We all have times in our lives that are unforgettable. Some of those moments we classify as defining moments either in our lives or in the lives of those near to us. For only being 24, I’ve had more than I can count. But that could largely be due to my memory. The people I work with will joke and tell you it’s photographic; it’s not, I swear.
I have shared in adventures with my closest friends that have resulted in uncontrollable laughter. There have also been moments of pain and sorrow.
For me, the story below is one of the latter moments.
[Sidenote: I didn’t write it for pity’s sake. I have written it because I want you to understand where I come from and what has molded me. Like I said previously, a brick at a time. I also want to show you a different perspective and ultimately start a dialogue. It’s a sensitive topic for most people, including myself, but the stigma that surrounds it is the heartbreaking part. We don’t talk about it despite the fact that we should.]
So where we go. This is Getting There.
I sit in the tan microfiber rocking chair, as Marsha sits across the room with the light from the solitary lamp illuminating the right side of my sister’s face. She is watching TV what I don’t know. It all sounds like mumbling to me. I can’t focus. My heart is racing and my mind is going over every detail and word from my last conversation with JD. Why did he call to me that no matter what happens that he loves me? JD has never been the affectionate type. So why and why did he say goodbye as if he were saying it for the last time? The heaviness in the pit of my stomach makes me feel as if something is about to happen.
Not a couple of minutes and the phone is ringing. I jump out of the chair and make my way quickly to the kitchen. I can feel it go from plush carpet to cold hardwood. I round the corner and grab the silver faced phone from the receiver. I immediately recognize JD’s number. I press the talk button with a sharp click.
“JD!”
No sound. Then faintly, “I can’t get down.” His voice cracked.
“What?”
“I can’t get down,” he said in a hushed but grasping voice.
For a split second I freeze. I know. I can feel it in my bones. I slam the phone back unto the receiver and slide to the corner oak drawer, pull it open, and grab the brown meat shears from the organizer. I take off running towards the front door.
I have captured Marsha’s attention as I cut across the living room.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“He did it,” I shouted, as I slid into a pair of shoes. I can hear her scrambling because she knows just as I do. I reach for the door and fling it open with all my might. I don’t care if I leave it open. Marsha is right behind me. I know she is.
It is bright compared to inside even though the sky is a shade of grey. No sun to be seen and there is a cool, slight wind. As I rush down the steps, I can feel the wind brush across my bare legs. It doesn’t matter if I am cold. Nothing truly matters, but getting there.
I have to get there.
Every sound is on mute, except my heartbeat. I can hear it pounding in my head with every stride.
THUMP.
My foot strikes the pea gravel drive.
THUMP.
Strike.
THUMP.
Each beat is stronger than the last as if the beat is willing me to move faster. “You have to hurry.” I keep repeating it to myself like Mom’s broken Mac Davis record does in my head. “He needs you.”
I run for what feels like an eternity completely oblivious to everything but where I am headed. He had been there the whole day. He had to be there now, I reassured myself. I start running down the hill towards the lake. My eyes are starting to scour the park and the pavilion for him.
Then I see him. He’s under the green tin roof pavilion, hanging. The building that we once helped erect was now holding my brother like a limp doll on an ever-thinning thread.
My heart sinks. “I’m too late,” I tell myself but I keep going. I can’t leave him there.
I pass the cement block restrooms that have been painted a deep shade of green and jump over the railroad ties that separate us. I climb up on to the table, knowing that this is where he must have stepped off of and I lift him up with one arm. As I hold him I start furiously cutting away at the yellow nylon rope that he anchored to the rafters.
It’s at this point that I realize Marsha is there holding up his lower body. She doesn’t need to see JD like this. The last section of rope is severed and down he comes. Somehow I am able to keep hold of JD and lower him until the table.
“Hide the scissors!” I tell Marsha.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how he is going to respond.” Trying to remain optimistic.
She grabs them from my hand as I start to lower my ear to his chest. Please let there be a heartbeat. I can’t lose my brother this way. There has to be a heartbeat. I plead with God in the deafening silence.
It’s there. I can hear it. Thank heavens. He is still unconscious though. You’d think I’d know what to do. I had done CPR training and should know what to do, but it all went out the window. He’s my brother. It starts to hit me that JD had just attempted suicide. The questions started to roll into my head like a tumultuous storm. Was there anything I could have done to prevent it? Would he try it again? What if he hadn’t been here? What if I hadn’t answered the phone? Why didn’t he talk to me about what was going on? Is he going to be okay? Are we going to be okay? But why? The question of why kept coming back like a recurring nightmare that you think will never go away. All of these questions are running on a loop through my mind as he starts to come to.
“Am I dead?”
“No. You’re alive.”
“You should have let me die.”
He starts sobbing as I say, “You called me. You didn’t want to die.”
“But why?”
“Because you are worth saving.”
JD may have moved on, but I can’t. I can still see him hanging there. I can feel my head on his chest. I will never be able to forget his voice and the way he said, “I can’t get down.”
“I can’t get down.”
Amy Hardesty 