September 25 is a day filled with mixed emotions for me. It’s my amazing partner’s birthday. Three years ago, on that very day, I was seven weeks pregnant. We found ourselves in a clinic in Tokyo, tears of joy streaming down our faces as we heard the incredible sound of our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. It was a moment of celebration, with secret smiles exchanged while we swapped empty bottles for full ones at his birthday party, hesitant to share our big news just yet. I hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy to anyone, fearing I might jinx it before reaching the 12-week mark. But the sound of my baby’s heartbeat filled me with hope, and I decided I would call my family the next day.
However, around 4 a.m. that morning, I received a call that shattered my world. My mother had passed away, discovered on the floor of her bedroom by my grandfather, who lived with her at the time. It wasn’t until I was en route to the airport that I learned she had died from a gunshot wound to the heart. My heart crumbled that day, just like my hopes for the future. After a grueling 13-hour flight home, I received another call informing me that the police had found a note beside her bed. It was ruled a suicide.
I often wonder if knowing she was going to be a grandmother would have changed her mind. If I had answered her Skype calls the night of the party, could I have talked her down? Our last conversation had been rushed and strained, with me hurrying to finish a cake.
Throughout her life, my mother battled depression and exhibited manic traits that made me question whether she might have been bipolar. She was a vivacious woman, strong in her beliefs, with family and faith at her core. She embraced life with passion, dressed like the charming Southern belle she was, and had a magnetic presence. Over drinks, she would share her wisdom with me and my friends, insisting that every woman needs three types of men in her life: one for intellectual stimulation, one for emotional fulfillment, and one for physical pleasure.
In 2006, a fall at work led to a brain stem injury that gradually diminished her physical abilities. Undeterred, she fought a lengthy legal battle against her corporate employer, a struggle that consumed the last eight years of her life, draining her spirit and resources.
In the weeks following her death, I focused on my pregnancy and my health, knowing I had only five weeks left in my first trimester and that stress could lead to complications. But I also understood that I needed to confront my grief head-on, especially since I had a family history of mental illness, including other family members who had attempted suicide.
In Tokyo, I kept the details of my mother’s death largely to myself. Most people knew she had been unwell, assuming her illness had taken her life. In some ways, they were right.
Navigating motherhood abroad has its unique challenges, from cultural differences to language barriers, and especially the absence of a strong support network. While my friends talked about how long their mothers would stay after the birth, I wished I could vanish during those conversations.
I felt too ashamed and guilty to share the truth, terrified that voicing it would plunge me into despair and harm my baby. The year after my mother’s injury, I had moved overseas to be with my boyfriend, now husband. She had always encouraged me to chase my dreams, even if it meant being far away. As her only child, I missed witnessing her decline, as she often hid her struggles from me during our phone calls.
Now that I’m a mother myself, I reflect on my past with new eyes. I see how selfish I was, consumed by my ambitions and the whirlwind of life as an expatriate. It’s only through parenthood that I truly grasp the meaning of selflessness, and it pains me that she isn’t here to witness the changes in me. I ache for the opportunity to care for her as she did for me and to navigate the journey of motherhood together. This could have been a beautiful new chapter for us, and I’m frustrated she chose to leave.
In one of our last conversations, she was worried about finances, and I suggested using some money my grandparents had recently given her. She refused, saying it was “for the baby,” unaware at that time that I was pregnant. My mother believed her presence was a burden, and in her mind, ending her life would ease our struggles. This tragic narrative is often perpetuated by mental illness, but in reality, her decision has left a lasting scar on those she left behind.
I miss her every single day. I welcomed a second child, a daughter named after both my mom and my grandma, who passed away just after my son was born, less than a year after my mother. At least my grandma got to see her first great-grandchild on Skype before she passed away. I can only imagine the depths of grief she experienced that year—losing a daughter to suicide while also mourning a granddaughter.
The early months with my son were filled with questions and no one to answer them: How did my mother handle breastfeeding with me? Was I a good sleeper? When did I start crawling, walking, and talking? Did I have reflux? My dad couldn’t provide those answers either. I’ve learned that’s often how it is with fathers, no matter how well-intentioned they may be. Even now, my husband proudly insists our son walked at 8 months, even though it was actually over 10 months!
As my mind spiraled in the months that followed, I searched for the singular moment that broke her. What pushed her over the edge? I spoke with her doctors, friends, and family, combed through mountains of paperwork and medical records, and even accessed her email and phone. Yet, I never found a clear answer, and I never will.
She excelled at masking her pain and wore a brave face for the world. Shame and pride kept her from acknowledging her struggles and seeking help.
Looking back, I recognize that I experienced some postpartum depression, which is normal. But I made an effort to socialize, attend church, and join groups. Isolation breeds hopelessness, and that’s a dangerous place to be.
Many new mothers feel isolated, and my heart aches when I hear stories of postpartum suicide. It’s the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S., and that needs to change. We need to engage in open conversations with new moms about their feelings, take depression seriously, and seek help for ourselves or loved ones sooner rather than later. As for me, I’m committed to discussing my mother’s choice openly and educating my children about our family’s mental health history. I refuse to feel ashamed.
I still keep her chat profile open in my Gmail, and her status quote, while bittersweet, serves as a daily reminder: “Living and loving life to the fullest.”
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out to a trusted resource for help. For those interested in pregnancy and home insemination, visit CDC Pregnancy as a valuable resource, and consider checking out this blog post on insemination kits for more information.
In summary, the loss of a loved one to suicide is an indescribable pain that lingers daily. Through the lens of motherhood, I’ve come to understand the importance of open discussions about mental health and the necessity of support networks.
Keyphrase: loss of a loved one to suicide
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