1Sunday, June 21, 2015
“Bay Area Crisis Line. This is Del, how can I help you?”
Silence. Breathing.
Not unusual.
The phone number on the caller ID is blocked. Also not unusual. We answer calls that feed in from the national suicide hotline. Three of us are in the stuffy call room tonight. Two more should be in any minute.
I doodle a lighthouse on my notepad. “If you’d like to talk to me, I’m here.” My midnight-blue nail polish is already chipped.
“This is, uh, Jane,” a girl murmurs.
“Hi, Jane. How are you this evening?” That’s probably not her real name. It doesn’t matter.
“Not good.” She sounds my age—eighteen—or a little older, but her voice is alarmingly flat.
“Are you feeling suicidal?” We ask everyone as soon as possible. Hearing this question would’ve been a huge relief for me a couple of years ago.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a plan? How you would attempt suicide?” Standard
assessment. I steal a sip of my decaf latte. Twilight from the barred bay window illuminates our eight computer-and-phone stations along opposite walls.
“Yeah.”
“Will you share with me what it is?”
“I’m at the Golden Gate Bridge.”
I bolt upright. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
She not only has a plan that’s lethal. It’s imminent.
Ohmigod. I’ve never had a Level Five. Two months of intense training just bolted from my brain.
“I, um.” What to do first?
Locate her.
I wave frantically at my shift partner, Isabel, who’s engrossed in her own conversation.
“Are you on the San Francisco side?” I ask Jane, sort of calmly. You might not be able to handle this.
I hold up my fingers at Isabel: A FIVE. She jerks a nod and asks her caller to call back.
“Yeah.”
“You’re on the bridge now?” I fumble, click, close, and finally open the internal messaging function on my computer screen to communicate with Isabel and the volunteer coordinator, Quentin. Was supposed to do it first thing.
Jane responds in slo-mo. “In the parking lot. In my car.”
“Okay thank you for letting me know that will you tell me what’s going on Jane? Why you’re there?” I’m in hyper-drive.
Deep breath. Slow down. Get in sync with her.
Isabel has alerted Quentin, and now she’s listening in on her phone. She’ll gather info in case we need to call 911. My job is to concentrate on Jane and to deescalate the situation.
“I’ve been thinking about it. A long time,” Jane says.
“I’m really glad you called us. Has anything happened recently that made up your mind?”
“My mother died.”
“When was this?”
“A month ago.”
“I’m so sorry. That must be incredibly hard.”
She doesn’t answer, probably going, Duh.
I know exactly how hard it is. My mom died when I was thirteen. Dr. Vernon says I still need to come to “better terms” with her death.
A recent big loss for Jane. Not good.
An IM from Quentin pops on my screen: Identifying info? physical description, make/model of car?
“Are you still in your car?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind is it?”
“A rental.” So she must be at least twenty-five to be able to rent. She
may have come to San Francisco just for the Golden Gate Bridge. They’re putting up a safety net soon and we cannot wait.
Isabel’s typing stuff to Quentin and filling out questions for the dispatcher.
“Is there anyone in the parking lot with you?” My hands shake like I just drank four real espressos instead of a double decaf.
“No.”
“Any other cars?”
“Yeah. But nobody.” Her voice is as hollow as a moon crater.
“Is your car on?”
“No.”
She knows I’m trying to get info and is resisting. Best to drop it for now. Jane’s got to trust me enough to keep talking and I have to help her find a reason to hang on a little longer. Come on, Del!
“Do you have other family?”
“Yes.”
“Father?”
“He’s with another woman. None of us really talk.”
“That’s rough. I’m sorry.” Any physical description will help. I type: Low flat voice, mid-twenties. Slight Midwestern twang?
“I have a brother,” she says. “We’re not close.”
A new volunteer, only two years older than me, is speaking to someone in Spanish, and another call blinks the lines. Isabel has to answer, quickly assess for suicidal intent, and then ask them to call us back since we’re short-staffed. A Five needs full attention from at least two people. Where the hell is Jackson?
“Do you have friends you can confide in?”
