Email

Bookmark

Print

Suicide Needs Solitude

Jack will jump off the bridge today.

He won't stop traffic as he leaves this world. He's not a publicity seeker. At mid-span he'll slide over the safety railing onto a protruding support beam and plunge fifteen stories to his death.

Last week he dropped a stone over the edge to time the fall. Seven seconds. A book at the library says skydivers hit 120 mph during freefall.

How Has it Come to This?
Studies show that older men have the highest suicide rate of any age group. Depressed, they just can't cope with all the feelings of loss and worthlessness.

Jack leaves his apartment at 10:00am. It's a good day for a walk - sunny with scattered cloud and no wind. His stride seems rather unusual: part casual stroll like a tourist enjoying the scenery and part determined march - eyes straight ahead, focused on his destination. Lots of traffic this morning. Folks driving by glance at the gentleman dressed in brown suede shoes, olive green windbreaker and a tan panama hat who is making his way up the pedestrian path to the bridge. He looks to be in his seventies, lean, clean shaven and about six feet tall.

As he reaches the bottom of the span, the thump of the car tires on the deck match the thumping in his chest. This may not be as easy as expected. A silver minivan passes in the outside lane and a blonde headed child waves.

"A whole lifetime left for her," Jack thinks. "Mine went by so quickly."

The Good Old Days
The tandem hay truck speeding by stirs up dust but also leaves a scent that takes him back to childhood days on the farm. A silver dollar a day for throwing alfalfa bales onto the haywagon. Big money back then.

Money isn't the issue today. He's done okay. Loneliness is the problem. His kids all live back East and nothing's the same since his wife Anna died. Jack loves his family. No hard feelings there. The note on the kitchen table should explain everything and relieve their guilt. This isn't their fault.

At midspan he leans over the railing. The bridge bounces with each passing truck. A silver trout breaks water near the shore. Had some good days fishing - especially with his son- in-law Russ. That guy goes crazy with a fish on the line. A dull grey seagull lands boldly on the railing pleading for a handout. Jack offers the crumbs in his pocket as a final gesture of good will. The river's foam and floating debris draw his attention to the drop below. The bridge casts a wide shadow on the water. He'll jump into that shadow.

The final order of business: He tucks his wallet in a sealed plastic bag and zips it in his jacket pocket.

Go Home!
Something brushes against his leg. A dog has joined him on the bridge. A bright eyed, mangy mutt - black and tan with misplaced patches of dirty white. Poor breeding but definitely a friendly sort. The critter sits on his haunches and barks as if Jack should know what he wants.

Poor timing. Suicide needs solitude.

Jack wags his finger at the dog's nose. "Get home." A long, wet tongue as swift as a swordsman finds the side of his face as he leans down to issue the reprimand. He must get rid of this spectator. "C'mon boy let's go." Jack pats him on the head and starts back down the bridge. At the end of the sidewalk the mutt spots children playing in a backyard sandbox and disappears around a cedar fence. Jack turns to start back onto the bridge but his feet are locked. His brain is screaming,

"Go home, go back home."

Near his apartment he meets a neighbor walking her tiny white poodle.

"Good morning Jack, getting some exercise?" asks Elsie. "We don't see you much."

"I've been busy lately," replies Jack.

"By the way," he questions her, "have you noticed a stray dog around lately? Half beagle and half mongrel with long ears and wavy hair?"

"Why yes," she replies. "He follows me when I cross the bridge to the market. Friendly little fellow. Story goes there's an old homeless woman who throws bread for the seagulls off the railing every morning. He's always there looking for handouts. Apparently he follows everyone on the bridge."

Jack opens his door. His answering machine is blinking.

"Hi Dad, it's Roxanne. We're coming out to visit you next weekend. It's been too long. Russ wants to take you fishing. I love you. Call me back."

Related Reading:
Broken on the back row
Experience love and forgiveness
Need advice? Ask us.

Allen Unrau writes a weekly column relating to "reallife" seniors issues in Abbotsford BC. He is actively involved as a volunteer with numerous seniors' organizations in the Fraser Valley. He is a grandfather of eight and works as a licensed realtor specializing in seniors Real Estate...helping seniors and their families with the purchase or sale of homes in the Fraser Valley.