Personal Essay

A Matter of Life and Death

A trifecta for suicide bested by my sweet tooth and a trip to the doctor

Introduction

While of course suicide is no laughing matter, as a humorist who happens to battle depression and thoughts of an exit-at-my-own-hands, I choose to present my true story, sincere feelings, and intents and purposes of mental health awareness and suicide prevention in an irreverent manner. That is who I am. Deal with it. Do not get upset. If you can accept such a presentation, please read on. If it will upset you, this story is not for you. If you do read and get upset, I warned you so, unlike a suicide, you would have only yourself to blame; and if you complain about me or Illumination to Medium, go fuck yourself and I will see you in heaven after my natural passing and hell hath no fury like an honest comedian scorned.

My Story

I came so close to executing my suicide plan this past week that no one — probably not even you, the so-called open-minded, average reader — will believe it. And yet I guarantee you won’t believe it unless I give you some hairy details.

If it weren’t for some follow-up googling (post aborting my planned suicide attempt), I would not have known that my brand-new Nissan Rogue was not a suitable weapon of death and destruction. In an article in some generic health magazine, I learned that carmakers have in the last few years changed combustion engines, not just for maximum performance, but to dissuade suicide wannabes. We’re talking carbon monoxide poisoning, which was my exit strategy.

What a disappointment! Here I had gone to all the trouble of actually coming up with a suicide plan, and yet had emerged with a second-rate one. That was so like me to play in the mediocre sandboxes of life. As far as I was concerned I never rose to higher levels of anything, be it academics, wifery, or writing. I was so average, there was a picture of me beside the dictionary definition of average (joke c/o Rodney Dangerfield, RIP).

I was a born skeptic. I was not entirely sure I believed the facts in the aforementioned article. Were car manufacturers being truthful? Had they really lessened the carbon monoxide emissions to deter suicidal individuals like me, or was the article slanted that way or, worse, entirely bogus? To know that, I would have to do much more research and when you’re contemplating suicide, your mind is not ready and willing to do a lot of hard research.

Unfortunately, months before the day I set my plan in motion, I had failed to do the research when I first developed my “perfect” plan. I remember thinking that in hindsight my choice was obvious. About 30 years ago, a neighbor across the street from me committed suicide in his garage. His wife just found him in his car when she went for the newspaper.

I was much younger then and remember gathering across the street from the “crime scene” with other neighbors. We were like vultures looking for scraps of raw flesh to tear off and eat. And after the initial excitement, we ended up turning the suicide aftermath into a kind of block party. We started gabbing, realizing we hadn’t spoken to each other in years, and probably wouldn’t again. Unless a suicide or some other dramatic event — a fire? A blackout? A tornado? — happened by.

So 30 years later, I remembered how easy my neighbor’s death looked. At least from the outside looking in. I wanted something just as easy. Silly me thought that all I’d have to do was to drive to my appointed place of departure, leave the engine on and close the garage door. I guess as naïve suicide wannabes go; I was in the upper echelon. I envisioned a slow, leisurely nap morphing into a slow, leisurely death.

But I didn’t count on reading this article, which not only proclaimed the fallacy of the above reasoning but also threw in some disgusting details about how failed carbon monoxide suicide victims fare. First, they often look physically distorted and disfigured if they die, which is not a sure thing. And if they survive, they can have severe brain trauma. At the very least, they could end up with a serious memory deficit in the past, present, and future.

That last consequence really stung because memory loss was one reason I hit the suicide trifecta. My sister just was diagnosed with dementia — would I not be following her? The other two? Well, I hate to sound like a bad cliche, but it’s true: my dog died. And along with that, a good friend.

So there were The Big Three items: loss of both devoted dog and valued human friend (so two friends), and fear of dementia. Three arch-enemies of happiness and contentment. At the very least, a normal person would feel agitated and weepy over each item. Put them all together and that same normal person might easily seal themselves up in the house for a week and fry their brains on vodka.

