Henry

I met Henry in 1990 when we were assigned to be roommates at a company conference. I got to the room first and my unpacking involved putting my suitcase next to my bed. He arrived and we performed polite introductions and small talk while I watched him arrange his socks in one drawer and fold his tshirts into another. He didn't finish until he had ironed his wrinkle-free shirts and lined up his grooming supplies beside the sink.

"Oh great", I thought. "I get to spend the next four days with the most anal guy in the company." Four days later, we had formed a friendship that lasted 17 years. I'm still not sure why. He was 10 years older than me. He was serious about his job and had the company's mission statement memorized. He was a Vietnam vet and a former Nascar driver. He was a life long bachelor with an eye for pretty women.

And me? I was...well, I was none of those things. I think I forgot to pack socks on that trip.

He sounds like a serious guy but he was also a complete optimist. Kind of a "the sun will come up tomorrow" personality. He survived cancer. I watched him take a battery of pills and lather lotions on his body to help with the chemo or radiation. But he never complained and he always pointed out that he was blessed and that he was so much better off than most of the people on the planet.

Later, I switched companies and talked him into coming along. It was a good move for him and his talent and work ethic were recognized and he moved up the ladder into some high profile positions. I was thanked for bringing him into the company. A few years later, I made another career move and we started to lose touch. There was an occasional phone call but then 2 years went by while we forgot to talk at all.

If this is starting to sound like a eulogy, well, I suppose it is. It's been a year now since he left work early, wrote a note to his new wife and shot himself in the bathtub. I wanted to put some time between the news of his suicide and writing this. First, I wanted to understand it. I wanted to wrap my head around what happened and why. I wanted to find the answer to this problem.

But I've changed my mind.

I don't want to understand it. I don't want to know that he was always in pain and I never recognized it. I don't want to know what was in the note he left. I don't want to grasp how he could battle cancer so bravely and with out self pity and then take his own life after the battle was won. I don't want to find out that Henry could hate his new wife so much that he would make her carry the lifetime burden of what she saw in that bathroom. I don't want to think that I might have made a difference if I'd kept in touch. This is the second story I've written dealing with suicide and I don't want to realize that everybody is capable of it. I don't want to wrap my head around that kind of darkness.

I can accept that some things just are. Sometimes there are no answers.

I don't need to understand.