Some Practical Thoughts On (Not) Suicide

Exactly one year ago on a Sunday morning I woke up to the following text message:

“Vanessa is missing.”

Whilst this isn’t the best message to wake up to, it is not at this point the worst.

[The worst was waking up to the news in New York that my trusty hound-companion, Derek, was on life-support with hours to live. 

Or perhaps it was my inebriated brother relaying the news that my Dad had finally succumbed to the lung cancer that had ravaged his body (more on that can be found HERE).

Always in the morning these messages seem to arrive.]

Upon receiving this message I slip into Big Brother mode: authorities are notified, the house is visited, brains are wracked, hospitals & friends are contacted, lists are made.

And thus it begins…

What follows is my personal reflection on the most surreally sad thing to happen to my family. Period. The beginning of a recurring nightmare that feels like it started both yesterday and forever ago.

Why bother? I can’t not do it. 

So here goes. This is what I remember.

1. The Person

Vanessa was the super-mensch of sister-in-laws: caring, loving, slightly disapproving, easy to wind-up about Donald Trump, a slight Northern accent (that became more pronounced with wine).

She was actually a bit of a supermensch, full-stop. One of those extremely rare high achievers from good down-to-earth, Northern stock and no real pretensions of any kind. 

Supremely ambitious with a work-ethic that would worry Kobe Bryant, it wasn’t unusual to finish a night with her working at the kitchen table and then get up and find her there at 6am the next morning as I’d head out to the gym, scratching my head as to whether she’d actually gone to bed at all.

Despite being at the top of her career-game, she (mostly) ran the household and (fully) ran the family books. All effortlessly. 

Apart from dishwasher-stacking, at which she was less than adept.

2. The Virality

The local community – London Fields in Hackney, London – immediately rallied and mobilised. 

Search parties hunted high and low, went door-to-door on foot and bike. Ring doorbell cameras were scrutinised to within an inch of their beady-eyed little lives.

A well-known local author tweeted about it and the whole thing took off like a rocket. Suddenly Vanessa was in the news, which was confronting for my brother, but we landed on the side of “any publicity is good publicity” when someone is missing.

Seeing a family member in the Daily Mail (online version) is generally never a good thing (especially when your family are labour-leaning socialists), but it was heartening to see the reach and breadth of the search – my hopes were high.

Surely V was in a hospital having had an accident or had checked into a place for a coupla days to decompress after the stresses of the 18-hour days working to sell Everton Football Club to an American crew of “soccer” wheeler & dealers.

3. The Unintentional Fuck-Up

On Monday morning UK-time, after being missing for 48 hours, my little brother stumbled upon the bombshell news that there had been an accident on Saturday lunchtime, shortly after Vanessa went missing.

The details are simply too distressingly odd to mention without describing it as the most almighty Mongolian cluster-fuck of a situation betwixt the Transport Polis and the regular cops, whose inability to triangulate information turned us into characters in a tragi-comedy.

I happened to be on the phone to him at the time, and words won’t do justice to the animalistic & visceral pain, anguish and despair I myself felt, never mind him as the morbid situation played out in front of his very eyes.

It’s hard to imagine anything harder or more painful. 

I mean, I’m sure there’s something out there but I haven’t known it and hopefully I never will.

This is where the ominous message turns truly grotesque.

3. The Financials

Upon arriving in the UK in the immediate aftermath, we busied ourselves with practical tasks because we’re English men and can’t really express emotions or feelings well, or at all.

We were productive. We waded through papers and files. We got things done. 

But we could in no way fathom how to work the underfloor heating, because, well, Vanessa took care of that.

My brother’s remit went as far as managing the Sky Sports, Netflix & Laithwaites (wine) subscriptions.

Vanessa took care of mortgages, investments, companies, insurances etc. See what I mean about the supermensch qualities?

4. The Silent Funereal Appreciation

On the day of the funeral we were transported to the City Of London Crematorium & Cemetery in an old limo behind a hearse. 

For the first half a mile or so one of the drivers walked ahead of the procession in his full regalia – a mark of respect passed down through the ages (I guess). It felt momentarily like the East-End of yesteryear.

When we arrived at the hearse and limo drop-off spot – at the Crematorium doors – we were greeted by a waiting, silent, crowd of what seemed like 500 but was probably closer to 400 or 450.

And as we exited the whip, it was impossible (for me, anyway) not to be struck by this insanely surreal sense of “all eyes upon us,” to the point where I didn’t really know where to go or look.

My brother, cannily, had sunglasses on so looking back towards him felt like I was observing a celebrity arriving somewhere in slow-motion, shepherding the boys out of the car. His movements were suave, collected even; a complete anathema to my nervous, jerky posturing.

The momentary noise generated by this silent, stoic, serious appreciation was something I’ve never seen or felt before, and the exact magnitude of what we’ve been deprived of dawned on me.

Reading the eulogy on his behalf, I used the lectern to steady the nerves. But 500 (factoring in latecomers) anticipatory faces stared me down, not with anger, but sadness and compassion.

All I could muster was a “wow” as I surveyed the packed room, the aisles crammed with folks standing. I didn’t stuff it up and maintained some semblance of composure until the penultimate few lines, at which point my voice faltered. Speeding up, I finished and scurried back to my pew.

The wake, held at the Duke of Richmond in Hackney, was befitting of the person, and the day. 

The love in the room was palpable and the mix of locals, relatives, blow-ins, many of whom had flown in from overseas for the day, made for a mad old mix that had the place literally busting at the seams. More than a few tears were shed. The party went on into the night.

6. The Coroner’s Inquest

Five months after she died, a Coroner’s Inquest ruled that Vanessa didn’t die through suicide.

The ensuing debate about the culture at law firms made the previous media attention of the search look like a village fete. This was the full-scale jamboree.

The Times, The Telegraph, the BBC, The Australian, the Daily Fail (again), Yahoo, Law Weekly (or whatever) all had an angle, as did every other publication under the sun. I was hit up with messages from folks I haven’t heard from or seen in aeons, saying how they’d seen or read about the story and wanted to pay their respects.

Her law firm was pilloried. Newsnight wanted a piece of my brother’s viewpoint. LinkedIn became the Town Hall Elon Musk has always wanted as posts went truly viral with likes & comments getting into the thousands (I think).

Reading, seeing & hearing all of this whilst mourning your sister-in-law (or any family member) is a cruel & unusual punishment. 

Reading coroner’s reports, including those of people involved at close quarters is truly vomit-inducing and the stuff of nightmares that haunt you for weeks afterwards, and seep into your thoughts at random times to fuck up your day, day after day.

Unlike Poole, I don’t endorse it. In fact, I despise it.

Maintaining composure in these times, especially at work, is a mountainous struggle. Call logs, data accuracy, at micro-managing isn’t front-of-mind when you’re replaying the final moments of someone you love & adored.

In these instances a 24 hour Employee Assistance Program ain’t gonna cut it, I’m afraid.

What’s Next?

You simply move on, I guess. British stiff-upper-lip and all that.

A simple strategy, but as John Rohn said: “just because something is simple doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

The unanswerable questions remain: how did Vanessa’s problems escalate to the point she went where she did? 

And, more pressingly for me, and possibly for you, too,  if somebody who is such a high-achiever in every regard, can’t see a way out, what hope is there for mere mortals like me? 

Absolutely terrifying. And heart-breakingly sad.

SFD

H/T to Tim Ferriss for this title of this post