Tag: suicide

September Sadness

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Over the weekend, I learned that one of Nick’s (my older son’s) high school buddies from the late 1990s/early 2000s, died recently of an apparent suicide. He was forty-two years old.

The timing of this devastating event for his family and friends has dredged up another dose of September sadness for me.

***

In September 2023, Tom and I received a letter in the mail from a close friend, who–less than a year before–had moved from the Phoenix area to another part of the country. I’ll call this friend Brett.

Brett’s snail-mail message was an eerie, lengthy, desperate, and personal admission–typed and folded meticulously. In it, Brett recounted a series of voluntary testosterone injections that messed with his body and mind.

He told us: ” … I had consulted with several friends in the medical field, all of whom told me there were no side effects to these testosterone injections and it would raise my numbers. Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be true … and it destroyed me forever.”

I know how much Brett cared for Tom and me, and we certainly listened and cared for him. “Our talks on our hikes always inspired me,” he went on to say. He told us he wished he had made better decisions in his new hometown.

When Tom and I finished reading the letter, we both felt dumbfounded. So much so that Tom ran a search on Brett’s full name. Brett’s obituary popped up.

Through a few subsequent texts and phone calls, we discovered Brett had committed suicide.

Evidently, Brett had left a short stack of letters to close friends in his home. Soon after he died, a member of his family mailed them.

In late September 2023, we heard from one of his brothers. He told us Brett had spoken highly of us. We told him how much we cared about Brett, and how frequently he mentioned his love for his family.

We sent him pictures of Brett, Tom and me banging on drums at the Musical Instrument Museum in Scottsdale. It was a fun day in May 2021, though you couldn’t see our smiles. We were wearing masks. It was the height of Covid.

We will never know the full detail of what happened to Brett or why he felt he had no recourse but to take his life. But, with time, Tom and I became acquainted with Brett’s mother and sister, too.

I am certain that talking with us about Brett provided much-needed comfort, but I can’t presume to know the devastation of what they feel when Brett’s birthday appears on the calendar every January … or when this day–September 8–reignites the fire of grief.

It is an endless nightmare.

***

Depression doesn’t only emanate from one man’s worries over his testosterone levels.

The division in our country in 2026 boggles the mind. So many people live in fear and isolation as our nation’s government–and many of the institutions we once trusted–breeds disarray, pain, anxiety, and uncertainty.

If you know someone who is struggling mightily, I encourage you to reach out to them and lend a listening ear.

Or, if that person in pain is you, please know that you matter. Help is available around the clock.

Call or text 988 to be connected to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Do it for yourself. Do it for Brett.

Whether you are facing mental health struggles, emotional distress, alcohol or drug related concerns, or just need to talk with someone, a caring counselor will provide confidential emotional support.

Remember, you are not alone.

A lone blue heron stands at the water’s edge at Chaparral Lake in Scottsdale, Arizona.

No Walk in the Park

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On a regular basis, all of us encounter unexpected small and large obstacles.

One day, they may be as fixable as a “low tire pressure” warning light that illuminates on the dashboard.

The next, something far more unimaginable, unexplainable and unrepairable. Like learning of the apparent suicide of a forty-three-year-old friend, who seemed to embody the definition of vitality.

It was simple to stop at Discount Tire to ask an attendant to increase the air pressure in our tires. (The cooler desert temperatures must have deflated them.)

It will take much longer–time, space, and reflection–for Tom and me to process Chad’s demise.

I’ve often thought that resiliency is one of the most important human characteristics to cultivate.

It is our ability to cope, process, manage, and emote our way through or around life’s setbacks that defines our longevity. This latest loss confirms my belief.

These observations surfaced this morning during a walk in the park in my community. At Chaparral Park in Scottsdale, Arizona to be precise.

My husband and I had just finished our yoga class. Afterwards, he wanted to lift a few weights in the gym.

I opted for stretching my legs on my own under a few puffy clouds that dotted Arizona’s wide-open October sky.

Near the midpoint of my walk a fit couple jogged up as I waited for the light to turn green at Chaparral and Hayden roads. One of them admired my shirt.

“You must be in the medical profession,” he gestured toward the beating heart I wore proudly.

“No, I’m a heart attack survivor,” I explained. “I helped raise money for the American Heart Association.”

They smiled and wished me well. Then, they dashed off when the WALK sign turned white.

It was a simple exchange, a reminder of a trauma I experienced and wrote about which now feels way off in the rearview mirror.

But those few sentences with two sympathetic strangers infused me with a renewed appreciation for my personal resiliency.

No doubt, it’s a quality I observed in my mother, a saver and survivor. She always described herself as a child of the Depression.

It’s also a trait I began to mine in my thirties after my divorce. A strength I’ve fine-tuned on countless treadmills since suffering a mild heart attack six-plus years ago on my sixtieth birthday.

I have no regrets regarding my friendship with Chad, but I wish he would have called Tom or me before he made his worst and most irreversible decision.

I would have told him that while life is no walk in the park, it is always worth the fight. To find a skilled therapist. To dig deep on the darkest days. To survive the pain. To accept our losses.

To embrace each and every day we are granted. To reach out for love and hope. To live to see tomorrow.