My little brother Steve called me “Mare-bear”.   I’m not sure how the practice of putting “bear” after our names started.  Joyce became “J-bear” though I don’t recall anyone besides the two of us getting that appellation.  Adrienne had long been “Tia” or simply “A”.  Ann’s name couldn’t have been any shorter.  Kevin became “Kev” but Mark remained “Mark” for all time.  The only nickname that I can recall for my brother Frank is “Moose”, and Stephen himself was “Stevie Pat”, which I called him until the day he died.

The article in today’s Star about the suicide of Eric Schweich prompted me to take a photo of my brother from the wall and try to scan it.  I gently swept aside the cobwebs from the back of it; I hung it on that wall twenty-two years ago.  I know the painter took it down when he did the breakfast nook last year, but the thick dust did not dissipate.  I removed the back but then my mission failed:  The picture has been in the frame so long that it is fused to the glass.

My brother tried to kill himself at least once before he succeeded in June of 1997.  On that occasion, he took an overdose and awakened from a stupor to swollen legs and a failing kidney.  He dialed 911 and some of his former colleagues on the city crew took him to a hospital.  Months later, the doctors assessed the damage done: his leg could need restorative surgery, my brother Mark’s wife told me later — possibly amputation.  I had not known.

But I did know that he himself summoned help and in the early spring, I said to him:  I don’t get it, Steve.  You take an overdose and then call 911.  That seems kind of. . .well, oxymoronic.  I flashed a smile.  He did not respond at first.  He leaned on the bar in the restaurant in Webster Groves where the family had gathered for our aunt and uncle’s anniversary.  The party had degenerated into a reunion because my aunt had fallen ill.  So Steve and I stood where we stood best:  at the bar.

He took a long drink from his cocktail then set the empty glass on the bar, tipping it in the direction of the bartender.  He turned slightly, just enough to show his eyes, then answered me.  I wanted to end the pain, not suffer more, Mare-bear, he said.

My stomach dropped to the floor.

The investigation into the events leading to Eric Schweich’s suicide sent my innards lurching in just that way.  So much grief; so much struggle; so much pain.  I let the pages of the newspaper flutter to the table and stared at my brother Stephen’s picture, taken long before life brought him to that climax when he finally ended his pain.  I contemplated the words of Mr. Schweich’s wife, who said he talked of wanting to be dead but said that she did not think he meant it.

I am left to wonder if there is any way we humans can ever know another’s anguish.  I am left to wonder if I have the strength to try.

As I put my brother’s picture back on the nail, I found myself flooded with gratitude that I had never felt the pull of suicide strong enough to follow through.  I turned to pour myself another cup of coffee and caught sight of Eric Schweich’s picture on a page of the newspaper just below my brother’s photo.  I wonder what Mr. Schweich called his sister, if he had one.  I wonder if, one day, she will find peace with her brother’s death.

Stephen Patrick Corley, 12/25/59 – 06/??/97. I’m finding that learning to live complaint-free requires making peace with the past. RIP, Stevie Pat. I loved you as well as I could.