I love looking at photos of my father when he was young. His smile was warm and vibrant. His bright brown eyes full of mischief, happiness and a true zest for life.
When I hear stories about him, people always talk about his big personality, his kindness and genuineness. I remember him that way too. We had a special bond. I was his little girl.
The photos of my dad leading up to his suicide sadly tell a very different story. They show a disheveled, vacant man who looked nothing like the father that watched Aquaman with me in the morning, eating cereal before he left for work or who took me on the Ferris wheel at the carnival.
There are photos where I’m trying to connect with him, sitting next to him or handing him a present. His pain visible and palpable, I’m not sure he knew I was there or that his picture was being taken.
I was five years old when he died in 1974 at the age of 29. In those days suicide was not talked about like it is today. It carried a horrible stigma. Today we say he died by suicide which is so much more forgiving and human. Back then my dad committed suicide—rooting his actions in sin, selfishness and immorality while exacerbating shame, guilt and loneliness for those left behind.
When I was told that my dad died, my mother said, he was tired from going to the New York City market to buy produce for his stores. He pulled over to the side of the road, left the car running for warmth and died because he fell asleep with the car running.
While not entirely false, I would come to find out many years later people recognized he was deeply sad and depressed in the days before his death.
Even worse, people in this small community saw him on the side of the road looking despondent. Instead of stopping to check on him, they went to their destination and called my mother telling her they saw him on the side of the road. (Remember there were no cell phones in those days to call on the spot.)
My mother at 28 did what any young person would do. She called both sets of my grandparents for help. Her father (my maternal grandfather) told her to call the state police to intervene and pick him up. She then called my dad’s father (my paternal grandfather) who told her not to call because as a business owner in our small town of Peekskill, New York, he didn’t want the scandal.
My father spent the night of October 16, 1974, alone on the edge of life and death listening to Carly Simon’s eight-track “No Secrets” before he succumbed. He was found at around 9:15 a.m. the next morning.
After I learned the truth of what happened and how it happened, I was livid and angry for a very long time. I didn’t blame my dad for his actions but my mother, my paternal grandfather and all the people that saw him and left him there to die.
Many years of therapy as an adult taught me it wasn’t anyone’s fault and that often times when you are abandoned by one parent, it’s normal to blame the parent who stayed.
The reality—there was nobody to blame. I’ll never know why my dad decided to die and really it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t change the outcome.
Blaming others and the anger only kept me down, stifled and a prisoner of the past. I know the 70’s were a different time where people didn’t speak about so many things—but hid their pain and trauma. I also know from talking to family members and his best friend that people never thought my dad would even consider taking his own life. For them, it was out of the realm of possibility.
Unfortunately, because of many high-profile suicides from people we’d never expect to be suffering like Robin Williams and the rise in anxiety, depression and other mental health challenges over the years, we know it happens quiet frequently and continues to rise.
My dad and I had a shared love of music during our brief time together. We used to sing Mickey’s Monkey’s together by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles. He bought me my first 45 record, Sammy Davis Jr’s The Candy Man.
Having never had the chance to say good-bye to my dad, I listened often to that Carly Simon 8-track that was in the car with him.
There was a song I always believed was a message for me.
“Embrace me you child.
You’re a child of mine.
And I’m leaving everything I am to you.”
There was a weight in that message I carried around with me. I always felt compelled to succeed and be an overachiever so that he would look down and be proud of me. Again, thanks to therapy I’ve cast off that anchor.
In a positive way, I believe through the experience of living with the events of my dad’s death, I try to really see people and help others in small ways. I notice people—even strangers. I ask how they’re doing. I let them know they matter on the regular.
One day I was in Bed Bath and Beyond. It was around Easter several years ago. My husband Michael and I were celebrating with family at our home, and I needed a few last-minute things to prepare.
I gave an enthusiastic hello to Peter, my cashier. He grunted back a weak hello.
I asked him, “How are you doing today?” As Peter put my tablecloth in my bag he looked up and said, “If you want to know the truth, I’m not good at all.”
I was clearly not expecting this confession but could feel his pain.
I said, “I’m so sorry to hear that, Peter. I know you don’t know me, but do you want to talk about it? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
He said, “No thanks. There’s just a lot happening.” I nodded and said I understood.
As he handed me my receipt, I said, “Peter, thank you for being here today. I’m glad I met you. You matter to me. I won’t forget you and will remember you in my prayers.”
With tears in his eyes, he simply said, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
I never saw Peter again. I can only hope that all these years later he’s way on the other side of whatever was happening and in a much better place. I also hope that perhaps I was able to make a small difference to him in that moment.
We sing a song I love in our gospel choir at Spiritus Christi Church called My Worship is for Real. We sang it yesterday as a matter of fact. The beginning of the song starts:
You don’t know my story.
All the things that I’ve been through.
You can’t feel my pain what I’ve had to go through to get here.
I think about those words when I get frustrated or aggravated with people. At the end of the day, we all fight battles nobody knows anything about.
May is Mental Health Awareness month. Please take the opportunity when you can to be the difference for those you love, work with and perhaps someone you don’t know. Have the persistent courage to take a moment to look beyond your busyness, phone, and problems. Be the light for another. Your small act of kindness just might save a life.
Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best.
You can never do kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.
“As he handed me my receipt, I said, “Peter, thank you for being here today. I’m glad I met you. You matter to me. I won’t forget you and will remember you in my prayers.”” Sondra this is such a generous and remarkable moment. I admire how you took the conversation past the point where we, or at least I, usually stop. Thank you for teaching us how to move these conversations from the past to the profound and remind someone they’re worthy and appreciated. And thank you for sharing the story of how your father died by suicide and how you’ve contended with you grief. Beautiful 💛
Sondra, this really is beautiful! You are so right…times are different and we can speak easier about topics. I can only imagine your dad’s anguish. We just never know what someone else is going thru. We all need to be kind to each other.