What the death of my work colleague through suicide about grief, friendship and appeared

Our office manager Molly sets off in the long hallway and asks: “Did you see Amy this morning?” It is 9:30 a.m. The entire advertising agency has to work from 8:30 a.m. to 5:30 a.m., as these are Wendy's headquarters' business hours. Amy is never too late.

It is one of two graphics designers and in everything she does, meticulously. I step out of my windowless little office. “I didn't see her,” I say. “What's up?” “She didn't call and she didn't answer her phone,” says Molly, her forehead frowns. Another colleague joins our conversation. We all agree on one thing: if nobody heard from our colleague Amy, something is wrong. Molly goes to name Amy's parents. My colleague and I go back to work; There is nothing else to do. But I am restless after twenty minutes and go down to Molly's office.

“Her parents said they hadn't heard of her,” she says. “And they refuse to go into their house, which I don't understand. I called the police to carry out a welfare check.” My stomach makes a flip. Amy and I only traveled to Chicago together last week, and there were a few strange moments. I say a little prayer even though I am not religious and go back to my desk to wait for news.

In Chicago we go to a high-end restaurant with our customer Allison. This is one of the fancier places we went. A server team takes care of every table and listens to everything that is said in your earphones, hands that are clung to them.

Allison mocks the servers by ending almost everything on her plate – and there are a lot of plates – and then put it down again. A petite pallet cleaner is delivered between each course. She takes up the last cucumber a little or others. The waiters approach. She puts it down. You are back.

We all giggle. Allison apologizes when they clarify and promise our plates to behave. A waiter hurts and smiles. “No problem, missed,” he says. “I would do the same.”

This is Amy's first customer meal (and first photo shoot), and she enjoys it. I had selected Hummer Ravioli as my starters, while Amy had bravely ordered something that had ordered three ways as “rabbits, rabbits, rabbits”. We all drink red wine.

Our Junior Account Executive, Kerri, is also with us; I train them to still take over photography shootings. I will keep live action, so I will still go to Manhattan and Brooklyn. To be for everything meant that I was traveling two weeks a month, which is fun, but after six months I am exhausted.

I also have a new friend. He lives in Pittsburgh, three hours from my apartment in Columbus, Ohio. We alternately drive back and forth every weekend into the city of the other. My dog Abbey drives the shotgun, her tongue loll, happy wherever I go.

Now I answer questions about my beau, excited to share this new love. Then the conversation turns to Kerri's upcoming wedding and from there to discuss Allison's friend. He moves in with her.

Amy is quiet, which is not unusual. Sometimes she is shy and socially cumbersome and sometimes leans hard into negativity and symptoms in a way that is repulsive.

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She recently started dance courses. It lights up when we ask what she learns now (Salsa!) And explains the steps and the armrest. She also met a man in the dance class who turned out to be a sensitive topic. They have been together for only four weeks.

“It doesn't work,” says Amy. Your voice is lively. “He is a psychologist and seems to believe that I have something wrong with myself. I don't know. A personality disorder.” She creates a laugh, but her shoulders sink.

We assure her that it is his loss. Obviously he is an idiot. Who diagnoses your date? Jerk.

Amy is the rest of the food, her movements of melancholy and anger.

Your fork beats harder than necessary. She hardly looks up. Kerri and I exchange a look. We stop talking about significant others and passing on safer topics. Pop culture. Food and favorite restaurants.

Back in the Hotel, Amy is ahead and jumps into an elevator and lets him close before the rest of us arrive there.

“Well, okay,” says Allison confused. “I'll check for her,” I say.

When I call, she doesn't answer. I leave a short voiceemail, linked that I am annoyed by her bad behavior and concentrate on my concern for her. And I'm worried.

Her reaction to the discussion about relationships seemed excessively large, but I don't know them very well. I don't know what I don't know. She doesn't call back.

We fly home the next day. Amy pretends that nothing happened, so we do it too. I am discussing my boss – it is my job to ensure that everything goes smoothly – but I don't want to record the behavior that once happened. I'll wait. Maybe or apologizes to Amy.

Molly goes from office to office and asks us to go into the lobby. That can't be good. I wonder if Amy is in the emergency room. Four of us sit on the couch, our legs pressed against each other. There are only 13 of us. It is a small branch of a agency based in New York City, which is specially set up for Wendy's service.

When we settled, Molly says: “The police carried out a welfare check and died Amy.

We are silent, process the news about Amy's death and hold back the tears. I imagine her in her little red sports car, listen to music and make the decision to do what she did.

Our curvy creative director breaks down, tears flock over his face. Soon we all cry. We walk around tissue and discuss how Amy has been in the past few weeks. Kerri and I share what happened in Chicago and my heart narrowed with guilt.

I know intellectually that it is not my fault. And yet – maybe I could have made a difference if I had told her about the trip. About how our life is not perfect. About how we take care of them.

Our head head tells us that we can go home or continue to work. Whatever we need. He goes to call his counterpart to Wendy to tell her team what happened.

Everyone stays for a few hours and tries to work, but soon we will be crowded together in an account of the Account Supervisor. We tell Amy stories. Finally we are said to go home to mourn. Molly switches off the lights and blocks the heavy double doors behind us.

The funeral is on Saturday. We are invited to look at. The entire office puts on black suits and clothes and meets in the parking lot of the funeral home. We enter into together. It is empty, except for five or six people to our left who have to be their family. They crowd together, pale, stared and do not make us welcome.

“It's strange,” says our creative director quietly. He and our president go over to imagine. The family hardly speaks. They look irritated in our emissary, which go back after a short minute.

We look at our president expectantly, who tries to find out what we should say. Finally he says: “Amy deserves it better. She just did it. Come on, you are.”

So we have registered to show our respect. The coffin is open.

“I hope you are in peace and you had a great last dance,” I say when I still look at it and are not sure what else to say. She's there, but not there.

I will return to Amy's soul to her body childishly, without success.

We stay before the tour ends, tell more Amy stories and share what we loved about her. As we linger, it becomes painfully obvious that we are more family for Amy than her family.

Last week I read a story about a woman who dies at her office age and was found four days later. That is a long time. Admittedly, it was a big office and she was sitting in a corner that was not used often. But nobody missed her at home – a heartbreaking thought.

The story made me think of Amy how we knew her well enough to worry and apply for a social check. It was important to us. Her death – and the way she died – left a gaping hole in our dynamics. It took months before I thought about replacing them.

I would like to imagine that Amy was born again. I know it's a imagination. But I want her to have a loving, lively family that encourages her to dance at a young age. Maybe she is now in the rockettes or in a ballet company. Maybe she is married and has a few children; Maybe she's single and has five cats.

Maybe Amy is happy in this new life. She deserves it. We all do it.

If you or someone you know, think about suicide, there is a way to get help. Please call them or write the SMS that National suicide and crisis lives at 988.

Diane Wilder is an author, content marketer and outdoor enthusiast who navigates in this crazy world and deals with chronic diseases.

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