They say “third times a charm.” Perhaps it is.

Last week our campus was rocked to its core by the tragic death of beloved sophomore Julia Sill. As a member of the swim team here at Fairfield, I watched my closest teammates suffer through heart-clenching grief and loss. I watched the heartbreak play over their faces and their usual enthusiastic and happy smiles disappear. I could see the struggle and pain in their eyes and my heart broke for each one who had been affected by Julia’s death. I recognized their pain, even relived it to an extent. For in my life, Julia’s death at Fairfield was the third suicide I had been affected by in the past five months.

I was first affected by suicide early in September of this school year. On a Monday night I received news that my high school hurdle mentor, partner and friend took her own life on the track where she practiced everyday at Wesleyan University. Nora Miller was the first to introduce me the sport of hurdling and it is because of her that I learned to love those events. We spent countless hours after practice perfecting our hurdle skills, creating new drills, and laughing at the boys whining about their sprint workouts.  Outside of practice, Nora was at the top of her class, as well as one of the friendliest and one of the most humble people at my high school. I looked up to Nora and over four years she became not only my mentor but also my friend. I could not stomach the fact that she was so pained by this life that she set herself on fire and left herself to die in the very place where she was so talented.

Nora’s death scared me. How could someone so seemingly perfect and happy do something so selfish, so hopeless? At her memorial service while Nora’s friends recalled her generosity and happiness, all I could think of was how she decided to take her life. For the next couple of weeks I struggled with her death, scared for my own life. If perfect Nora couldn’t make it in this world, how could I?  In the search for solace I turned my attention to my own team and found comfort in the pool and among my teammates. I was glad I did because what came next would change me for a lifetime.

On Nov. 6, 2010 my mended heart was shattered by the news of the suicide of my cousin Luke. Luke was 29 years old and the father of two children, Alex, 6, and Nadia, 2. I came home to a family paralyzed by grief and pain. I sat through the grueling wake hours watching my grown uncle sob for his youngest son. I witnessed my 85 year-old grandma, known for her wise advice and good faith, become silenced by this tragedy. I watched my brothers and cousins carry Luke’s casket into the church followed by his 27 year-old widow and his son Alex. I held up my cousin’s wife as they lowered her husband’s casket into the ground and she crumpled in my arms. This was pain; true heartbreak in its most raw form. Luke’s suicide had changed all of our lives, and had torn apart my family. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Luke and his beautiful family. Alex and Nadia have stopped asking about their father, and it still breaks my heart when I see them and know that they will never get to know him. At Luke’s funeral I was asked to speak about Luke. I wanted to honor him and focused on what Luke would have wanted. I asked those in attendance to assist me in taking care of Luke’s wife and two small children. In this tragic situation they had suffered the most.

On Jan. 18, 2011 my college campus, my one place of escape from all of these tragic deaths, suffered the same fate I had. I was nauseated by the news that one of my peers had taken her life and in turn had inflicted so much pain on those who loved her the most. Although I did not know Julia, from the memorial service and through recollections from her closest friends, I wish I did. Like her friends, I wish that I could have helped her. I wish I could have helped Nora and Luke. However, if I have learned anything from these past couple months, it is that we must take care of those who are left behind. We must love each other and worry about each other. We must talk openly about our problems and comfort each other in sadness. We can collectively pick up the pieces of our hearts and work to put them back, together.

From these three suicide experiences I have learned three different lessons and have grown from each one. From Nora’s death I learned to remember those who have passed by how they have lived and not how they died. From my cousin’s death I learned that lives of loved ones can be changed forever. From Julia’s death I know now that we must all help each other grieve. I feel as if maybe all of this happened for a reason because now I can help my teammates get through something I had struggled with. We must remember that we are never truly alone and must help each other move forward, never forgetting those who left us behind.  They are at peace now and watching over us.

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