Eight hours from now, it will be four years since Jim shot himself. He was not a "victim" of suicide. He deliberately and with forethought decided that life was no longer worth living, and he took himself off. OK. It was his life, and I have to (grudgingly) admit that he had that right.
We had even talked about how we didn't want to "linger." How, diagnosed with something terminal and awful, suicide was a preferable option. I know he knew what he was doing. My biggest problem has always been that he didn't share his fears for his health with me. I still think he could at least have gone to a doctor and been tested for whatever it was that terrified him so. How is this not something a couple should share and discuss?
Anyway, here I am, dwelling on that night and my sad feelings.
I will never forget his eyes, when I kissed him goodnight.
Of course, in retrospect, everything that happened takes on significance that it never would have had on a normal night. It's only because my life changed forever in an instant that I remember these things.
If this sounds as if I'm still sort of mixed up...well, pretty much.
But it stays in the box most of the time.