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My older brother Donnie committed suicide 27 years ago, at the age of 36. His wife, Krissie, who was six months pregnant at the time, came home from work at 6 p.m. expecting to find him preparing dinner.

Surprised that he wasn't home, she went to see if his car was out back. She found Donnie hanging in the garage. His body had been there all day.

That night we all gathered at my mother's house. My mother, his wife and his three teenage children from a previous marriage were bewildered with grief. I'm sure my mother was blaming herself. Krissie sat there stunned. I could only imagine the thoughts racing through her mind — there she was, a widow at 23, pregnant, with three teenage stepchildren and so much unknown ahead of her.

His children kept asking, "How could he do this now, just when everything was starting to work out?"

My sisters, sisters-in-law and nieces were crying and trying to comfort one another. My brothers-in-law were quiet, offering supportive hugs. My brothers were angry. One said, "When I get my hands on him. I'm going to kill him." Another said, "How stupid! How stupid could he be?"

Me? I felt great sadness and guilt. Guilt that I hadn't suffered enough to ever seriously consider suicide, and guilt that I hadn't helped him enough. But then, I didn't know he was suicidal. He didn't speak to anyone in the family about it.

The police gave Krissie a notebook they found in his shirt pocket. It showed how he had been wrestling with suicide for several days before he gave in. He had talked about it with two friends. They both thought they had helped turn him around.

Donnie had suffered from recurring depression since the age of 12. He had been hospitalized twice, and the second time he had been diagnosed as manic depressive. Lithium was recommended, but Donnie was reluctant to take drugs and so he had refused the medication.

Donnie was the live wire in our family. He arrived at family gatherings like a whirlwind. He always headed straight for the fridge and asked, "Hey, what's to eat around here?" He was funny and outgoing, always acknowledging people, putting his hand out to introduce himself, speaking to kids in elevators. He was mostly up — or mostly manic. Unfortunately, he also had his depressive side, but he didn't come around when he was depressed.

Donnie died in October, 1981, a glorious autumn of crisp days and brilliant sunshine. The leaves were at the peak of changing colours. Every time I went outside I was struck by the contrast between the great beauty of the outer world and the deep sadness I felt within.

The day after his death, I awoke to an image of Donnie as a sad little boy. I can't say whether I actually "saw" him, or just had a vision of him in my mind's eye.

Right after his funeral, one of my friends asked me, "Does this shake your faith in God?" I could honestly answer, "No. In fact it seems to have brought me closer to God."

I had wanted to do something nice for Krissie, so I decided to take her out and buy her a maternity dress to wear to the funeral. The maternity shop was small, so I stood off to the side while the saleslady helped Krissie. I noticed another woman fingering clothes on the rack. I had an overwhelming desire to go over, touch her arm and say, "Do you know that your life is important?"

As we left the shop, I was aware of all the people on the street. I wanted to touch them and tell them their lives were precious, too. Driving home I was struck by love and compassion for everyone I passed. I wanted to hug them and say, "Do you have any idea how important your life is?" Rather than make me lose faith, Donnie's death increased my capacity to feel everything deeply — sorrow, compassion, love, joy.

Three months later, my mother and I were with Krissie when she gave birth. She had been in labour for 17 hours when the doctor decided she needed a cesarean section. Mom and I were waiting outside the operating room when a nurse brought out a little bundle wrapped in pink and laid her in my arms. I wept tears of joy that night. That little bundle has grown up to be a beautiful, intelligent, happily married young woman.

Krissie remarried when her daughter was 6, and had another daughter with her second husband. Donnie's three teenage children went back to live with their aunt and uncle on Prince Edward Island, where they had been before Donnie got custody of them.

In the days, weeks and months following his funeral, many people told me how deeply affected they were by Donnie's death. It's almost as if by dying the way he did, he touched more people than he might have if he had lived a long life. It's almost as if he gave us a gift, as if his death made us stop and reflect on what is important in life — only this, that we love and care for each other now, while we still have the chance.

Carol Marquis lives in Toronto.