Month: September 2025

On the month each year that is devoted to the awareness and prevention of suicide, the irony of my story is that it’s the same month my husband ended his life. Mark’s story is so painful for all of us who loved him that it has been, to date, daunting to even try to talk about prevention without enormous guilt for what was out of our control.

When you are suddenly thrust into the club whose name is only spoken in a whisper, you find out quickly that you have plenty of company. Both of my sisters have had family members on their spouse’s side that died by their own hand. While working in the back room of a retail job I had after Mark died, a coworker who heard about my story confided to me that her sister died by suicide, another an ex-boyfriend, the sons of two dear friends – one before Mark and the other after. The list is long and always heartbreaking.

I only have my own experience and am not qualified to make public service announcements, but I do have some thoughts regarding changes I wish for around discussions about suicide. First, please please please stop saying committed suicide. While there are all kinds of self-inflicted causes of death, there is no other kind where the word committed precedes it. Saying died by suicide feels far less shameful, and for someone in my shoes, like you are not judging or casting scorn on the death of someone whose back story and struggles you do not know.

Secondly, mimicking shooting yourself in the head, slitting your wrists, or any number of ways a person can die by suicide is not funny. There are far more people who have lived in the aftermath of these kinds of deaths than you can imagine- family, acquaintenances, strangers, and first responders to name a few. The horror of losing someone you love in that manner is a trauma shared by people who were merely going about their day or doing their job. It is painful to see it displayed as a joke. At the very least know your audience.

Third, if you love someone who is struggling with their mental health help them get professional counseling. After Mark’s death I felt nagged into seeing a therapist but had no idea who to contact nor the energy to follow through. Months later I finally reached out to a friend who worked in student counseling at the same medical center as Mark and her boss gave me a name. I went into a conference room at work and my shaking hands could barely push each number. When someone actually answered I immediately felt like I was going to throw up. In Mark’s case, casting him out to navigate finding the right therapist was unsustainable given his demons and the pain of growing up in a family that never acknowledged their own or that they passed them down to their two kids. In my case, I desperately needed help finding someone who specialized in grief. If anyone would have offered to do some homework on my behalf it would have helped immensely.

Finally, there’s this story. Many years ago Mallory was working at a restaurant during her college years and was at the hostess stand wiping off menus. One of the other hosts arrived for his shift and she started chatting with him. He was usually quiet and introverted and she was hoping to get him to open up a bit or at the very least make him laugh. Sometime later he told her that he had decided that he was going to kill himself later that day but that she seemed like she really cared how he was doing so he decided to stay.

Not every story like that ends happily but it is a stunning example of the power each of us have to prevent the tragedy my beautiful family (and so many others) have lived with for years. We really can change the trajectory of someone’s life when we care enough to carry their tender heart in the safety of our hands for a brief moment.

For many, many years in the shopping center in my neighborhood was a family owned drug store. It carried everything you could imagine including an interesting makeup section. I was working at a women’s clothing store around the corner when a customer told me about a moisturizer they carried. “It’s made by a small company and nobody else in town carries it. It’s a steal at $25 – go get yourself some. You won’t regret it.” That’s how I got to know the manager of the cosmetics department who gave me the details of that product along with many others that they carried. At night an older woman took over that section. She was close to 90, still worked full-time, and always the later shift because she was a night owl. “Soon as I get off here, honey,” she said to me one night, “I head home, stop at QuikTrip and get myself a nice big soda, and then do my crossword puzzles.” If you lived close by (they checked your license) and were sick the pharmacists would fill one bottle a year of cough syrup with codeine without a prescription. It was quite the perk.

Several years ago and in what seemed abruptly, the drug store closed. At the time I was working at an art museum and was talking to the gift shop manager about it. She told me that she worked there with the manager I had gotten to know and that they both started in high school. “She never left that job,” she told me, “it’s the only place she has ever worked.”

Last month a grocery store nearby announced that it would be closing. I used to go there all the time and was familiar with many of the employees. There was a bagger who had been there for years who hated bagging. One time when I was checking out he said that he had to go in the parking lot to corral carts. The cashier said to him, “No you’re not. You just did that. You’re going to stay here and bag this lady’s groceries,” which made him furious. There was another cashier who nearly always worked the express checkout near the front door and talked to every person who walked through. Her greetings were so genuine that you couldn’t help but immediately like her and look forward to seeing her. She died suddenly and you could feel the sadness of her coworkers for months. Her death made the local news, her photograph was displayed near the register she always worked, and a donation fund was set up for her surviving son.

