What My Work Colleague’s Death By Suicide Taught Me About Grief, Friendship, And Showing Up
We spent forty hours a week with Amy, but did we really know her?
Wirestock | Canva Our office manager, Molly, makes her way down the long hallway, asking: “Have you seen Amy this morning?” It’s 9:30 a.m. The entire ad agency is required to work from 8:30 to 5:30, as those are Wendy’s headquarters' business hours. Amy is never late.
She’s one of two graphic designers, and she’s meticulous in everything she does. I step out of my windowless little office. “I haven’t seen her,” I say. “What’s going on?” “She hasn’t called in and she’s not answering her phone,” Molly says, her brow furrowing. Another colleague joins our conversation. We all agree on one thing: If nobody's heard from our colleague Amy, something isn’t right. Molly leaves to call Amy’s parents. My colleague and I go back to work; there’s nothing else for us to do. But I’m restless after twenty or so minutes and walk down to Molly’s office.
“Her parents said they haven’t heard from her,” she says. “And they refuse to go to her house, which I don’t understand. I’ve phoned the police to do a welfare check.” My stomach does a flip. Amy and I traveled to Chicago together just last week, and there were a couple of odd moments. I say a little prayer even though I’m not religious, and go back to my desk to wait for news.
In Chicago, we go to a high-end restaurant with our client, Allison. This is one of the fancier places we’ve gone. A team of servers attends to each table, listening to whatever is being said in their earpieces, hands clasped in front of them.
Allison taunts the servers by almost finishing whatever is on her plate — and there are a ton of plates — and then setting it down again. A dainty palette cleanser is delivered between each course. She picks up the last of a cucumber something-or-other. The waiters approach. She puts it down. They back up.
We all giggle. Allison apologizes when they clear our plates and promises to behave. A waiter bows and smiles. “No problem, miss,” he says. “I would do the same.”
This is Amy’s first client dinner (and first photo shoot), and she’s enjoying it. I’d chosen lobster ravioli as my entree while Amy had bravely ordered something called “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit,” which is rabbit served three ways. We’re all drinking red wine.
Our junior account executive, Kerri, is also with us; I’m training her to take over still photography shoots. I will keep live action, so I will still go to Manhattan and Brooklyn. Being in charge of everything meant that I was traveling two weeks a month, which is fun, but after six months, I’m exhausted.
Plus, I have a new boyfriend. He lives in Pittsburgh, three hours away from my apartment in Columbus, Ohio. We take turns driving back and forth to each other’s city every weekend. My dog, Abbey, rides shotgun, her tongue lolling, happy to go wherever I go.
Now, I’m answering questions about my beau, excited to share this new love. Then the conversation turns to Kerri’s upcoming wedding, and from there, to discussing Allison’s boyfriend. He is moving in with her.
Amy is quiet, which isn’t unusual. She’s shy and socially awkward at times, sometimes leaning hard into negativity and complaints in a way that’s off-putting.
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Recently, she started dance classes. She lights up when we ask what she’s learning now (salsa!) and explains the steps and arm placement. She also met a man at dance class, who turned out to be a touchy subject. They’ve been dating for just four weeks.
“It’s not working out,” Amy says. Her voice is brisk. “He’s a psychologist and seems to think I have something wrong with me. I don’t know. A personality disorder.” She manages a laugh, but her shoulders slump.
We reassure her that it’s his loss. Clearly, he’s an idiot. Who diagnoses their date? Jerk.
Amy is quiet the rest of the meal, her movements tinged by a melancholy and anger.
Her fork strikes her plate harder than necessary. She barely looks up. Kerri and I exchange glances. We stop talking about significant others and move on to safer subjects. Pop culture. Food and favorite restaurants.
Back at the hotel, Amy rushes ahead and jumps into an elevator, letting it close before the rest of us get there.
“Well, okay then,” Allison says, bemused. “I’ll check on her,” I say.
When I call, she doesn’t answer. I leave a short voicemail, disguising that I’m annoyed at her poor behavior and focusing on my concern for her. And I am worried.
Her reaction to discussing relationships seemed overly large, but also, I don’t know her very well. I don’t know what I don’t know. She doesn’t call back.
We fly home the next day. Amy acts as though nothing happened, so we do too. I debate on telling my boss — it’s my job to make sure everything runs smoothly — but I don’t want to flag behavior that’s happened once. I’ll wait. Maybe Amy will explain or apologize on her own.
Molly walks from office to office, tells us to head to the lobby. This can’t be good. I wonder if Amy is in the ER. Four of us sit on the couch, our legs pressed against each other. There are only 13 of us. It’s a small branch office of a New York City-based agency, set up specifically to service Wendy’s.
When we’re settled, Molly says, “The police did a welfare check and found Amy deceased. She was in her car with the garage closed. It appears that she arrived home last night after her dance class and ended her life.”
We’re silent, processing the news of Amy's death, holding back tears. I picture her in her little red sports car, listening to music, making the decision to do what she did.
Our curmudgeonly Creative Director breaks down, tears streaming down his face. Soon, we’re all crying. We pass around tissues and discuss how Amy has been over the past couple of weeks. Kerri and I share what happened in Chicago, and my heart constricts with guilt.
Intellectually, I know it isn’t my fault. And yet — maybe I could have made a difference if I had said something to her about the trip. About how our lives aren’t perfect either. About how we care about her.
Our head boss tells us we can go home or keep working. Whatever we need. He leaves to call his counterpart at Wendy’s, to let their team know what happened.
Everyone stays for a couple of hours, trying to work, but soon we are huddled in an account supervisor’s office. We tell Amy stories. Eventually, we’re told to go home to grieve. Molly turns off the lights and locks the heavy double doors behind us.
The funeral is on Saturday. We’re invited to the viewing. The entire office puts on black suits and dresses and meets in the funeral parlor’s parking lot. We walk in together. It’s empty except for five or six people to our left who must be her family. They huddle together, pale, staring, making no move to greet us.
“That’s weird,” our Creative Director says quietly. He and our President walk over to introduce themselves. The family hardly speaks. They look irritated at our emissaries, who walk back after a short minute.
We look expectantly at our President, who is trying to figure out what to tell us. Finally, he says, “Amy deserved better. She just did. C’mon, you guys.”
So we filed through to pay our respects. The casket is open.
“I hope you’re at peace, and that you had a great last dance,” I say as I look at her still face, unsure of what else to say. She is there but not there.
I childishly will Amy's soul back into her body, to no avail.
We stay until the viewing ends, telling more Amy stories, sharing what we loved about her. As we linger, it becomes painfully obvious that we are more family to Amy than her family.
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Last week, I read a story about a woman dying at her office desk and being found four days later. That’s a long time. Granted, it was a big office, and she was sitting in a corner that wasn’t often used. But nobody missed her at home — a heartbreaking thought.
The story made me think of Amy, of how we knew her well enough to worry and request a welfare check. She mattered to us. Her death — and the way she died — left a gaping hole in our dynamic. It took months to even think about replacing her.
I like to imagine that Amy was reincarnated. I know it’s a fantasy. But I want her to have a loving, vibrant family that encourages her to dance at a young age. Maybe she’s now in the Rockettes or a ballet company. Maybe she’s married and has a few kids; maybe she’s single and has five cats.
Maybe Amy's happy in this new life. She deserves it. We all do.
If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, there is a way to get help. Please call or text the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.
Diane Wilder is a writer, content marketer, and outdoor enthusiast navigating this crazy world while dealing with chronic conditions.
