Week 5: Suicide Hotline
A 92-year-old woman's phone number is one digit away from that of a local suicide hotline. She could have it changed, but she doesn't mind.
It didn't used to happen, the calls. Maybe they recently updated their number so it's a number off from mine, but starting January 1st, 2015, I've been getting accidental calls about three times a day. At first I thought it was a giant joke. A group of kids calling me over and over again, pranking me.
I realized what had happened when I saw the flyer at Cub Foods after grocery shopping. My son was helping me out to the car when I saw a bright yellow flyer on the bulletin board by the exit, lifting up and fluttering every ten seconds as the rotating fan passed over it.
FEELING SUICIDAL? CALL 555-333-2241
"John," I called out. "What does that number say?"
When he read it out loud, I realized it was one number away from mine, and it wasn't kids pranking me but people thinking I was the suicide hotline. I smiled. I was going to be prepared.
"Hello?"
The voice trembled, a young boy, as he uttered his greeting. My heart squeezed as I answered.
"Hello, you've reached Martha. I'm here to help. What's your name?"
A pause. "Gavin."
"Gavin," I breathed out, the name a whisper on my lips. Of all the names to come onto my line tonight, it of course would be his. "Why are you calling tonight, Gavin?"
Another pause. I could hear his labored breathing, the attempt at keeping heaving sobs at bay.
"It's okay. You can let it out."
I sat while he cried on the other side, phone clutched in my hand as I lived every second with him, every inhale and exhale as he cried out his pain.
"Gavin, do you want to talk to me?"
A shuddering breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
He started with his history, his story. A freshman in high school - shockingly young - who played football, got injured, and now doesn't know what to do with his life.
"I've been drinking a lot. With my friends. It helps me forget about football for a little bit, but I still remember. You know when you just relive a couple moments over and over again? Where you can't get them out of your head even though you try everything? Why can't I make them stop?"
I sighed, long and hard. "Gavin, you can't. Those memories are with you forever. You can't just forget them. But we can help you work through them so they're a little less painful every day."
"But I just want to forget. I just want- " His voice muffled as he started to cry again.
"I know it's hard. It's harder than any physical thing you'll ever have to do. It's getting over your head, your mind. You can control it though, I promise. You can get through it." I paused when he didn't reply. "Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah."
I paused to collect my thoughts before I started.
"When I was twenty five, I had a little boy named Gavin." I breathed out, eyed closed as I retold my most painful memory to another Gavin, another boy who maybe I could save. "And I was weeding the side garden bed of my house. He was three years old. He was sitting right next to me, but then he got up." My voice caught, and I cleared it. "And he walked right out onto the street without me even turning my back, I didn't even notice. I heard the bass of loud music from a car so I turned around to check and saw him there, walking across the street." I could hear the steady breathing of the other Gavin in my ear, giving me strength to go on. "And that car barreled him down right in front of me. He went flying so far, impossibly far. And when he hit the pavement-" My voice cracked, severely. I struggled to keep my voice steady. "He was gone. Just like that, a blink of an eye. He didn't get a future, or a chance at football, or even memories. That Gavin didn't. But you? You do." I blinked at the tears in my eyes, shocked at the pain of this memory, decades later. "You do," I repeated.
A couple minutes passed without either of us talking, just breathing on either side.
"Gavin, you there?" I finally said.
"I'm here," he replied. "Thank you Martha. You helped." The phone clicked dead in my ear.