We Don’t Always Get a Second Chance to Undo What’s Done

But I hope these two people know I’m sorry.

(CW: talk of suicide.)

Maybe regretting something you didn’t do depends on your beliefs.

Whether or not you believe things happen the way they are supposed to.

I’m not a religious person, but I am spiritual. I believe in something greater, I’m just not sure what that something is.

Maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe they don’t.

Raised Lutheran, I left the church at sixteen. Confirmation classes lasted three years, which gave me enough time to decide what I wanted for myself.

My mother said I’d go to hell if I quit confirmation classes and stopped attending church. I told her I was already in hell.

Religion aside, we all do things we later regret. Though, for me, leaving the church is not one of them.

One regret is about Jane, a woman in my neighbourhood.

We were not close friends. But when we met in public, we easily talked.

I remember one afternoon at the doctor’s office waiting for our appointments. We chatted about art. Most people in the area knew I was an artist.

She talked about the difficulties she was having with arthritis in her hands and how she could no longer paint as she used to.

A year or two later, in 2001, a hunter discovered her body in the woods. It shocked me when I heard it was a suicide.

I felt regret not helping her find easier mediums to work in. Possibly chalk pastels. Even finger painting.

We could’ve brainstormed ideas that might have helped her. Help her bend instead of break.

But I never reached out. Never tried. And that’s what I regret.

In June 2019, my cousin who grew up in my family, whom I call Margaret in my memoirs, died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest.

She and I had drifted together and apart as adults. Sometimes close, sometimes not so close.

Many times, I had to pull back for my sanity. She could be unpredictable when she drank.

But I always forgave her. Felt sorry for the hardships she experienced in life. I excused her unacceptable behaviour, like I’d excused my mother’s unacceptable behaviour.

No longer talking on the phone, we messaged online.

I sent her invitations to my local book readings and art events. She said she’d try to attend, but would never show up.

She’d apologize, saying, “Sorry hon, something came up. We will get together soon. Hugs always.”

I keep a small picture of the two of us sitting on Santa’s lap as children. I’d sent her a copy of the picture, and she’d thanked me.

We kept saying we’d meet up.

We sent Christmas greetings. Birthday greetings. And then in May 2019, she sent the message, “Hi hon, my doctor put me on 60 mg of Cymbalta a day and he is sending me for a bone scan on my tailbone.”

I wrote back — I am on 60 mg of Cymbalta a day for the last 5 years. It helps a lot with pain and sleep. Let me know how you make out. I assume you’re having a lot of pain.

And here’s where we get to the part I regret.

In my haste. In the rush of a busy moment, I forgot to send the message.

I had thought I’d sent it. Even wondered weeks later why she hadn’t written back. I didn’t check. Never thought she hadn’t received the message.

It remained there, unsent.

After her death, I discovered my error. It felt unforgivable.

I wonder if she thought I had intentionally not messaged back. Did she think I had abandoned her? Might I have been able to prevent her death just a month later?

I feel I could have done more to save them. That I might have been able to change the outcome.

Maybe this is a common feeling of those left behind. Maybe those who take their own lives leave us searching for answers we cannot find.

I just hope my apology reaches them somewhere in the universe.

And I hold this quote dear to my heart as a reminder of the importance of our actions: from one of Deepak Chopra’s books: What we do today will ripple throughout a thousand tomorrows.

Thank you for reading.