Fleeting life

Life is fragile – we just don't notice it until it's gone.

Last Friday my niece's close friend, Jeff, committed suicide. He was 21.

When she text messaged me about it last night, I called her to see how she was doing. She sounded sullen and confused. I could tell that she was still trying to comprehend the situation.

I like to think that I usually give decent uncle-esque advice to my nieces and nephews, but I was at a loss for words. This was something new for me, too.

I've been fortunate in that I have only lost a few people in my life. The closest was my maternal grandfather who died of lung cancer when I was 8 years old, but I was too young to fully understand what was happening at the time. I was sad because I knew he was gone, but it wasn't until years later that I realized how important he was in my life.

But that was a different situation. Although preparing for someone to die lies somewhere between difficult to impossible, we at least knew it was coming.

No one expected the events that transpired Friday.

Everyone described Jeff as a happy, energetic individual who was down-to-earth. There didn't appear to be any warning signs. He was someone who brought a smile to people's faces and enjoyed skiing and talking about his plans for the future – a future that will never be.

On Facebook and MySpace his friends have made online memorials, posting pictures and sharing their favorite memories about him. It's a start to mending the emotional wounds.

Though it's a cliché to say we have to go out and live life to the fullest, it's because of events like this that we realize that it cannot be taken for granted.

Perhaps that's the one good thing that comes out of this horrible mess.