988

Just before 6:30 on the morning of Wednesday, October 18, I took a phone call. A neighbor was calling from the back parking lot of our church.

Our neighbor is an early morning walker. She has a circuit that wraps through our church property. She had unsettling news. Police officers were on site. Sadly, the officers were working a death by suicide.

I was dishearten to learn this news. Our neighbor was also calling on behalf of the police. She had informed them that she works in the church’s preschool, and the officers asked if the church staff might be able to coordinate the cleanup. My response was yes, and I told her I was on the way.

I grabbed my backpack and made the two block drive to church. I parked and walked to the section of the lot where the officers were located.

An officer greeted me. Then a detective came over. The detective explained that the self-inflicted wound left quite a pool of blood under a limbed up evergreen tree. The officers didn’t want the blood to trigger more unease for anyone who might discover it. I told the detective that I would do the required cleanup.

Many years ago when I was an assistant principal at a large high school in Henrico County, Virginia, I remember all faculty and staff attending a workshop on blood borne pathogens.

Part of that training required that we all had on our person or in close proximity, the proper gloves to wear in case we were exposed to blood from an accident, sport injury, or a couple of students involved in a fight.

We also learned the required protocols for cleaning up a blood incident. Our building caretakers were excellent in following those procedures.

I’m not good around blood. I struggle when blood is drawn from my arm at the doctor’s office. At a very early age our son had significant surgery. When the nurses brought him into the recovery room, I had to walk out.

After the police departed, I located the blood and devised a plan. I decided to take the the church’s pick up truck and use it to carry buckets of hot water to the site. In a couple of buckets, I added a light dose of bleach.

From the church’s kitchen, I filled the buckets, loaded them on the back of the truck, and then drove slowly to the evergreen tree. In the path of the headlights, I carefully walked each bucket to the spot, and gently tilted the bucket over. Steam rose from the buckets in the cool morning air, and the slight slope of the land allowed the water to do its work.

I made several trips, and between the headlights and the increasing sunlight the area under the evergreen improved.

At some point, I let our senior pastor know what had taken place. I also called my wife. Sadly, our family knows death by suicide. Many years ago, my wife lost her oldest sister. I don’t think the rawness of that news ever left my wife’s parents.

Since Wednesday morning, I’ve thought about how I was asked to assist. But in truth, I’ve thought more about the person’s family. I wonder how they are holding up? I wonder what they need? And I know, they will spend the rest of their lives wondering what they might have done differently.

Despite an increased awareness about the importance of mental health and suicide prevention, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported 48,183 Americans died by suicide in 2021.

And yet, in that disheartening number, I look for pockets of hope.

Thanks to the FCC, 988 has been designated as the nationwide number for Mental Health Crisis and Suicide Prevention, and in August 2023 the US Department of Health and Human Services allocated $64 million in grants to fund mental health services. Even with this progress, we still have discouraging reports of long wait times for appointments and a shortage of qualified mental health practitioners.

In Jackson Browne’s song “Bright Baby Blues” he writes: “No matter how fast I run, I can never seem to get away from me.”

I’m no mental health expert, but I think a person who is contemplating suicide might fit into those lyrics. No matter how hard the person has worked to confront the demons of darkness, the person just can’t seem to get away and find the needed stability.

I wear two wristbands on my right wrist. One of them has the words “Be Kind” printed on it.

In the time I have left in this old world, I need to become better at being kind to people.

Perhaps, this unattributable quote says it best: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”