About a minute before boarding my connecting flight from Chicago to San Francisco yesterday morning, I got notified about my upgrade to first class, so I hurriedly went to the counter, grabbed my updated ticket, and headed onto the plane. What I have found in getting upgraded to business or first is that the guy sitting next to you will inevitably never want to talk to you; not only does he not want to talk to you, he will barely want to make eye contact with you, let alone give any acknowledgment that there is another living thing he is sitting next to in his plush seat or large cubby station. And yes, in my experience, about 90% of the people sitting up there tend to be men in suits.

So I was surprised when the guy sitting next to me this time made eye contact with me as soon as I got settled into my seat and said hello and smiled. I smiled and said hi back. But then what started as a quick friendly exchange of greetings became a chat that lasted the entire duration of our flight – four and a half hours. This has never happened to me before.

He is a 63-year-old man who just lost his wife to cervical cancer last December, has five children, came from a strict Catholic family of seven children, and has spent his entire life in the Chicago area. He’s a conservative Libertarian, can’t stand Obama and his Hawaiian vacations and “excessive use” of Air Force One, is pro-life, and is the president of a staffing company based in a suburb of Chicago. Well, who would have thought I would be interested in speaking with someone who fits all those conservative ticks? But I did, and I actually found myself agreeing with a lot of the things he said, particularly when it came to Trump and his no-BS attitude when it came to calling out politicians on the left and the right.

I think I liked him because he seemed so human and honest, and he was very thoughtful when telling me about his late wife, who it’s clear he loved very much. Superficial and shallow is what this man is not. He spoke about her as though she were still alive, and I’m sure in his heart, she really was very much still alive. He told me about their discovery of her cervical cancer at stage 4, how the doctor kept gently saying that this could have been caught earlier had it not been for their resistance to seeing doctors. “When you say ‘I do,’ on your wedding day, you should also take it a step further in your mind and promise each other you will agree to annual health exams,” he said to me, pensive. “If only I could turn back the clock, I would.” He told me about her struggle, her pains, even to the extent of her emergency room visits, particularly the one where one of her intestines burst, and they didn’t think she was going to make it, but she did.

I shared with him quite a bit about my life — where I’ve lived, studied, worked, what my family is like, where they’ve come from, how I was raised, my attitudes on life and living in general. And then of course, it got to the siblings, and when he asked about my brother, I said he passed away two years ago. His eyes grew sad, and he asked gently if I’d be willing to share how he died. I hesitated and gave him a hard look.

“Do you really want to know?” I asked him.

“If you are comfortable sharing it with me, yes,” he said.

“Suicide,” I responded simply with a straight face.

He buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said, looking completely anguished. “But I will tell you that I think suicide is just one of the most selfish things… I mean, it’s like they don’t even think how it will affect the people they love around them.”

I could feel my face grow hot as soon as he said the word “selfish.” I thought for a few seconds about what I wanted to say and said, “Do you really think it’s selfish? Really? Do you have any idea what it’s like to struggle with a real mental illness all your life and to also have to be constantly criticized and told you are worthless? It’s not selfish if that’s the life you lived. You cannot make a statement like that unless you know what that person went through, to feel completely powerless and like every day someone’s trying to crush every little effort you are trying to make.”

He looked at me and clearly regretted what he said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that and I had no idea that your brother went through that. For those who have mental illness, of course it’s not selfish. I’m just saying that for those who do not, it is.” He then shared the story of his best friend who hanged himself after he found out his wife was cheating on him with a mutual friend for the last six years. His three-year-old son found him in their basement.

It’s something people still think, that suicide is selfish, that a lot of people who commit suicide did not suffer any mental illness or depression and that they were just thinking about themselves and their own lives. “Selfish” and “suicide” should never be in the same sentence. I will make sure anyone who ever tries to tell me otherwise is swat down.

Dear Ed,

Happy birthday – today you turn 36. The reason I am not that excited about this is a) you aren’t here anymore, so what does this really mean, and b) I’m in a moment where I kind of hate the world. I had some successful client meetings the last few days here in Atlanta, yet I still feel dissatisfied. I woke up on your birthday morning crying, thinking how upset I am that you are dead. I wrote an Instagram post telling my Facebook and Instagram world the meaning of Bart and how he represents you and how I want you to travel the globe with me. It feels so empty. All of that feels empty. People are commenting and saying what a great sister I am. Was I really that great, Ed? You know what I would prefer? If no one complimented me and told me I was a great sister while you were dead, and if you were actually alive and healthy and well and happy. I guess that is too much to ask for. Sometimes life really sucks. But you already knew that, right, and that’s why you decided to peace out. God, that makes me mad.

I don’t know why, but this year has been much harder for me to deal with than last year in terms of not having you. When the anniversary of your passing came and your birthday last year, I actually kind of had it together, and I wasn’t crying or anything. I felt like it, but I didn’t. This year, it’s really different. I feel like everything is triggering me to think of you and tear up, wishing you could have had a tiny piece of the privilege and happiness I’ve been able to have, and wishing that you could be on this earth with me again. There’s too much you didn’t get to experience, Ed. It makes me so upset when I think about it. I never got a chance to fully express myself to you, and I don’t know if I will ever really get over it. Sometimes, I just feel so lonely, like no one understands or cares enough. This donor drive is driving me crazy. I don’t want to take it personally when people don’t respond or donate, but I can’t help it. I almost feel like it’s an affront to you and what you mean to me. I just want you to be back, and it’s so hard some days. Everyone who can’t empathize in the slightest, I want them all to fuck off and go to hell and perhaps get hit by a truck. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? You’d get so mad at me if I said that in your living presence.

I miss you. It goes without saying, but sometimes, it just needs to be said. As human beings, we don’t say how we feel enough, which isn’t right because of how short life is. I wish I could have told you more, but now, all I have left is my occasional prayer to God, this blog, and my Instagram/Facebook posts speaking to you. I miss you. I love you. I have nothing else left to say now, but I hope you are well where you are and think of me occasionally, lovingly. I really wish my brother were here with me today.

Love,

Yvonne

I had a lot of trouble falling asleep last night. I kept tossing and turning, flipping my pillow, looking at the clock as each hour would pass by. When I eventually fell asleep, I dreamt that I was back in my bedroom in San Francisco, sitting cross-legged on my bed while facing Ed, who had a large hardcover book open in his lap. I felt miserable, and I had asked him to read me passages from a book that would provide me hope and inspiration. He read passage after passage of who knows what large book it was, and with each passage he finished reading to me, I asked him for another one, and another one, and another one. I didn’t want him to stop. He didn’t seem impatient, though, and continued to read each time I asked him to continue and find another one that would be inspiring. In the back of my mind, I was scared that if I told him I was okay and that he didn’t need to find me another passage to read that he would close his book and leave the room, and ultimately leave me forever. I couldn’t risk that. I needed to keep holding onto him. If I could still hear his voice, I knew I would be okay.

Tonight, I went to visit my colleague, who just gave birth to her first son two weeks ago. While sitting there with her, her newborn, and her friend, I watched from the corner of my eye as her husband went around the apartment, tidying up one thing, washing grapes and preparing refreshments for us. When it was time to change the baby’s diaper, he quickly picked the baby up and said he’d take care of it while my colleague sat and socialized with us. “We tag team!” my colleague said, when her friend made a comment about how they split up baby and house responsibilities post giving birth. Before having the baby, she told us, she’d never changed a single diaper in her entire life. Neither had he. But they both learned, sucked it up, and they deal with it together.