A father’s memoir of his son’s suicide

[Editor’s note: Phil Zwart of Estes Park took one of Elisabeth Sherwin’s memoir classes which she conducts at the Estes Park Rec Center. Sherwin reached out to the Estes Valley Voice to ask if we would be interested in publishing some writings of participants. This is a moving account of a father’s experience in grieving for a son who died 30 years ago. Memoir is a powerful form of narrative that can serve to both preserve a memory and help both a writer and a reader to cope with a painful life experience. September is recognized as National Suicide Prevention Month by the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Suicide is a terribly difficult thing for a family to face. If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, the national suicide hotline is 988. Support is available in English and Spanish.]

Barbara and I lost David to suicide 33 years ago. He was 31.

Our family loved David deeply. Barbara and our daughters, Christine and Donna, were affected more than I. Barbara was close to David. I remember my mother being very close to my brother, Donald, who took his own life at 36. She never fully recovered. And my mother’s mother was devastated when my mother’s sister, Lucille, took her own life at 28. The loss of a child, at any age, is hardest on the mother.

This memoir is about David, losing him and its effect on me.

Barbara called me at the office in Richardson, Texas. A policeman had come to the house. Our son was found dead. Barbara thought it must be Dan, our oldest, who is schizophrenic.

No, it was David, who was finishing his Ph.D. in microbiology.

Friends at work offered to drive me home. I drove myself. Barbara and I talked.  Then we talked with Christine and Donna. We could not make sense of it. Christine went to the morgue and, in spite of some aggressive insistence, she was not permitted to view his body.

The first half of David’s doctoral dissertation had been accepted for publication.  He was putting finishing touches on the second half. He was in love with Dinette, a fellow student. But she was breaking up with him. Also, he had expressed to Barbara some disillusionment with continuing his research in cell biology.

A month or so after his death, our fears were confirmed. The autopsy showed he had taken poison to end his own life. There was no note. I couldn’t believe it.  David was positive, talented and loved by more than just his family. How could he do something so foolish?

At the memorial service at the Presbyterian church, we all took turns standing in the sanctuary and talking about David. Barbara said that nothing had value to her after such a loss. Anyone could come to our home and take anything.

That evening, I remember feeling certain that I would never laugh again and would never enjoy music again. I accepted that those pleasures were gone from my life. I was wrong. Within a few days, as we drove to St. Louis for David’s second funeral, I was able to enjoy music on the radio.

David was buried in a family plot in Alton, Illinois. He was near my brother, Donald, and my mother’s sister, Lucille. As he was lowered into the ground, we all said together “Goodbye, David. We love you. Our hearts are with you till we meet again in another life.”

Growing up, David was a typical boy. A lively, fun-loving, good-looking redhead.  Though sometimes a bit of a troublemaker. In fifth grade, he and a friend stole the principal’s keys to all the school’s locks. A big shakeup at the school. They managed to return them a couple of days later without getting caught.

Early on, he was capable of full commitment to an undertaking. I remember David at the back of our station wagon returning to Dallas from one of our many trips to St. Louis. He was sick with the flu and throwing up in a pot. But he continued working on a school project.

He had some hidden underlying depression. We later learned that at 12, he was interested in opening the crescent-shaped window in his third story bedroom. He wanted to dive onto a side porch to end his life. In his early teens, he found that alcohol could overcome depression and that never changed for him. He hid his depression well. Was always upbeat.

We had good times. Family gatherings, where we might laugh so hard that we almost fell to the floor. Plenty of camping, hiking, seeing great views, telling stories as we fell asleep together in our small popup camper. At Rocky Mountain National Park, we would start hiking in the afternoon and come back down in the dark and be the last customers at Ed’s Cantina. We were plenty hungry and fully ready to happily reminisce about that day.

