Suicide is such an ugly word.  An almost invisible word unless you are dealing with it in some form in your own world.  It's quiet.  Unspeakable.  

I don't mean to start off on a down note, but it's where my life is right this moment, and I suppose I'll be here a while.

Two weeks ago this Tuesday, my dad attempted suicide by shooting himself.  I believe he was aiming for his heart, but missed completely, hitting his left lung and fracturing several ribs. The bullet he chose exploded inside his body, and did a lot of damage. I don't think we know the extent of the damage that has been done at this point. His body is just so broken. I don't think he meant to do that. I think he meant to die. 

Yesterday, my mom told me the doctors are treating it as if he was in an explosion--a blast. I don't want to think of this as he has some sort of war-like injury. A terrible accident. It was a bullet.  From a gun. And he pulled the trigger.  

In the blur of the last two weeks, I've been in "fix him" mode.  So distracted by the tubes, machines,sounds, numbers and complicated vocabulary, that at one point when his doctor was showing us an x-ray of his lung, mentioned something along the lines of, "...with a gunshot wound..." and I was like, "Oh yeah... he shot himself." I forgot. I've been pushing that fact way down, because thinking about that might destroy me. 

So up I go, looking everywhere but in THAT direction.  In my parents' lush, beautiful, garden-like backyard, where he chose to end his life, I will look at the spot where he lates for an hour and bled and bled and bled, and make myself see it as a place he lived; he didn't die.  The grass; a soft place to fall.  I will only think of him. When he wakes up, I will only love him.