How to Save a Life
Some Notes on Faith
Welcome to another installment of The Bittersweet, where I share my search for a richer perspective on the Bittersweet moments that make up modern life.
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Hello Friends,
A while back, a friend was struggling with their mental health. We were on the phone one day, and I shared some of my ideas on faith. They said it helped, and maybe I should write them down. So here you go, perhaps it will help you, too.
Quick note: Suicide is mentioned but not described. Also, I use genderless pronouns to protect privacy, and I refer to my Higher Power as God.
First, a bomb.
A bomb, in the context of a personal essay, is like a record scratch. You might be reading along thinking you know what kind of story you’re getting, and then out of nowhere, you’re slapped in the face with something unexpected, not in a creative or avant-garde way, but in a way that distracts from the story. The reader might keep reading, but all they’re thinking about is that bomb.
My real life is filled with a bunch of bombs, things I can’t fully flesh out in one essay. I’ve touched on some here and there, but if you're new to this space, for me to explain how I understand faith, I gotta give you at least an outline.
Here goes…
My dad died when I was four, and my mom died when I was 18. He was an Air Force pilot and was killed in a plane crash. She had breast cancer. I've had two miscarriages and lost my third baby to brain cancer when he was 20 months old. I drank and used drugs for 10 years after my mom died, and I've been sober now for 17. I’ve struggled with intrusive thoughts, severe anxiety, and panic attacks periodically. I know what it’s like not to want to be alive, but not want to kill myself.
At the time of this writing, I feel happy, safe, and loved. The person I’m worried about is struggling but also on a healthy path to recovery.
Everything Happens for a Reason
I was raised Catholic, but we stopped going to church regularly when I was in sixth grade. For a long time, my relationship with God was stilted and immature. Like a pesky baby sister, I got the sense that He was somehow disappointed or, worse, uninterested in me.
I fell victim to the idea that “everything happens for a reason” and that I should just bootstrap my way out of grief. The only reason I could come up with as to why God would take my mother and father was because I was a bad person unworthy of love and happiness. And so, I lived my life accordingly. For 10 years, I drank and used drugs in a way that reflected how I felt about myself inside.
I was 10 years sober before I recognized I experienced trauma as a child and that I was raised by a traumatized mother. Rather than search for a reason for my trauma, I landed on the idea that “everything happens.”1
In a world of eight billion people, I am not terminally unique; anything is possible. This means right now, someone is experiencing my exact brand of pain, and even more encouraging is that someone in this world has survived that pain.
God's Will
Do you ever notice how people only say “God is good” when the cancer screening comes back negative? Does that mean if it were positive, God would be bad? Obviously not, I’m not saying this to be snarky. I have a point, I promise.
A few days before Aiden’s funeral, someone said to me, “People all over the world were praying for Aiden, and God still called him home. So…” My face must have betrayed me because their voice trailed off, and I was grateful she stopped talking.
When horrible things like war and children dying happen, millions of people find the idea of the “great mystery” very comforting. They are satisfied with the idea that when they die, all will be revealed, and they will be at peace with the answers.
We had a Catholic priest come to the house to pray with us after Aiden died. It was very nice. As he was leaving, I ran after him and said, “I’m having a really hard time. Both my parents are gone; I’ve had two miscarriages, and now this. I don’t understand.” He very kindly said, “We just don’t know.” I instantly knew this did not work for me.
The death of my son was so wrong that I never, even for a minute, entertained the idea that God had a hand in giving my son brain cancer or in the doctor's failure to stop the bleeding during surgery. I simply do not believe that God has that kind of power. But I do believe God was there to hold my baby’s hand when it was time for him to cross over. I find that very comforting.
When my son died, I knew in the deepest parts of my soul that God did not take him. This was not part of His plan; maybe God doesn't even have a plan. As for prayers being answered. In my experience that kind of thinking will only lead to heartbreak. To me, prayers are conversations, not requests, and that’s a hard pill to swallow when you really don’t want your child to die, but for me, it is the truest way to stave off despair should my specific prayers not be answered.
A few days after the funeral, a family friend said, “If God asked you, you would do it all over again, wouldn't you?” The only possible answer I could give was one they felt comfortable with, “Yes.”
Of course, I wouldn’t trade a single moment with my son. I do not regret one day with him, even the ones where he was vomiting up blood and so agitated from steroids that he bit my shoulder so hard I screamed right in his face. I screamed at my 18-month-old son with brain cancer. I wouldn’t give even that day up.
What this person failed to consider was that they were also asking if I would knowingly put my child through cancer again. Would I put him through surgeries and chemo that left him sick, scared, and in pain? Would I separate him from his siblings and home and favorite toys only to die? They are asking if I would put my two older children through loving and then losing their baby brother. I finally told him, “That's why God doesn't ask.”
It felt like the truest thing I've ever said.
God is My Friend
The second step in AA states, “We came to believe in a power greater than ourselves to restore us to sanity.” And there's a line in AA literature that says, “The hoop you need to jump through is wider than you think.”
I needed this in my early sobriety. I was somebody who thought that God wasn’t interested in me and maybe even disappointed in me. I needed to know that I could call God a power greater than myself. I needed to know that I didn’t have to know who or what God was just I’m not it. I needed to know all these things so that 17 years later, I could call God my friend.
If God is my friend that means I can argue with God. I can yell at God. It means I can have a conversation with God, and if I can have conversations with God, I can have conversations with my mother and father and sweet baby boy. I never considered that before.
How to Save a Life
I once called, I called 988, the National Suicide Hotline, looking for advice on how to help my friend.2
When the operator came on the line, Between sobs, I asked if they had a list of things I could say or do to keep someone alive. I talked for two or three minutes straight. When I finally took a breath, they responded not by giving me tips or advice but by acknowledging that I sounded very overwhelmed… and then I cried some more.
They listened and then, in a very calming voice, explained,
“For someone who is struggling, the boundary between tolerance and latent pain dissolves. Our bodies and minds are adjusting to a new way of being. It's not a bad thing, but it's scary. Our bodies are thrown into fight or flight, but we don’t know how to fight or where to run. Eventually, the adjustment will feel more predictive. In the meantime, I can affirm and validate the experience of the other person.”
There is something about dissolving boundaries that feels hopeful. In AA, we might say, “Let go and let God.” In other words, surrender.
This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.
In an era where you have access to every word ever written, I’m so grateful you’ve chosen to read mine.
I first heard the idea of “everything happens” from Kate Bowler, an author and academic. I heard her on another podcast I listen to and really took to the idea, but I’ve never listened to any of her podcasts or read any of her books. She seems delightful, and if you like what I’m saying here today, you might like her stuff as well.
An actual person does not answer the phone and it took about 2 min to be connected with a live person.
I don't have any words for this. It feels too generous and personal for me to limit with my own reactions. But I am so grateful you wrote it. Thank you.