A Life of Quiet Desperation

I was much more naive and trusting ten years ago than I am today. I believed that all policemen were good, all doctors were caring, and all people shared my concern for their fellow man. I realized with anguish the folly of making such generalizations when my sister, Laura, committed suicide. I was not only angered about my own naivety but also outraged by the uncaring attitude of the people I encountered following the tragedy.

My own lack of understanding left me unprepared for Laura's death. I often visited her at the Veterans Administration Hospital where she was a patient of a halfway house for mentally ill veterans. Whenever I was with her, she appeared to be relatively happy. I realized, after her death, the tremendous effort she had made to appear that way for my benefit. I knew she had been diagnosed as a chronic depressive; I did not understand the extent of her depression. Although Laura had made previous attempts to end her life, I was still shocked by her ultimate success. I should have realized how desperate she was because, in her usual protective way, she tried to prepare me. I received a letter shortly before she died in which Laura had written, "The panic and desperation are overwhelming." I did not heed her cry.

When we first learned of Laura's intentions, my family received no assistance in trying to determine whether she was dead or alive. My sister Carol received a letter from Laura which began, "Please forgive me. I just can't stand to live anymore." We immediately called the hospital and learned that Laura had already been missing for twenty-six hours. But despite our plea, no one at the Veterans Administration Hospital or the police department would agree to search for her. Mr. Thompson of the VA Hospital stated that Laura was no longer their responsibility since she had voluntarily left the hospital grounds. Donna Edwards of the police department's Missing Persons Bureau indifferently remarked that they could do nothing because Laura was "government property." After driving to the hospital, a four-hour drive from our home, we began a systematic and nerve-racking verbal investigation of Laura's friends, cab companies, and hotels. We found Laura, but our worst fears were confirmed. We were too late.

What really makes me angry is that no one tried to stop her. According to Kathy, a friend of Laura's who was also a patient at the VA center, something particularly upsetting happened to Laura that day. After being assured by her doctor's secretary that the doctor would see her, Laura went to his office. Her psychiatrist rudely told her she would have to make an appointment for the following week. When Laura protested, he yelled, "Get the hell out, or I'll call the guards!" Laura got the hell out, determinedly went to her room where she wrote her last letter, then left the center. A short while later, Kathy saw Laura waiting at a bus stop. She asked Laura where she was going, and Laura replied, "I'm on my way to the executioner!" Kathy, aware of Laura's desperation, begged the hospital personnel to do something to stop her or, at least, to call us. They refused. It took us only two hours to find Laura once we arrived in town; her death might have been avoided if we had been notified immediately or if the hospital personnel had taken appropriate action themselves. Despite what might have been, the cruel reality was that Laura's retreat from a life she found unbearable was finally complete.

Laura's life was one of quiet desperation. She silently screamed out the agony of her existence, but no one listened. She silently begged for help, but no one heard. Or cared. At least not enough. The anger I felt at this "don't give a damn" attitude has not significantly lessened after all this time.