After the store made the announcement that they were closing I stopped in twice. The butchers were mostly absent and there were no stockers cutting open boxes and filling the shelves. It had the feel of a place whose time had passed. At the same time a clothing store I loved announced that they were closing. I had shopped there many times – mostly when things were on sale as it was expensive. I was familiar with a few of the people who worked there. I talked to one of the sales associates about it, how closing a store could be emotional as customers come to pay their condolences as much as shop the deals. At some point you just want it to be over.

At work our usual mailman hasn’t been doing the route and everyone wants to know if he has been replaced. The new guy has no idea. The dropoff of packages from the UPS man are completely different when our regular guy is on vacation. I love our mailman at the house – he is so friendly, looks like he could be in ZZ Top, and who I am leery of being replaced. The butchers at the grocery store nearby ask, “Chicken again,” when I walk up to the counter. Michael said that when he goes to the coffee shop in his building they start filling his order when they see him coming.

I’ve been walking in the park earlier than usual and have recently come across an older woman using a walker as she traverses the path. As it has gotten a bit cooler in the morning, she is there wearing long pants, a sweatshirt, and knit cap on her head. The other day I started talking to her. She told me where she lived, that she and her husband bought the house she’s been in for decades because it was within walking distance of the Catholic school her son went to. He was afraid of the bus so they fixed that problem by moving close enough that he never needed to ride a school bus again. “I decided I needed to start moving more,” she told me, “so every day I’m trying to make it over here and am meeting the nicest people.” “Oh yes,” I told her. “I’ve been walking this park for years and there are lots of regulars here.”

Seeing her these past two weeks has been the highlight of my mornings because she reminds me so much of my mom who used to walk several times a day. I want to tell her that but I also don’t want to scare her off so I head out, hope I run into her, and wish on the morning sun that the other regulars in my life whose brief and steady presence I took for granted have all landed on their feet.

Dear Mark,

This week marks seven years since you died. In the early years after your death, I used to say that it felt like you were here yesterday and a thousand years ago. Now it only seems like the latter. I have recently been following the online account of a man who lost his husband a few months ago. I recognize the raw and unrelenting pain he has of losing his partner. I think anyone who has lived through that, regardless of the years that have passed, can attest to the fact that the pain can surface to the top very easily. I often want to reply to his stories – to say that somehow things start to get better, that grief lessens its clutch. I never do, though, because how do you tell someone that it really never ends, that you slowly manage to fill in the space around you until it no longer feels like it’s going to kill you.

The world of science, your world that you loved so much, has been decimated. I told the kids that even though it sounds horrible to say out loud I am glad you aren’t around to witness what is happening. Charlatans you would call them, and they are even worse than that. Michael and many, many others are fighting the good fight day after day but everything that has been done will take decades to undo. I miss your calm explanations of how science research works and how you could counter most arguments with facts readily at your disposal. Ever since Covid people rely on that one high school chemistry class they took in high school and YouTube hacks for their information. The ignorance is laughable except when it’s your life’s work. If you were here, it would break your heart.

Yesterday I was in the backyard at the house looking to see what plants I could find to move over to mine and Michael’s. Lo and behold there were morning glorys growing. After you died I never could get them to grow again and there they were this year – bright and happy and tangled around the roses.

Like you, Mark, still tangled in the lives of me, our kids, and everyone who loved you. Your death will reverberate forever but for what seems like a minute I could call you mine. That was my favorite part.

love,
k.

****************************

Dad,

The days after you passed were the darkest, coldest days of my life. One of those days was rainy and gloomy. I looked out the window and saw life carrying on and something caught my eye. The hummingbirds were braving the heavy rain and flocking to the feeder. Seeing one always feels like a rare occurrence and on that day it felt like a sign from you – a way to freeze the moment and breathe.

As the years have gone by I often think about my future. What does it look like? Who will I be? In those questions there is always another one that follows. What would it look like if you were here? Where would you be?

My future became a blur this past year and I’ve had to rethink everything and rewrite what it looks like. But I’ve rebuilt myself and refilled the hummingbird feeder. At first it took awhile for them to come back. Now I see them almost every day, and when I see the hummingbird I instantly stop and watch – putting my future on hold for just a moment to be with you.

Will