“My friend Alex.”
“Do they know where you are?”
“No.”
“Would you be willing to talk to them?”
“Her. No. I just want to . . . jump.”
Breathe out. Breathe in another one. “Jane, would you be willing to go to an emergency mental health clinic?”
“Going to hang up,” she mumbles.
Crap. “No! Wait! Please keep talking to me.”
She doesn’t respond.
Quentin IMs: Isabel is calling emergency.
I scribble “Alex” on my note pad, to remind me to bring up her name again. She might be a reason for Jane to hold on. Now what?
“Jane, I’m so glad you called. Will you please keep talking to me?” I repeat.
She sighs but doesn’t disconnect. The car door opens and ding, ding, dings. Slams.
“You’re getting out of your car?” My voice trills an octave higher.
“Yes.” Obviously.
“Would you, uh, be willing to wait in your car a little longer?”
“No. I want . . . to walk.” Out toward the bridge. She must know that the pedestrian walkway closes at 9 p.m.
It’s 8:36.
“Please keep talking to me. Do you have any firearms or other weapons with you?” If police are on their way, they need to know what to expect.
“No.”
“Any medications with you?”
“No.”
At the other end of the room Isabel informs the 911 dispatcher of the situation and the info we have on Jane. They’ll contact the bridge police, who should know exactly what to do since this happens regularly over there.
We inform our callers of any action we take. “Jane, we’ve contacted emergency services. They’ll be there any moment.”
She doesn’t react.
I’ve got to keep her on the line until they arrive. I’ve got to find something that might keep her tied to life.
What made her call us in the first place? The same thing that made me leave a trail to that closet.
Ambivalence.
When you’re this close to the edge, there’s no point in talking about the overwhelming, screaming pain. You just want it to end. But there’s still that small part of you that wants to live. I’ve got to grab onto that for Jane
“How long have you been friends with Alex?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Okay.” I blow out a puff of air in frustration, bouncing a hair strand over my forehead. “Do you have any pets?” A lot of people who call us like their pets a lot better than their family.
“No.”
I don’t say, If you survive today, you really should get one. I try another tack. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
“A long time. Since I was fourteen.”
Been there. But we’re not supposed to volunteer personal info and Quentin’s listening.
“Are you seeing a therapist?”
“Yeah.” Pause. “It’s not helping.”
“Are you taking medication?”
“Not now.”
Also not good. “Coping with depression can be very tough. Sounds like you feel really tired of it.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not going to do it anymore.”
Shit.
Training! “How have you gotten through rough periods before?” I hope not like I did, with vodka.
“Daydream about how I would end my life.”
That shuts me up. “Um, anything else?”
“Yeah. Talk to my mom. She was the only one who understood me.
And stood by me.”
Like Aunt Fran.
I’d probably be dead without Aunt Fran. Jane must have someone. “What about other family or friends?”
She sighs. “They’re so sick of me and my problems.”
“Do you believe they’d rather you be dead?” It just slips out. Smooth move, Del. But I totally get it. When I—or my mom for that matter—couldn’t cope with life as well as other people, everyone wanted us somewhere out of the way.
“In the end, absolutely.”
“Sounds like you feel really alone, Jane.”
“Yes.” She says this firmly. She’s far enough out on the bridge that the wind crackling around her phone makes it hard to hear her. I turn up the volume on my headset.
“I’m so sorry for your grief. And pain. What you’re going through is tremendously hard.” Thank the Higher Power we know where she is. I repeat, “I’m really glad you called us.”
The timer on the phone says we’ve been talking seven minutes. Feels like about one. Or one hundred.
“Can you tell me more about your brother?”
“He’s younger. He’s perfect.”
So many dead ends. I’ve sweated through my sweatshirt.
“Do you live in the Bay Area?” I ask.
“No.” She pauses, then to my surprise mumbles, “It’s beautiful.”
She’s standing in the twilight on the brightly lit, massive Golden Gate Bridge as cold tendrils of fog sweep from the Pacific Ocean over and through the cables and stanchions. And maybe looking at the glowing city to the east.
