By: Lisa Harper
September 25 holds a deep emotional significance for me. It’s my amazing husband’s birthday. Three years ago, on that very day, while I was seven weeks pregnant, we sat in a clinic in our home city of Tokyo, overwhelmed with joy as we heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. It was a day filled with laughter and secret smiles as we swapped non-alcoholic drinks at his birthday party, hesitant to share our news too soon. I had kept my pregnancy a secret, afraid of tempting fate before reaching the 12-week mark. But that beautiful sound changed everything; I resolved to call my family and share the news the next day.
However, the early morning hours brought a devastating phone call that shattered my world. My mother had passed away, discovered on the bedroom floor by my grandfather in the home they shared. On my way to the airport, I learned that she had died from a gunshot wound to her heart. As I crumbled on the airport shuttle, my own heart broke into pieces. Later, after a grueling 13-hour flight, I received another call revealing that police had found a note by her bed, leading them to rule her death as suicide.
I can’t help but wonder: if she had known about her grandchild on the way, would that have changed her mind? If I had picked up her Skype call the night of the birthday party, could I have talked her down? Our last conversation had been tense; I had rushed off the phone to finalize the birthday cake.
My mother battled depression throughout her life, sometimes displaying manic behavior that led me to question whether she was bipolar. She was a strong-willed woman, fiercely devoted to her family and faith. She lived life passionately, dressed as the charming Southern belle she was, and thrived in her career and social life. She used to delightfully tell me and my friends over her famous martinis that every woman needs three types of men in her life: one to stimulate her mind, another to nurture her soul, and a third to fulfill her desires.
After suffering a work-related fall in 2006 that caused a brain injury, her physical abilities began to decline. Yet, she fought valiantly against her corporate employer, a battle that consumed the last eight years of her life, sapping her spirit and finances.
In the weeks and months following her death, I focused on my pregnancy and well-being. I was acutely aware of studies linking stress to miscarriage, but I also knew I had to confront my grief immediately, especially given my family’s history of mental illness. Others in my family had also struggled with suicidal thoughts, so I knew I was at risk.
In Tokyo, I kept the details of my mother’s death mostly to myself. People knew she had been unwell, and many assumed her illness was the cause of her passing. In some ways, they were correct.
Having a baby abroad presents its own set of challenges, particularly the cultural and language barriers, but the lack of a solid support system was the hardest. Many of my new mom friends were discussing how long their own mothers would stay to help them post-birth. I felt like disappearing during those conversations.
I couldn’t share the painful truth, partly out of fear that discussing it would push me over the edge and endanger my baby, but also due to the immense guilt and shame I felt for not being there to prevent her death.
After her injury, I moved abroad to be with my then-boyfriend, now husband. My mother always encouraged me to chase my dreams and explore the world, and while I only managed annual visits home, our phone calls were frequent. As an only child, I wasn’t there to witness her decline, which she often masked in our conversations to shield me.
Now that I’m a mother myself, I perceive things with a different lens. I realize how selfish I was, consumed by my career ambitions and the whirlwind of expat life. Becoming a parent has taught me the true essence of selflessness, and it saddens me that she’s not here to witness the change in me. I mourn the fact that I’ll never have the chance to care for her like she cared for me or to share the joys of motherhood with her. This would have been a new chapter in our lives together, and I feel anger towards the circumstances that robbed us of that.
In a strange twist, during one of our last discussions, she expressed stress over finances, and I suggested she utilize some money my grandparents had recently distributed. She adamantly refused, claiming it was “for the baby,” unaware that I was pregnant at the time. My mother believed her struggles were a burden to us and thought ending her life would ease our pain. This is a common misconception tied to mental illness, yet her suicide was a deeply selfish act that has left lasting scars on those she left behind.
I miss her every day. I have since welcomed a second child, a daughter named after both my mother and my grandmother, who passed away shortly after my son was born. At least she got to see her first great-grandchild on a video call before she left this world. I often think about the depths of grief my grandmother must have faced that year. Losing a child is heart-wrenching, but losing your firstborn to suicide seems unbearable.
The initial months with my son were particularly challenging as I had countless questions with no one to answer them: How did breastfeeding go for my mom with me? Was I a good sleeper, and how did she manage to get me down for naps? When did I start crawling, walking, or talking? Sadly, my father couldn’t provide those insights either. I’ve come to understand that fathers, despite their best efforts, often don’t have all the answers.
As my mind spiraled in the months that followed, I tried to uncover what had driven her to that point. After speaking with her doctors, friends, and family, sorting through mountains of paperwork, and even sifting through her emails, I never found a single reason for her decision. I know I never will.
She was skilled at hiding the extent of her suffering, masking her pain behind a facade for the world. Shame weighed heavily on her, and her pride prevented her from recognizing her crisis and seeking help.
Reflecting back, I realize I experienced some degree of postpartum depression myself, which, while common, can be overwhelming. I made an effort to socialize, attend church, and join support groups, for isolation can lead to despair, which can have devastating consequences.
Many new mothers endure feelings of isolation, and my heart breaks hearing stories of postpartum suicide. This is a dire issue, as suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S., and it needs to be addressed. We must consistently engage with new moms about their feelings, never dismissing depression, and seek help for ourselves or our loved ones as soon as possible. As for me, I will continue to speak openly about my mother’s choice and educate my children about our family’s mental health history. I refuse to feel ashamed.
I keep her chat profile open in my email, and her status quote, though tragically ironic, 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 for help or seek professional guidance. For those interested in understanding more about pregnancy and home insemination, resources like MedlinePlus and Baby Heartbeat are invaluable.
In summary, my experience with losing my mother to suicide profoundly reshaped my perspective on motherhood and mental health. It underscores the importance of open conversations about mental illness and support for new mothers, as well as the need for a supportive community to combat isolation.