The Pain of
Suicide
As
you know, one of my favourite themes is that we should stop whining over minor
disappointments. Buck up and get over
it. I realise that in saying so I might
give the impression that I’m unsympathetic.
But I take that risk at times, because I think there’s no better ‘therapy’
for most of our everyday complaints.
A few weeks ago, I spoke of how Moses
got over his whining tendency. One person
who was present that morning, someone who generally expresses great
appreciation for my drashot, came up
to me that day. “Rabbi,” the person said. “Forgive me for being such a whiner.”
I was a bit taken aback by the
apology, which I thought was entirely unnecessary. I’d never seen this person as a whiner. A person with a fair share of sickness and
real suffering, yes. But not given to
whining. “You’re not a whiner,” I told
the person. “You have legitimate issues, and you deserve to feel free to talk
about them.”
So let me make it clear. You should feel free to expect some sympathy –
certainly from your rabbi! – for legitimate gripes. Therapy and a sympathetic ear are two
different things! Yes, it’s true that when
people suffer from chronic issues, those who cope best are those who manage to function
the best they can in the face of their suffering. And my prayer is that each one of us, when we
are hurting, can manage to draw from a deep well of strength and resolve to
transcend our pain. Whether it’s
physical or emotional pain. We should
all understand and internalise that we go on to do great things and be a
blessing to others when we put our pain aside and get over it. But as human beings who are hurting, we deserve
sympathy from those who purport to be our friends, our community.
Even when we are trying to be sympathetic, we often stumble and manage to say
words that hurt as much as heal. Rabbi
Harold Kushner tells of how, when he had a teenage son slowly dying from a rare
disease, well-intentioned people would make him feel worse. In his highly-acclaimed book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, he
tells of some of the things these people would say to him, that were not at all
helpful.
“Everything is for the best,” they’d
tell him. How can my son’s suffering be for the best? Kushner would wonder.
“God will not test you more than you
can bear,” they’d tell him. I wish God would think me unable to bear
testing, Kushner would think. Then maybe He wouldn’t be willing for my son
to be so afflicted.
Not that Rabbi Kushner resented these
well-meaning individuals. He only
pointed out his reaction when told these things, to help us understand that
they weren’t the things one should say in a similar situation. And what does
Kushner think you should say, in reaction to someone’s suffering of the
nature of a sick, dying child? “I’m
sorry.” That’s all. Then just be there
for them.
Shortly after I became a rabbi, I had
a couple in their early sixties in my military congregation. He was a retired Chief Master Sergeant, and
she had started a late career as an administrator for a university extension
program. I knew that they had two sons. What I didn’t know was that they’d had a
third son, who died at a young age of a brain tumour.
He
explained this to me one day. He had ‘happened’
into my office in the base hospital, ostensibly because he happened to be in
the building for a medical appointment.
He sat down and began chatting about random things, and then all of a
sudden he spilled the information about the son who had died.
“I’m sorry,” I said. We sat quietly for a few minutes then I stood
up and patted his shoulder. The moment
passed, and we enjoyed a good relationship for the rest of the three years I
was in that assignment.
No, there really are no words – except perhaps
“I’m sorry” – that can ease the pain of one who has lost a child or seen their
child suffer. How much more so, if
someone lost a child to suicide. Suicide
is something with which many of us are acquainted. And why shouldn’t we be? It is certainly not an unknown phenomenon in
Australia.
Australia’s suicide rate in 2011 was
10.0 per 100,000 population. Males are
three times more likely than females to commit suicide; rates are 15.3 per 100,000
for men, and 4.8 for women. For both
sexes, the older the individual the more likely he or she is to commit suicide.
How do suicide rates for Australian Jews
compare to those for the same gender and age groups among other
Australians? I couldn’t find statistics,
probably in part because with such a small number of Jews in Australia, such
rates cannot produce a data sample of a size large enough to be statistically
reliable. But among major religious
groups in the USA, Jews are less likely to commit suicide than Protestants or
Catholics. Nobody knows why, but a good
guess would be lower rates of alcoholism amongst Jews than other identifiable
groups in society.
If Jews are unlikely to commit suicide
that is small comfort – and perhaps even makes it worse – when someone you know
commits suicide. As we know, there is a
longstanding religious taboo associated with suicide. Strictly speaking, when someone commits
suicide we are not supposed to mourn them in the same way that we mourn other
close to them. There is not supposed to
be a funeral, and certainly not a eulogy.
The suicide cannot be buried in a regular Jewish cemetery. They must be buried in a separate area,
delineated by a fence.
In practice, these rules are rarely
enforced. Taking one’s own life is
considered a major transgression, the equivalent of murder. But most would agree that suicide is not a
rational act. It is, rather, the act of
someone afflicted with mental illness.
Acts committed by the mentally ill are not considered to be
transgressions. The mentally ill cannot
sin. So in most cases, in most places,
nobody denies the survivors of a suicide, the privilege of mourning and eulogy
and ‘proper’ burial. Still, I’m sure
that if you look hard enough, you can find a Chevra Kaddisha that will not inter someone who died by suicide.
I’m thinking about this, because Clara
and I know someone whose grown daughter committed suicide this week. A vivacious and smart young woman who was
finishing up her PhD. A published author
and a journalist.
When we hear of someone who has
committed suicide, we have a tendency to want to rationalise as to why. To pick apart the life now ended, and try to
understand the tzurres that drove
them to do such a thing. To, perhaps lay
blame…even upon the still-living. But
there’s no possible profit in that.
What should you say to someone whose
child has committed suicide? I’m sorry.
Why say more? How can you
make sense of such an act? Of the hurt
and guilt? What enlightenment can you
possibly bring to bear that would change the facts? That would assuage the pain the family are
feeling. There’s nothing except I’m sorry that would be helpful in any
way. Not immediately afterwards. Not ten years later.
Suicide is not very common among
Jews. Even so, most of us know someone
who has grieved a suicide. If it happens
to someone you know, try to avoid judging.
That is, judging either the suicide, or those close to him. Each one of us is imperfect. We miss things in people who are close to
us. Signs and warnings of potential for
undesirable acts, including suicide. Most
of us aren’t trained to recognise the signs.
Even if we are and we do see them, we have a tendency to hide in denial. All the second-guessing in the world won’t bring
the dead person back. It will only
increase the guilt of those left behind.
Be compassionate with those who have
experienced loss. Do not judge them; it
will solve nothing. Don’t say things
that will hurt rather than help.
When someone has lost a child to an
untimely death, there really isn’t anything to say. Except “I’m sorry.” Especially when the loss was due to
suicide. Suicide is not an everyday occurrence. But when it strikes someone close to you, remember
these principles. Shabbat shalom.
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