Shades of Blue

by Jim Luck

In memory of his brother, Dr. Philip A. Luck, July 5, 1969 – October 2, 2007

(Observer News Enterprise Article – 05.20.09)

3:04 a.m. I had just heard something - loud and almost violent – and I was sitting straight up in bed. I hadn’t been dreaming because my wife got up almost as fast as I did. I was scared enough to be calm and I was listening hard. There was no stirring in the boys’ bedrooms, so they hadn’t fallen out of bed. I listened for the cat, but was met with only more silence. I asked, aloud or to myself I know not, “Did someone just break in?” And then I heard it again - this time clearly: someone was beating on the front door. I grabbed a robe and headed downstairs. When I got to the stairs a blue light was dancing on the white paint of the downstairs hallway. To this day I can close my eyes and see that shade of blue flickering there.

“Police? What are the police doing here at 3 in the morning?”

I said a short prayer for our neighbors never imagining that I would be the one needing theirs. The officer pounded once again and was now peering through the windows on each side of the door using a flashlight.

I yelled, “I’m coming.”

But first I had to move all the furniture that had been relocated to the hallway while I painted my office. Chairs were shoved aside with no thought to the hardwood floors beneath them. But even then I couldn’t get the door open. With no light in the hallway – it never occurred to me to turn them on – and with my hands trembling, I was finding the deadbolt lock to be a rather difficult mechanism to operate. The officer waited quietly, bathing my hands in the light of his flashlight while I fumbled with the key. When the door finally opened I mumbled an awkward apology.

“Are you James Luck?”

“Yes.”

He’s too calm to be dealing with a neighborhood emergency & yet…

“Mr. Luck are you here alone?”

“Um… no. My wife is here.”

Why in the world does he want to know if Mandy is here?

“Is she here with you right now?”

Now I was really getting scared.

“Yes, she’s right here,” and I opened the door wider so he could see her.

“Mr. Luck. Mr. Luck, do you have a brother?”

And then I saw the officer’s eyes.

Oh God.

“Mr. Luck… I’m so sorry.”

Oh God. This poor man can’t even bring himself to say it aloud.

I turned, walked away from the officer & lay down in the kitchen floor. I could hear my wife in the background talking to the officer, thanking-him. He gave her a number to call for more information. Information… I had to find out what happened before mom and dad left for work. Maybe at the very least I could find out where his three cats and beloved dog were. And then I was up, adrenaline clearly kicking in. I called a friend, pulled on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt and headed into the night not knowing what I would find come morning.

I was on I-40 when my cell phone rang some 30 minutes later. It was Dad. When he spoke his voice was controlled, but vulnerable, softer.

“Dad I’m on my way to Roanoke now. Dad… I…”

“Jim, we already know. Philip killed himself.”

There. Someone had finally said it aloud. Fantasies of finding him in an ER evaporated.

“How?”

“Hung himself in the bathroom at his apartment. Probably a couple of days ago.”

I couldn’t breathe. I managed to make out a sign: exit 150. I hung up, pulled into a Shell gas station and wept.

While 19 months have passed, the tears and pain have not. They are not as overwhelming as they once were, but omnipresent nonetheless. He’s been on my mind a lot lately, especially as his 40^th birthday is but weeks away. But then again, he’s always close by. Whenever I hear Bruce Springsteen’s hoarse voice, or read another Cormac McCarthy novel, or even drink a Mountain Dew, he’s there. And when I look at his watch, which always is found on my wrist, I think of the time we shared and the time we could have shared.

But we ran out of time because my brother ran out of hope; the hope that things would be different; the hope that our struggles and tears are worth something. Depression isn’t simply a product of neurotransmitters, although biochemistry cannot be ignored. And despair isn’t simply a product of the past, although, as Faulkner said, the past is neither dead nor past. Rather, the orientation of both is directed towards the future. Our beliefs and attitudes about tomorrow determine our experiences of today. That’s what happened to my brother; he finally gave up on tomorrow.

While Philip was a brilliant sociological theorist, who was right more often than not, he lacked both sight and insight when it came to himself. For several weeks after his death I carried his cell phone with me breaking the news to the unaware. He would have never imagined the depth of their cries and pain. He never heard - or at least he did not integrate - the praise of his colleagues. I think he saw the adoration of his students – how could you not? - but he never understood the degree to which he was changing their lives. He never saw just how much his big brother envied and looked up to him. His mental illness and acedia blinded him to all that was good and joyous, but most importantly to the beauty that dwelt within him. There was more love than he could feel, more light than he could see, and more hope than he could comprehend.

But when you’re carrying a cross it’s hard to find any light. Sadly, Philip’s last and fatal mistake was that he wouldn’t ask anyone to help him carry that cross. He would make an appointment with a therapist, but after two or three times session stop attending. He would get a prescription for an anti-depressant, but then stop taking it before it could make a difference. And then there were his friends. I can’t begin to tell you how many all but screamed “He could have called me!!” We would have gladly shared that burden with him.

Thankfully we talked the day before his death. We had spent the previous week together at his apartment. We read, I worked on my dissertation and he worked on his first book to be published. We ate great meals and shared more than a bottle or two of wine. I am lucky. The last thing I said to him was “Thank-you.” That’s not a bad way to say goodbye. As for him, the last thing he wrote to me was “Forgive me.” I’m getting there bro’. I’m getting there. I just need a little more time.

May is Mental Illness awareness month & the first week of May is frequently designated Suicide Prevention Week. If you’re where my brother was I’m not about to offer you some pie-in-the-sky theology. But what I will say is this: You cannot always trust your vision especially when you are wrestling with depression. So find those who will help you carry this cross – a friend, a therapist, a doctor, a minister,– and then you hold on. Hold on until you see what you can’t see today; that you are loved and beloved more than you possibly can imagine.

If you have any thoughts of harming yourself, please get help.

The national suicide hotline can be reached by calling 1-800-273-TALK.

In Catawba County a mobile crisis unit is available 24 hours a day at 695-5900.

Lastly you can call 911 and let the dispatcher know that this is a mental health crisis. You will then be connected with those who can help you.