![]() ![]() But my text messages and call history betray me: I’d offered, in a near blackout state, to rush out and report on a story that, mercifully, was taken on by someone else. Just the lasting image of a churning strawberry-red slushy machine, which is how my dad described the life-saving contraption days later. I’ve no recollection of the hours on dialysis. I was shocked when I surfaced at how much time had passed. ![]() I discovered I was wearing a hospital gown and attached to a catheter (the latter, especially, not something you want to take you by surprise). W hat scares me most is what I don’t remember.Īnd that’s everything between scarfing sleeping pills on a Sunday night to waking fuzzily in the ICU days later, Velcro ties strapping my wrists and forearms to cold metal railings ringing the bed, keeping my erratic sedated writhing from disconnecting a maze of IVs plugged into veins. These are the people we fail in myriad ways, and this is the cost of that failure. ![]() ![]() This is how I felt, and this is how I acted this is what people in despair are driven to do. But you can’t tackle the endless abyss of wanting to die on tiptoes that just leaves you with the half-hearted interventions we’ve pretended are the best society can do. For ages, the dictate has been not to write honestly about suicide-not to mention even the word, never mind methods, lest, in referencing it directly, you prompt suicidal spirals in others. ![]()
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