I don't think I'll ever forget the moment my life changed forever. Alwina Bennett, assistant provost for graduate student affairs pulled me aside at the first event of Senior Week. She touched my shoulder lightly. "It's about Bernard." I knew right then what she would say but I still fell to the floor of Levin Ballroom in shock.Bernard Herman, a former member of the class of 2008, committed suicide on May 12, 2007. He was one of my best friends. He was unlike anyone I've ever known. This column, however, is not a eulogy for Bernard. Each person who knew him can and will remember him in his or her own way, and, anyway, he was probably the only one who possessed the sufficient vocabulary to do his character justice.

It's what followed Bernard's death that I will talk about. Death itself is strange, puzzling and sad, but suicide compounds all that. Being in the midst of such a tragedy, I was able to learn a lot about love, grief, friendship, myself, and most of all, people in general.

I was asked a lot of questions following his death. An incredulous acquaintance of mine approached me and said, "Cindy, I never knew Bernard, but I was looking at his Facebook profile, and we have 'X' in common, and, well, what do you think that means?" Quite honestly, I don't know, but probably nothing. What should I have said? I thought that it was beautiful that she was moved and affected by someone so close to my heart, but at the same time I was frustrated that she, and many others, thought I would have all the answers. I'm struggling with questions of my own. For instance, how is possible that Bernard will never find the perfect woman I'd helped him search for? How will his book get published if he never finishes writing it?

The most common question was, "How did he do it?" That was easy to answer and I developed a little speech that I must have given 50 times this summer until the point when it stopped seeming real. This was inevitably followed by the question, "Did you know?" to which I responded, "Yes." Many of his close friends knew, but that doesn't mean we didn't try to stop it. I feel that we kept him going for at least three months when he didn't want to be alive anymore.

"How do you feel?" was another popular one. I would answer, "It's different for everyone, but for me, it feels really weird". A friend of mine told me to say "weird" whenever I was asked that question. It's hard to describe the sinking stomach, racing thoughts and paranoia that one feels after a loved one dies. Equally difficult to put into words is the gratitude I feel for getting to know someone so wonderful, as well as the distress I feel for picking a friend who would later kill himself. All the while I feel an indescribable sense of loneliness because it doesn't feel like anyone else is feeling all of this at once and the constant voice of Bernard is in my head telling me to listen to old advice he gave me. It's hard to describe all of that and keep the listener's attention, so it simply feels "weird."

Before Bernard committed suicide, I know I would have asked someone in my position all of those questions. I would have been the person thinking "Oh god, can you imagine?" I was that person. When Bernard's father killed himself in May 2006, that's what I thought about Bernard. The "how must he feels" and the "how did it happens" were running through my head then.

I think all of these questions are just a byproduct of suicide, because the unnaturalness of the act is too hard to grasp. What people forget is that suicide, when you get down to it, is just another form of death. You wouldn't ask someone who lost a relative or close friend to cancer, "Since we have something in common, will I get cancer, too?" People wouldn't talk about it in hushed voices, and look towards the bereaved for answers. They'd accept that there are no answers.

There's something about suicide that's almost sickly entertaining because of its absurdity. I understand that completely. As a writer of fiction, I've thrown suicide into stories to give characters more depth. I've discovered the captivating nature of it.

But now, suicide doesn't really mean more to me than "You won't ever see your best friend again." I don't wonder if I pushed him over the edge, and don't feel like I wasn't good enough to stick around for. I don't feel unloved and I don't think Bernard felt unloved. Bernard died and that means I'm more sad and empty, and more aware of how important it is that I live. After the heat of the issue fades, Bernard's friends still don't have him. I am grieving for a dead friend, and that is the only answer I can give.

The writer is a member of the Class of 2008