David had his ups and downs. Dropped out of high school, worked as a sheet rocker, shared an apartment with a guy who died of a drug overdose. Then he improved. Got his G.E.D.  At Texas A&M, he went from a straight A student to a straight F student when he broke up with his girlfriend of a year or two. She had moved from Dallas to be with him. Eventually, he straightened up, graduated in biology, and went on to graduate study at U.T. Southwestern, where he was offered a dual Ph.D./M.D. program, but chose research only. David was voted by faculty as the student most likely to make a major contribution to science. He was well liked by fellow students.

He was in great physical condition. I loved his hugs. Feeling those solid pecs and shoulders on his slender body.

He had plenty of humour. One of his birthday cards for Barbara said, “I’m sure you’ve thought of it a few times, but thanks for not running away.” The large dish of loose change on his dresser had a sign “Don’t even think about it! I know how much is here and I check it every day.”

David’s fellow graduate students convinced the university to place a memorial plaque and tree on campus near an egret rookery. During the summer evenings and mornings, hundreds of white egrets would glide in and out of the heavily wooded area. I spoke at the dedication ceremony near the memorial. Everyone joined me in reading a goodbye note to David.

I used to stop by the memorial and leave flowers. Every month for a while, then less and less often. One time there were a few kids playing basketball in the nearby covered courts. A couple of the pre-teen girls were interested in what I was doing. We talked a bit. As I left, they asked if they could take some of the flowers. I said “No, the flowers are for David.” How thoughtless I was. Just not thinking very clearly in those days.  Certainly, some of the flowers would be better used by living people. Anyway, I’m sure they took the flowers after I left.

I missed hugging David. Sometimes I would impulsively stop driving and hug any nearby tree with a trunk as big around as David. Talking to him. It worked for me.

I think of myself as a sensible technical person who does not believe in spirits or miracles. That changed after David died. If I saw someone from the back that matched David’s build, I tried to catch up with him and see if it was David. If I saw a small white pickup truck like David drove, I would speed up and try to look at the driver to see if it was David. I hoped that somehow, for who knows what reason, David was actually still alive.

In Dallas, an organization called “Survivors of Suicide” or “S.O.S.” was very helpful to us. I think it is a national organization. We joined one of their groups of folks who had recently lost someone to suicide. We met for a couple of hours one evening per week for 10 weeks. We would tell our stories at the meetings.  And there was a leader who offered guidance.

Sharing with others who were open and sympathetic helped us accept our experience. I remember a lively woman whose parents committed a joint suicide. One evening she told us about showing a bartender a picture of her smiling parents and saying “Look at my parents. Don’t they look happy.  Well, they shot themselves.”  And many of us busted out laughing, thinking of how the bartender must have felt. That was our first relaxing moment together. 

A couple we had dinner with after one of the meetings had a teenage daughter who wanted to take her own life. They kept her locked in her room. But somehow, she got out and got a gun and that was it.

The leader warned us all not to resort to alcohol. I ignored that. Every evening, I had a strong Manhattan before dinner and a beer with dinner.  Maybe sometimes I overdid it. I never underdid it. It got me through.

At the end of the set of weekly meetings, we went on to attend monthly meetings of a combined group. After a while we stopped going to the meetings. Guess we were partially fixed by then. Of course, we were never totally fixed.

My best dream, ever, occurred a few months after David’s death. The scene was in front of my childhood home. I grew up in a middle-class neighbourhood of one-and-two-story houses on a tree-lined street with curb side parking. In my dream, I was in front of my house and spotted David in the second story window, hammering and making repairs to the window frame. He glanced down at me and smiled and waved. I couldn’t believe it. There he was. Alive! I fell on my knees on the sidewalk, crying and thanking God. It seemed to go on and on. Then I woke up. Tears running down my cheeks. I kept my eyes closed and tried to return to the dream. I tried to make the dream happen again the next few nights but could not.

Eventually, we all adapted. Barbara, Christine, and Donna were much slower than I. After four months or so, I was striding into the office and said “Morning Sarah” to our receptionist. She replied “Good morning, Phil. I can tell you’re doing much better today.” I was surprised, but realized she was probably right. I was doing much better.

More than 30 years later, I still think of David. And it hurts. I am adapting, but his memory is not fading with time.