Whether a suicide is brave or cowardly is not up for anyone other than the victim to decide. Like the trite expression goes, until we "walk a mile" in the other person's shoes, we have no clue what his or her life is like, or what the circumstances are leading up to the decision to willfully end his or her life.
One may view a suicide as the transfer of internal pain and anguish from one's self to his family, but it is not so. As hard as it is to understand, pain cannot be willed, transferred, moved, traded, negotiated, rationed, bargained, or bartered. When that man allowed himself to fall from the bridge his pain, anguish, hurt, depression, and hopelessness died with him. It was his pain... he owned it, and it was his to deal with how he chose. His family now has their own pain to deal with... pain they've created in their minds to makethis tragedy comprehendable. They must take ownership of it, deal with it, and move on and it is their responsibility to do so.
It's easy to say "Oh, he killed himself over something so trivial...all he had to do was..." Unfortunately, devaluing someone else's reasoning behind the decision to willfully end his life isn't an appropriate action to take. I could never see someone killing himself over financial troubles because I've grown up with a good support system in that aspect, whereas a heterosexual may not be able to fathom a homosexual killing him/herself over something as trivial as sexuality... but discrimination and internal struggles with sexuality is likely something the heterosexual never had to deal with. Simply put, it's not fair to the victim or the victim's family to condemn the victim, judge his actions, or devalue his reasoning for it.
That said, let me share a story:
A few summers ago marked my first ever job at a hospital. I was halfway through nursing school, and accepted a summer externship where I would be shadowing a nurse for two months, practicing skills and gaining critical clinical time that was invaluable to my education. One of my first days on the job I was introduced to a patient who, through numerous tubes, bags, pumps, and other various machines, retained a friendly and welcoming demeanor. Her name was Susan (of course, that's not her real name) and she was a retired health care professional.
A quick assessment of the equipment surrounding her bed indicated that she was not a well woman. Her room, barren except for the Monet print hung on the wall opposite her bed, was devoid of the markings of family. No gifts, no flowers or balloons, no grandchildren hugging grandma's neck or well wishes from people other than hospital staff. Her chart revealed more about her health than my novice assessment could muster. She was Hepatitis C positive and she had an ileostomy (a bag attached to the skin to collect partially digested food) after the vast majority of her bowels had been removed due to cancer. She had a Groshong catheter in her left right leg feeding the femoral vein, connected to round-the-clock IV nutrition since she had no bowel to absorb nutrients from the food she had the option of eating. She had a urostomy to hold her urine after losing most of her bladder to cancer as well.
I flipped the chart to her History & Physical which revealed a ghastly living situation. She resided in a one room "house" (read: shack) with running water but no electricity. She had relocated to Mississippi seven years ago to take care of her grandchild when it became apparent her daughter wasn't going to. Now there were five grandchildren for her to raise. Earlier in the year—before she could no longer afford electricity—she had been given a used air conditioning unit... her first since moving to Mississippi. Both her children—a son and a daughter—drifted in and out of her household as they pleased, or whenever they needed a roof over their heads or money. This, I knew, from the chart since there was nary a sign of family in the room. Susie was the only person in her family that worked, despite her failing health.
The TPN (total parenteral nutrition) running directly into her vein that nourished her body cost $1,300 per bag, and she required one bag a day to survive. Medicare would not pay for her TPN and she certainly could not afford it, so she was more or less a "resident" of the hospital, staying gone one day after discharge—and thus, starving for that one day—then returning to the ER for another admission. The experienced nurses all knew her and loved her and understood the circumstances under which she lived.
She began to get well my first week on the job, and was discharged home. Later that week I was pulled to another floor and saw her name on the patient roster. Later that month I was pulled to work on a different floor and saw her there, too. Her next admission to my regular floor saw her in an ill state of health. She was vomiting old blood, had bloody diarrhea, and was all the worse for wear. Two weeks later on a Monday, she was discharged. The following Wednesday, she was back... but this time it was different, though my inexperienced eye didn't catch it at first.
After I took report on the patients, I visited Susie's room to say hello, making my way past a table with a vase of Shasta daisies. I excused myself past her bedside table, pushed up against the wall supporting a teddy bear holding a sign that said "Get Well," and gave Susan a hug. When I turned around there stood a heavily tattooed woman, about 36 standing in the door. "I want you to meet my daughter," Susan said.
It hit me then. This room had all the trappings of a doting family. A family I had not before seen prior to this day, not even once. I knew this time was different.
Susie stayed with us for a few weeks, her health wavering between guarded and almost critical. I left on my three days off and the morning I came back the nurse was preparing Susie's discharge papers.
I followed the nurse to Susie's room to give her the discharge instructions—which she could nearly recite with us, line for line from past experience. Upon leaving her room, Susie's daughter stopped us in the open doorway. "They're sending Momma home?" she asked.
"Yes, with hospice," the nurse replied.
A look of despair—no, inconvenience—flashed across her face. "Can't Momma die in the hospital... we've already moved our stuff into her place."
Taken grossly aback, I did what I could to control myself and retain my composure as I glanced back at Susie. Her face showed despair, hurt, determination simultaneously. She cupped her face inside her hands and sobbed. The door, blocked open by the nurse and me, allowed Susie to hear every word her daughter had uttered.
"Close the door," Susie said to the nurse. "I am miserable, I am dying, and I'm going to control what little of my life I have left."
From that point forward, Susie refused all medical treatment. She refused blood sugar checks, she refused to have blood drawn to check her lab, she refused antibiotics and she refused her life sustaining TPN. A sadness descended upon our usually optimistic hospital unit for the rest of the shift. I went home for my two days off contemplating the day's events, and upon my return to work learned that dear Susan died on the previous night shift at 3 AM.
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In my eyes, both Susie and the man on the bridge both made decisions regarding their quality of life and took steps to end their suffering. Pray tell, what part of either story makes him/her cowardly that can be backed up with obejective evidence?
The answer? Nothing. I do not know nearly enough about either person's situation, background, or circumstances, to judge... and the only people who do are Susie and the man on the bridge.
