Thoughts of Suicide are Dangerous

There are only two crimes that cannot be punished: sedition and suicide.

My friend, an elegant woman in her mid-seventies, was contemplating the latter, just rolling the idea around her head, wondering if she did kill herself, how? Come on, we’ve all done that. Entire cocktail party conversations have turned on the question of which method would we use if we seriously wanted to do ourselves in because of terminal cancer, Alzheimer’s, addictions, mental illness? And which way would be best, the most sure, least painful, the less mess? Evidently the only sure-fire ways are a shotgun to the head (a la Hemingway) and leaping off a very high building. All of the other methods can be iffy and lead to maiming, paralysis, or a vegetative state that no one wants to risk.

So one Sunday afternoon my friend was thinking about it. She felt that life basically was now a waiting game, that her life was over for all intents and purposes. She was afraid of dying slowly and in agony. She had no family and didn’t want to dump her darkness on her friends. But sometimes you feel better just by talking—one basis of psychotherapy. She hoped she’d feel less depressed and lonely if she shared her feelings with a sympathetic listener who just happened to be anonymous on a chat line. (Oh how I wished she had called me.)

Instead she called the psychiatry department of the Kaiser facility that was her medical provider. No answer. Below that number in the booklet was one for Kaiser Behavior Health, and below that was one for a suicide hotline. She called Behavior Health and spoke to an empathetic woman, Gladys. She knew the conversation was being recorded because of the beeps but thought it was to supervise Gladys and her responses. They chatted for a half-hour or so, during which Gladys asked my friend if she thought about or planned suicide, and how she would go about it. So my friend, rather proud of her plan, said she’d thought the best for her was a la Virginia Woolf since she couldn’t swim. She’d go to the beach with rocks in her pockets and wade into the waters at sunset. “But,” she told Gladys, “I hate cold water so it would be better if I went to Hawaii or the Caribbean. Haha!” The call terminated with Gladys wishing her a “nice evening.”

Five minutes later there was heavy knocking on my friend’s door. “Who is it?” she called out. “The police!” She opened the door to two uniformed LAPD officers. “How can I help you?” my friend asked.

“May we come in?” they said. They were both young and attractive, a man and a very young and pretty woman.

My friend opened the screen door and invited them in. It was like vampires needed an invitation to enter a home, she thought later. What if she hadn’t opened the door? Would they have broken it down?

My friend said, “Please sit down. Would you like some coffee?” She was in her pajamas still and felt very self-conscious and vulnerable, but old habits don’t die. And besides she always considered the police and anyone in uniform to be on her side.

The male officer said, “No, you sit down,” and indicated the chair by the door from which he quickly flipped away the cushions looking for weapons. He replaced the cushions and my friend sat down. “Do you have any weapons, a gun?”

“Well, just the steak knives from the 99cent store,” she said.

He looked around. “Please stand up,” he said. “Sorry I have to do this.” He body searched her. The woman pulled my friend’s arms behind her and snapped on handcuffs.

“Wait, wait, I didn’t do anything! I’m not a criminal!” She was sobbing now. “I never even got a traffic ticket and I’ve been driving since I was 15! I’ve never stolen a thing! I don’t lie. Please don’t do this! I’m not dressed! Please let me get dressed. Let me put on underwear.”

“No, sorry. Where are your shoes and socks?” He put them on her feet, and grabbed a jacket from the closet. In broad daylight the two officers helped her walk to the squad car, the neighbors staring flabbergasted. She couldn’t get into the back of the car without help. It wasn’t like television with just a hand on top of the head, at least for a handcuffed old lady. Inside, the back seat was extremely small and hard plastic, and it was impossible for her to find a position that didn’t hurt her wrists, back or shoulders. She rode to the station with her head resting against the bullet-proof glass shield divider.

At the police station she was put in a holding cell, a 9 x 9 cold gray block just like in the movies. She had to remove the tie in her pajama bottoms. When she needed to use the bathroom, the female officer went in with her.

After two hours, they handcuffed her again and took her in the police car to the Kaiser ER. There she had to remove her clothes (PJs), which were sealed in a plastic bag along with her phone, ID, house keys, and Kaiser card. She was allowed her wedding ring. She could only wear two hospital gowns and hospital socks. She was freezing. No food but a box of juice. There was a man dressed like the SWAT team stationed in front of her gurney whose job was simply to watch her—and to take her to the bathroom when necessary. He told her she was a prisoner for 72 hours. “I’m innocent of anything and everything. You can’t do this,” she said. “I’m an American citizen!”

“Suicide is a crime. We are here to prevent it. We are here to save a life.”

“To protect and serve? I didn’t ask for protection? Why do you take the word of an anonymous hotline volunteer so seriously that you ask me no questions but assume I’m a criminal? This treatment is enough to make anyone suicidal! Am I supposed to be less depressed after this, cheered up? Why aren’t you out catching the bad guys? Is it a crime to only think about something, like “lusting in your heart” in the Bible? Am I arrested for thinking about the “crime” of suicide?”

Shoulder shrug.

“Please can I have my phone? Isn’t there a magazine or something to read somewhere here? Can’t I call a friend? I have a dental appointment in the morning that seems like it must be cancelled.”

Answer: no. She was a criminal with no rights, a criminal before ever committing a crime, and she had to be punished in the land where you were innocent until proven guilty.

What did she learn from this humiliating, mortifying, degrading experience? Not to not contemplate suicide. But NEVER to call a hotline or chatline or anonymous psychology service, never ever. Because while not actually a criminal, she would be punished!