“It is. Tell me what you see.”
“Fog. The bay. Like a movie.” Her tone is too flat to sound impressed, but this has definitely distracted her.
“What else do you see, Jane? Can you see the sunset?” Today is the longest day of the year. Tomorrow will be shorter. You wait all year for summer and before it even gets going, the days start turning darker again.
“The sky . . . silvery. And purple. Through clouds.” She pauses, says almost with a sense of wonder, “A ship . . .”
“What kind of ship?”
“A cruise sh—”
A car door clunks.
The voice of a police officer calmly says, “Jane.”
“They’re here,” she says, as if informing me about the location of a stack of books.
I exhale. “Jane, thank you for talking with me, for making this effort. It means a lot to me that you’ll be safe tonight.”
Someone takes her phone and says, “This is Officer Ho.”
I identify myself and the Bay Area Crisis Line and quickly summarize pertinent info.
“We have the situation under control,” he says. “Thanks for your
good work.”
“Hey, thank you,” I say.
They’re specially trained. They’ll take her to the SF General psychiatric ward, where she’ll most likely be admitted for seventy-two hours—then hopefully released to someone who can be with her until she’s out of danger.
We have no way of knowing caller outcomes for sure, though, and have to let each caller “go” once we hang up.
I disconnect. Two cleansing breaths help slow the adrenaline pumping through my system. A sip from my watery latte wets my dry mouth as I lean back in the cushy ergonomic desk chair. Suicide Prevention Girl strikes again!
I fucking hate suicide.
2
This spring, when I saw that Bay Area Crisis was recruiting volunteers, I immediately, enthusiastically applied. I was just about to turn eighteen and was finishing up my senior year, courtesy of Cyber Academy. I needed something to occupy me this summer, more meaningful than answering the phones and vacuuming at Aunt Fran’s art gallery. The adrenaline from tonight’s call says I made a good choice.
Now, I pop a few jelly beans while I log in info about “Jane’s” call for funding purposes. Everything’s anonymous and confidential, though. Jane sounded like someone named . . . Sierra, maybe. But never knowing what happens to her and being at peace with that is part of the job.
“Good work, kid!” Isabel gives me a high five. She was born in Brazil and is studying at UCSF to be a psychiatrist. Her older brother completed suicide when she was twelve.
The others call me “kid” because I’m the youngest one here.
“You too.” My voice warbles. “Thanks for having my back.” Two other volunteers finally showed up and are on calls. So we’re keeping our voices low.
But Quentin returns from the staff room and bellows, “Good job, people! Great work, Del!”
My cheeks warm as we fist-bump. Quentin’s bushy black beard could shelter small critters and stinging insects.
He adds, “Whenever you’re ready.” He disappears to his office and I grab my phone and backpack.
The reason we debrief after high-risk calls is so we don’t get burned out or take a caller’s problems home with us. This will be my first time.
I’ll remember this call for the rest of my life.
;
After my shift, it’s like I’m walking on stilts made of plastic drinking straws. The cold night air and the blanket of darkness at the bus stop weigh me down. A neon-green Heineken sign pulses across the street. This must be how people feel after alligator wrestling.
By helping Jane, I hope I’m paying the universe back a little for my own bad choice. Fine, choices. Still, some strange brew of acid and tar is gurgling just below my esophagus.
It’s San Francisco-summer-freezing and I forgot my sweatshirt. The LED display for the next bus says four minutes. Good. Aunt Fran turns in at the freakishly early time of 9:30 lately and I want to tell her about this call. Among other things.
In two months, I’ll be moving into a dorm at SFSU to start my freshman year, like a normal student. Aunt Fran isn’t thrilled with the prospect of me living on campus. Hearing about my call with “Jane” will help convince her of my maturity.
The Russian Hill bus pulls up with a squeal of brakes. I’m composing an upbeat text to Nick. He’s an old family friend from Dallas who arrived three days ago for an undergraduate summer internship at a UC Berkeley lab. He’s premed, just finished his freshman year at UT Austin.
