In the light of the comments I have received regarding last week’s Power Surge on “Assisted Suicide” I felt this true follow-up story would be helpful.

It's a sobering statistic: Every 42 seconds, someone attempts suicide in the USA. Every 16.9 minutes, someone completes it.  The suicide rate among 15 to 19 year olds has quadrupled in the last 40 years, making it the third leading cause of death in this age group today. Yet what these statistics don't take into account are the living victims of suicide—family members and friends left behind to grapple with their inability to prevent such a self-destructive act. Below, one woman talks candidly about how her brother’s suicide impacted her every day.

When my vacuum cleaner broke recently, I felt as though my heart broke, too. Why was I so upset that my old cleaner went on the blink? After all, I thought I'd fully recovered from my 18-year-old brother Bart's suicide. I'd bought the vacuum from Bart 6 months before he killed himself in May, 1988. As a newlywed at the time, I could barely afford the expensive appliance, but I knew I was helping him by buying one, and its purchase symbolized my love for Bart. Through the years, I have been haunted by one thought: Could I have prevented Bart from committing suicide?  Even today I still don't understand what made Bart take his life.

Bart was seven years younger than I, and had a different father. Since our mother was on her fourth marriage, our loyalty to each other was our security. He was my constant shadow. We depended on each other. At 18, when I left for college, I felt as though I were abandoning my own son. It took everything I had not to turn around and take my 11-year-old brother with me.

When I was 22 and Bart was in the 10th grade, I learned of his first suicide attempt. Afterwards, Bart was diagnosed with manic depression, something he never liked to admit he suffered from. While he sporadically took medication for his depression, at other times, he insisted he was perfectly normal. Unfortunately, Bart's disorder dug deeper than my ability to comprehend or cure.

Bart often spent the weekends with my husband, Ken, and me at our house. Although he lived with our mom seven hours away, we relished spending weekends together:
One unexpected visit, however, concerned me. His car broke down near my house. He called me, needing a place to stay. When I picked him up, Bart seemed different. He looked edgy. He flew into a rage because his car would take two days to fix,then paced for hours in frustration.

Mom had told me she suspected he was into drugs. Concerned, I sat Bart down and said, "I love you, and I'm here for you. Mom's told me you're into cocaine, and I'm worried!" "Oh, Suz," he replied, "you know Mom and her exaggerations. I'm fine.”
When he drove off the next day, I had the fleeting thought, I'll never see him again. I ignored the impulse to chase him as I raced to get to work on time. How could I know this feeling was prophetic?

Two days later, my stepfather called. Bart's body and numerous drugs had been found in his car, along with a bizarre cassette in a tape recorder. With loud heavy metal music in the background, Bart had taped a slurred diatribe about wanting to find out what death felt like. Bart took his life by carbon monoxide poisoning two days before his 19th birthday; I'd been the last person to see him alive.

After I heard the news of Bart's death, I clung to my belief in God like a drowning man clutches a life belt. Even after I stopped crying outwardly, inwardly I felt shame and guilt. Bart had always needed me. Should I have found a psychiatrist for him? Should I have insisted on therapy? How could this catastrophe have been prevented? And oh, how I missed my baby brother!

I knew I needed to appropriate God's strength in this tragedy—but how? Numb, I trudged to church, hoping to sing a comforting song. Obediently I taught Sunday school, frantically praying to find a calming Scripture.

My husband and friends were supportive, but as time went by, they expected healing—but the opposite occurred. I felt suffocated by the weight of grief, shame, guilt and loss. The "old Suzy"—fun-loving, organized, hopeful—had all but vanished.
Meanwhile, my aunt worried about me, suggested I attend her national nondenominational group called Bible Study Fellowship (BSF). Desperate for help, I agreed.

As I attended the group each week and studied the Bible each day, I began experiencing God's love in a new, powerful way. For the first time I really learned how to apply Scripture to real-life situations. Then I read in Mark 14:8 what Jesus said to those who accused the woman who washed his feet with expensive perfume: "She did what she could." It was as though God spoke directly to me: Suzy, you did what you could. I know how much you loved your brother. You couldn't do any more.

God's promises became a balm to my broken heart. They helped to heal the raw, deep gash left in my spirit by the sad loss of my brother. Soon my numbness started to give way to a deep sadness, and sadness, to a gradual release from my grief and guilt.

Although I'm learning to relinquish responsibility for Bart's death, his suicide continues to influence my life, and I know I'll never understand why Bart felt the need to end his life. His suicide almost destroyed me, but I now know the onus for his death rests on his shoulders. Free choice is a God-given gift. Who am I to think I could have saved him? Am I God? Faith in action is deciding to believe in God's sovereignty.
I do know, however, that I wouldn't have missed the special bond Bart and I shared, regardless of the torment I experienced by his demise. I cherish my brother Bart.
I'm ready to let go of the accountability for my brother, and concentrate on God's good gifts—my children. They went with me to the store to pick out a new vacuum.