If Only . . .

She was about 30 years old. A pretty woman to me. She had
several lines of deep scars on her face that I assumed were the
result of severe injuries caused by a car accident. Or worse, an
attack. This disturbed me.

I noticed her from my balcony within days of moving in to my
highrise, walking 2 little white dogs around the block. She was
always alone, always with a look of deep sadness on her face.

I must have ran into her at least twenty times during my year-and-a-
quarter of living here, on the elevator or on the grounds of our
building, each time trying to engage her in conversation - about the
weather, her dogs, anything to try to get her to at least, smile.

Never once did she smile though, or answer me with more than a
couple of words. After each attempt, I just left her with my smile,
and let it go.

Like you I'm sure, I have been face-to-face with people that have
been deeply depressed. In my heart of hearts, I knew she was.
Without knowing anything about her, I could only surmise that
whatever had happened in her life to cause this disfigurement was
the reason. Perhaps shallow of me, but I couldn't even imagine
looking in the mirror each day to see such hideous physical
devastation.

On Monday of last week, I proceeded out the main doors of my
building to go on my morning walk. I noticed 2 police cars and a
forensics van in the visitors parking lot. My mind began to wonder
as to what this could possibly have been about. I concluded that
perhaps an elderly tenant had passed away, and promptly forgot
about it.

On the following Friday, I discovered the truth. I saw one of the
building managers who had just returned from a funeral - the funeral
of this young woman.

She had done what was unperceivable to me - she took her own
life.

I was shaken. I learned in that conversation that her scars were the
result of surgery, for cancer. I became deeply disturbed.

Truth is, I had thought so many times that I should invite this
woman for a coffee, or for a walk in the sculpture park below of our
building. Something where some friendly conversation could 'break
the ice' and hopefully have her smile. Even just a single time. I have
a gift where I can make most people smile:-) In retrospect though, I
can only now imagine that she had a great smile.

But I will never know. Because, as many times as I thought to
make this overture, never once did I act upon it. And being that I
have been blessed to have been in a position many times in my life
to have 'been there' for people who were depressed, and even
suicidal, I again, did NOT ACT UPON IT.

Guilty? Yes, I am.

Of course, I cannot afford to even begin to blame myself, a total
stranger to her, for what she felt she ultimately had no choice to do.
On the other hand, I could have chosen to do something, and act
upon my desire to at least try to help.

The obvious questions arise. Would she have accepted my
invitation to a coffee shop, or for a walk down the trail? If she did,
could I have made even a small difference in her life and actually
see her smile -- at least once? That, would have been wonderful to
me. Or, could I have made even a small impact that would have
ultimately led to, well, her deciding NOT swallow the overdose of
medicine that she did?

Thing is, I will never know, because I chose NOT TO ACT. Too
busy, of course. Too many other things going on in my personal
life. Too many other things going on in the lives I was close to. Too
busy in my business life.

If I can take away one lesson with me from this dark experience, it
is the one I wish to share with you -- when your intuition tells you to
do something not only once, but many times, ACT UPON IT. Your
intuition is your biggest friend, whether you know it now, or not.

It honestly hurts to know that I did nothing to follow up on my own
intuition in this sad, sad case. It is even sadder to know that I never
even knew the name of this pretty woman.

I dislike, and try to hardly ever use, the word, "if". It is usually used
in context with a negative circumstance. In this case though, I can
now only wonder would have happened, "If Only . . ."

© Rick Beneteau