Nick will like the “Jane” story. He’s a “helping” kind of guy. In addition to being super smart and totally hot. He doesn’t know yet that I’m in love with him.
Just talked a lady on the GG bridge out of jumping!!! ’Sup with you? How’s it feel to be at Cal? Berkeley’s a trip, right? When are you coming to the city? [starry eyed emoji]
I impulsively tap send as I climb on with three other passengers.
Oh, crap. People are packed in the bus like fast-food French fries. The thought of shoving my way into all those bodies makes me pant. I should wait for the next one.
No, I’ve got to get home.
I beep my pass and wedge my way in. My vision goes all overexposed.
Exhale. Exhale. Count breaths—in through my nose and into my belly. Release slowly. Inch back. My forehead’s pressed on the cool, grimy pole I’m clutching as dozens of human bodies leech my life force and I try to imagine something other than suffocating. And I was having such a nice evening up to now.
Nick’s going to think that text, and you, are dorky. Too many questions. Why’d you put ’sup?
A searing, musky reek tinged with fruity alcohol hits me.
An old guy with matted, grizzly hair, oily clothes, and dirt-haloed
nails sits right below me. His bloodshot eyes, open too wide, dart around the bus. He mutters, “Smell it my brain has been shot out what’s in your wallet?”
Everyone pretends he’s not there.
Junior year when I was really depressed, I could barely get out of bed, let alone shower. Poor personal hygiene can so be the least of your problems.
“Not much in my wallet,” I admit.
He mutters to the floor, “All y’all educated fools you wanna boyfriend? Welcome to San Fran-fucking clan and a whole lot of fucking nothing.” He looks at me. “You’re a child common sense lord have mercy all y’all gotta pay attention.”
“Right?” I say.
I think everyone has a spark of instability inside. My mom’s spark—or wildfire, really—was bipolar disorder. My cozy bonfire is garden-variety anxiety and depression.
So far.
Deep breaths. Out slowly. One, two, three. The man sits quietly now, hands folded in his lap.
My latest meds help slow my racing brain and loosen the asphyxiating tightness in my middle. They provide a force field that keeps the sharp fear and electric jitteriness about seven feet away from my face.
But I could end up like this man someday—in a public place, drunk, unwashed, talking trash, scaring people, lost in some sealed panic room in my brain.
The bus lurches. Three people slam into me. A scrawny girl with dark, unbrushed curly hair in an oversized gray hoodie grips the upper bar, her bony knuckles near mine. She’s my height and about my age.
A pinkish, shiny, jagged scar winds down the tan velvet above the artery inside her wrist. She observes me with eyes that are dull as a dead bird’s.
Cold sweat bursts from every square inch of my skin. So many of us.
Being alive is
Too much
Can’t hold it
Up—
Back
Anymore.
I lunge, yank the cord, and cry, “STOP! I’m getting off here!”
The driver scowls at me in the mirror.
Can’t breathe!
Shoulder forward.
The back door opens and I stumble down the steps. Momentum pulls me away from the bus.
I smooth my hair down with shaking hands. Lean against the glass bus shelter and deep-breathe cold, fresh air.
I check for my phone and wallet.
Another deep breath. Focus on the neighborhood market across the
street.
A man buying milk at the counter, the white light from inside spilling onto the sidewalk.
The line of parked cars on the hill with their wheels all turned toward the curb.
A tiny blinking jet moseying across the black, starless sky above.
Maybe that was a slight overreaction. But that girl. She’s me.
And here I thought I was finally swimming out from under the Great Pacific Garbage Patch of my own suicide attempt.
;
I walk the rest of the way home in the cold dark, hiking up the last part of Russian Hill.
When I finally let myself into our apartment—step onto the soft carpet and into the pool of warm gold from the brass lamp on the entry table, smell traces of the spruce-and-cedar candle she likes to burn—I hear Aunt Fran’s soft snores through her door. I used to have a strict curfew along with an actual “in bed” time. Just in the last few months, she’s relaxed her vigilance. She trusts me.
I wish she were waiting up.
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