The loss of a child is terrible. But the loss of a child through suicide bears an added dimension of pain because it is rarely spoken about. I have a need to break that silence.

Two years ago my 21 year old son, a big, athletic, sensitive college senior, comitted suicide. I need to talk about his death and its impact on me and my family. I want to open a window of understanding, not only upon the grief a child's death causes, but also upon the other emotions a suicide can evoke.

Children are not 'supposed' to die, but I knew it happened because, as a pediatric nurse,

I have seen my share of dying children. I have held, hugged, and wept with parents over their loss. Seeing their grief and sharing a part of it, I thought I understood a little of their pain. But I discovered I hadn't understood at all. I wasn't prepared for the feelings of unreality, of loss, or of anger.

I do indeed, feel anger when well-meaning people say "Well, at least you have four others." I want to yell, "I have five fingers. If I lost one, I'd want it back. I have 2 legs. If I lost

one, I'd want it back. I lost a child, I want him back!"

As much as I need each of my other children, they do not take the place of my dead child.

There is a gap in my mind's eye when I picture my children - one is in negative. Friends ask "Will all your children be home for the holidays?" I want to shout "No, all my children will NEVER be home again." But they mean well, so I tell them what they want to hear.

A death, a death of a child and a suicide! After the shock and numbness wear off, the anger creeps in. "How could you do this to me?" Then comes the guilt. "I can't be angry at

him, he must have been in so much pain to have done this." I could be angry at the psychologist, and on occasion I was but Dean had seen three psychologists in a short period of time and all had missed the depths of his depression.

With whom then shall I be angry? It must be myself. I SHOULD have brought him home from college when I knew he was depressed (even though we discussed it and he didn't want to leave). I SHOULD have called him the night before he killed himself (even though I'd spoken to him the night before that and two nights before that and two nights before that).

I SHOULD have been more patient. I had thought of calling him the night before he jumped off that cliff but it was hard to talk to him when he was depressed. We had said it all again and again. But did we say it all? Isn't there one more thing I could have said to make him see he had a future?

Anger, guilt and OH the fear for my other children. They are feeling the same intense pain that I am feeling! Now I have other children in pain. Dean was in pain and he killed himself!

Fear. We cry, we hug, we all climb into bed together as we did when they were little children. I want their bodies as close to me as possible, to fill up the void of my missing son. My daughter says she wants to join Dean. OH NO! the fear climbs over me. Is it possible another child could commit suicide? I constantly look for the children, call them, need to know their moods. What if they get too depressed to stay in control? What if they don't want to tell me how they're feeling because they're afraid to worry me? I know my 17

year old daughter has gone to the cemetery, lain on the ground and dug her fingers into the earth to be close to her brother. She wails on his Birthday. I listen to her retell vivid dreams.

I recognise that my 18 year old son cannot talk about Dean (with whom he shared a room

for 11 years) and does not like to listen to others talk about him. He has a need, though, to be home or to see us every other weekend, even though his college is a three hour drive from us.

I worry about my son who is 18 months older than Dean, who also has had bouts of depression. He couldn't or wouldn't allow his feelings to surface because he was afraid of

them. How relieved I was when he found another outlet and rode in a 200 mile bike-a-thon to raise money for a scholarship fund we had established in Dean's memory. It was such a relief to know that his confused energies were being funnelled into a cause that helped him.

My oldest, my child/man, is so in touch with his feelings that he puts them into poetry. The

rest of us sometimes have no idea of our own feelings until we read his poems. I cry, yet I am relieved that he can share his thoughts so powerfully, so generously. He reverses roles, he parents me. Six months after Dean's death I gain enough control to convince him that "I am the mother again."

My macho, engineer husband has lost a son and he weeps. He can't concentrate. He feels pain and I feel his pain. We hold each other and go to counselling together. He is wonderful. We can talk and help each other through our mood swings. When people ask, "How are you doing?" he answers. "We are doing just what we are supposed to be doing at this time of our grief. It's hard but we are getting counselling and that helps." I am so proud of him. He, who always gave the impression that he could handle anything is quick to admit, "I cannot handle this alone - this loss. This suicide loss of my child."

Suicide. It creeps into everything!

My husband and I are active in a regional youth organisation. Our advice is asked often. We were to be honoured at a dinner. We refused. "oh no, who are we to be honoured as leaders of youth, when we couldn't lead our own youth to safety?"

I am a pediatric nurse. Parents ask my advice about their children's problems and I think, "Who am I to give advice?" I must have done something very wrong. My child committed suicide."

I teach first-aid, emergency care and accident prevention. I wonder "Who am I to teach accident prevention? My child had the ultimate accident, he took his life. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't keep him alive."

The ultimate accident-suicide but this was no accident. Dean left us a note and a tape. He also left a lot of writing telling us what he was feeling. He took himself out of pain and, although we are now in pain, we can't imagine what it must have been like for him. We shared his writing with his shocked, disbelieving friends. They had lost a friend, a leader and a part of their youth.

It is now two years later and we know our lives, our thoughts and our feelings will never be the same. But we are going on.

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By Yvonne Hoffman © An extract from the American Journal of Nursing

Providing caring support, casting out stigma and isolation!