Choosing `not to be' leaves pain.

Byline: GUEST VIEWPOINT By Jim McChesney

This time of year, with its often-heavy skies obscuring the hope of summer, I think of my friend Gary, who committed suicide 13 years ago on June 1.

I'm writing for two kinds of people: you who remain living after the suicide of a loved one - a parent, brother, sister, other family member or friend; and you who might be considering suicide to end life with all its "heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to," as William Shakespeare wrote in his famous soliloquy from "Hamlet." "To be, or not to be: that is the question.a..."

Some of our loved ones already have chosen not to be. Mark Kaplan, professor of community health at Portland State University, notes that Oregon ranks in the top 10 states for its suicide rate, and in the top five for its elderly suicide rate.

For you who live, the shock and disbelief of suicide hits you as if the earth had split open in front of you. Your entire being is slammed by a surreal sense that if you blink your eyes the right way or shake yourself hard enough the nightmare will end. It doesn't. There is no thought or action that is not tainted by the fact that the person you loved has taken her or his own life.

After the funeral is over and those things that must be done are done, the feelings change from numbness to overwhelming sadness, depression, many - mostly unsuccessful - escape strategies, and the constant and unending "if onlys."

You think it will never end. You think it always will be the first thing you think daily. You think you'll never go more than two minutes without it crawling back into your mind.

You will. But it's a long road. That's OK. But to get on that road you need help.

For you considering "not to be," know that suicide is not a gentle, romantic action, but one that forever ends every smile or sunrise, breath of sweet summer air or touch of snowflakes on your face. It is, as the long-used but oh-so-perfect saying goes, "a permanent solution to a temporary problem."

Yes, it also is an end to the heartache and pain. My friend Gary left behind a dozen pages of notes scribbled in his last alcohol and sugar-fueled hours - notes that spoke of marriage problems, money problems. Notes that claimed, "Nothing is impossible" and despaired, "What is the answer?" Notes that asked, "Am I going to weather this or die with it?" That stated, "At this point I could go either way."

"Just do it if you're going to," Gary finally wrote. He did - and he left behind an amazing number of people who miss him dearly and who would have done anything to have him choose to go the other way.

Suicide is the second leading cause of death among Oregonians age 10 to 24. Gary was 45 when he died. It touches (actually, batters) more of us than you might think.

In the song "This Bitter Earth," lyricist Dinah Washington writes:

"Lord, this bitter earth

Yes, can be so cold.a..."

And then she adds:

"But while a voice within me cries

I'm sure someone may answer my call

And this bitter earth

May not

Be so bitter after all."

These wintry, cloudy skies can turn to summer, as the writer Albert Camus, no stranger to painful introspection himself, wrote:

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer."

In your own depth of winter - grieving a loss or deciding "which way to go," take a chance and reach for that "invincible summer."

This bitter earth may not be so bitter after all.

Someone will answer your call - family, friend or caring person. More people care than you know, really care about you. They will talk with you or guide you to these places:

Suicide Prevention Lifeline, (800) 273-TALK(8255). Web address: www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

White Bird Clinic hot line: [phone].

The Child Center Crisis toll-free hot line: [phone] (24 hours). On the Web: www.thechildcenter.org.

Bereavement Support Group (meets monthly). Call 747-2087 for dates and location.

Jim McChesney (485-7763) is a writer in the president's office at the University of Oregon.