tears, and my body could not physically produce anymore anything. I was hollow and broken inside, exhausted. I cannot explain how tired. This isn’t “it’s been a long day” tired, or “I worked to hard” tired, or “didn’t sleep the night before” tired. This was drained, as if everything was sucked from within and just spilled in front of you.
Two Years Ago today, I had just one bad day out of many, wondering what I could do to try to remind somebody to love themselves as much as the people around him loved him.