But we’re not just talking about a normal person here; we’re talking about me. And my psychiatrist considers me a treatment-resistant depressive. I just call myself always depressed, and I’ve been that way for 50 years. My starting point on any day is, say, mild-to-moderate melancholia. Then pile on three traumatic stressors, each in their own right, a m — — f — -cker, and you wind up with a suicidal individual. Me.

There I was, sitting in my Nissan Rogue with a full tank of gas and suicide bound. Intent on executing my exit strategy, I wasn’t even tuned into the radio. Rush Limbaugh had already died, so I wouldn’t have his bones to kick around. I played deaf-mute. I just aimed the Rogue at the highway and thought for at least the hundredth time how I hated that car. I despise it because it resembles me a bit too much — what could be more blah than a nondescript white SUV? It was like a perfect match of inconsequential and budget. It could pass for a taxi or one of those pizza delivery cars you see slipping and sliding down suburban streets.

As I drove I realized I was tired after two days of heavy crying, lousy sleep, and little food. I even had a mild headache, which could have been from the second dose of the Pfizer COVID vaccine but wasn’t. I got around 45 miles out of Phoenix when I had an epiphany of sorts. It came as an image, you might say.

I saw the sign for The Pie Place (my name, not the real one), and something clicked in that part of the brain that stores gastronomical information. Once upon a time, I had sampled the ambrosia produced there in pie tins and remembered it as an unforgettable experience for every fat-loving chocoholic who liked to dabble in coconut, whipped cream, and marshmallows.

How could I continue my exit plan on an unclear head? By that, I meant the headache plus all it would take for my exit plan to unfold without a hitch. I think I suspected even then that carbon monoxide poisoning wasn’t as straightforward a plan as the newspaper and television reports implied. Besides, if anyone needed a sugar high, it was me!

Despite my unstable emotional mindset, I was able to drag myself out of the Rogue and toddle my disheveled body into The Pie in the Sky Place. Although my eyes were bleary, I was quick on the draw and located a slice of coconut cream pie in a refrigerator accessible to the public. The sticker price was $6. Yes, $6. But what the hell, I said to myself. What difference did it make if I was going to go to La-la-land, anyway?

I sat in the car for a full 15 minutes savoring each delectable morsel. I didn’t even begrudge the high price. Were it not for the memory of snacking once before at this desert dessert place, I’d probably be circling my appointed “kill” spot, trying to get up the courage to do the “deed.” Saved by some whipped cream?

That 15 minutes gave me just the right interval of time to reflect on a few hundred things in my life. I wanted to see if I could receive a message from my newly departed dog. The only way I could do that was if I were alive. I turned the Rogue to that real home that beckoned, returned to my laptop, and started Googling. That’s when I found out about the possible new-car-not-enough-carbon-monoxide connection. Not a good idea, I mouthed silently.

Obviously, you knew at the start that I didn’t complete my suicide plan. But I wasn’t kidding when I said it was the closest I ever came to doing it. And I’m also not going to kid you into thinking this story has a happy-ever ending.

I still don’t like my life, my marriage, and many of the challenges fate has visited on me. But I got lucky. A delicious slice of pie brought me back to rationality. If I wanted more pie or caramel apples or Haagen Dazs ice cream, or anything sweet for that matter, I’d have to find a better way.

So I took my sick mental state to the Silent Shrink (that’s what I call my psychiatrist due to his minimal use of language) and he came through for me in buckets. He prescribed a great new pill that turned my mindset around 180 degrees. Thumbs up for life!

I’m not perfect, but at least I’m still in the game, puffing up that steep hill toward my next piece of chocolate mousse cake.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide or self-harm, we encourage you to contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1–800–273-TALK (8255).

This lifeline is free and confidential. It is open 24 hours a day and provides support, information, and local resources to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress and those around them. Call for more information or visit www.suicidepreventionhotline.org.