My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.

In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it’s been days since I’ve had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, “They’re both gone.” It’s 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned.

After several years of suffering physical and mental anguish, my mother could take no more, and my father, who people later said couldn’t bear the thought of life without his bride of 46 years, went along for the final ride, ending both their lives in their garage.

On that day, as Tom and I made the 90-minute drive from our home in Massachusetts to the small farm in Connecticut where I was brought up, I looked to the sky, hoping for some kind of a sign — of peace, or comfort or simply of resolution. In the cloud formation above me I imagined two figures, waving goodbye.

That was the first of many signs I have received over the now 29 years since my mother and father died by suicide at ages 72 and 73, respectively. My view on things in general had always leaned toward “just the facts,” but in the space of 24 hours I began to look beyond the surface and open my eyes to what I could not or would not normally see.

The days that followed were a haze of sorrow-driven activity, but some of what transpired remains clear.

My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could