I don’t remember much about you, Dad, but you are
my focus in this attempt to reflect on the moment everything changed. Many of
my friends and loved ones need to understand what suicide will do to a child
for the rest of their life.
Snapshots of the man I knew until I turned 16 are
often random, quirky moments that carry no significance beyond their proof that
we were together at some point. As far as I know, relating to children was
difficult for you. I just fell into your same routine, doing things you would
do even when I was not around. A Yankee game blaring on the television while
you cooked up a bluefish we reeled in earlier that day. Of course, we must have
visited the ballpark a time or two. I don’t remember any of those trips. Our
story is stuck on one random day you cooked bluefish.
You taught me how to play pinochle down at the
Half Crown. I am still an excellent bad pinochle player. My strategy is solid,
but I get lost trying to total the melds. I don’t remember who else played or
what I drank. It was probably just soda—what else would they serve a kid as he
sat at the end of a bar with his dad?
We were jogging out in Pelham Bay Park the day I
first told you I started an application to West Point. You seemed proud, but I
remember your reaction was somewhere along the lines of, “That’s a tough place
to get into. Don’t get your hopes up too high.” I don’t remember my response,
but I did not listen, instead putting all my eggs in that one basket. You would
have been so proud watching every step of my journey.
Only a handful of other memories bounce around in
my head. TBI from a car accident when I was 25, multiple sclerosis, and time
washed most of my recall, leaving only translucent whispers.
Of course, I have pictures. Not as many as I
should. Grandma died three years before you (I remember nothing about her death
or funeral). In the throes of whatever demons you faced, all the history from
your side of our family ended up in the trash. Those photos Mom kept after your
divorce are my proof you existed, evidence that I once lived a vibrant and
happy childhood.
Gaps in my memory are toxic soil where nothing
grows. Surrounded by beautiful images of your granddaughter and troves of magical
experiences that I struggle every day to keep is that wasteland. Its voids are peppered
with arbitrary traces of times abandoned for unknown reasons. That is where you
exist because we have planted nothing new since October 8, 1988.
One memory I wish would fade is seven minutes of
that day. I feel like it happened this morning.
You looked so peaceful when I walked into your
bedroom. Serenity was my first warning.
“Dad?”
I called out twice in a hushed tone, hoping you
overslept and forgot we were supposed to get together that Saturday morning. I
don’t recall what we planned, but I remember your haunting image, face-down under
the covers. Your left calf was stiff to my touch. I still see the horrifying
kaleidoscope of blood and chunks splayed from your left temple when I lifted
the pristine powder blue pillow used to muffle the gunshot. I never looked for
the .38 nestled in your right hand. A single bullet hole in the wall was enough
confirmation. I dropped the pillow and sat alongside your body. It is the
single most peaceful moment I have ever experienced.
“When did you start to lose memories?”
“When did constant noise and chaos first flood
your mind?”
If I had an answer to the first, I might piece
together the second. The best I can say is that at some point soon after
October 8, 1988, I began to run. Perhaps that was the moment I started to purge
memories.
Maybe not.
My entire life is a consequence of that crisp
fall morning. As much as I continue to deny any claim that I am a victim, that my
poor choices and their repercussions are not the results of that first brush
with horror, what you did put a silent exclamation point on everything I have
been since the day you committed suicide. It took me 35 years to come to grips
with this reality.
Here is the message I need to share.
I wish my curiosity had turned into questions
rather than fear when I was a younger man. “Why?” would have sparked
conversation. Many people offered to help me search for answers, but I rejected
their outreach. Terrifying images became my nightmares that triggered a fight-or-flight
response. There is nothing about your suicide that I can fight—there never was.
Instead, I jumped from one life to the next with little disregard for what or
who I left in my wake. For more years than I care to admit, I ran. Unfortunately,
those foolish mistakes are the times my mind chose to keep.
The image I cherish is not the man who thought he
had wasted his best chances for happiness. Among scattered shadows that stare
back at me and say, “Hold on to that memory,” I keep photographs on my
refrigerator. They serve as reminders, challenging me to recall the sights,
sounds, other senses, and emotions from those days. The irony is that your
picture is from over three years before I was born.
The face I see is a man I never knew, one who would become the faint image still in my mind. It is your file photograph from when you joined the NYPD, on your way to a noble career serving the people of New York City. You were young, strong, and confident. I sometimes wonder if you were excited about the future. You accomplished so much in your lifetime, achieving marks that still leave you in the superhero category of my heart. Did you think you had overcome your turbulent past? I look at your picture and smile because I want to believe it was a good day. To my friends, I say this: What memory you pick does not matter. Hold close something that was good.
The last thing I need to do is remember there
were many bad days to follow. I don’t know what you could have done to
change your outcome, but I don’t think you tried hard enough. The bottles left
behind, the prescription meds collected in excess, and the relationships you
shunned in favor of distractions did not ease your pain. They only pulled you
closer to the day you left a bloody corpse in a bed for your 16-year-old son to
find. We both traveled dark paths, but the image of your last bad day was a
blessed reminder in 2003. It forced me to reach out to loved ones for a
lifeline. It forced me to talk. I don’t know how many more bad days I could have
endured, but you showed me how emotional pain only worsens when it’s not
treated. I no longer have an obscene collection of discarded bottles or
medications. I’m trying to not shun relationships, even if my life is still an
avalanche of distractions meant to ease the agony.
Sometimes, I try to wish things were different. I
wish you had a chance to meet your granddaughter, to hold all five of your
grandkids. I wish my daughter knew you as “Grandpa” or “Pop-Pop” and not just
“your dad.” But that is not the case, and there is nothing I can do to change
the past, so I move on. I want more than lost opportunities.
October 8 is a Sunday this year. It will be a day
I never wanted to describe until I discovered the power of my words. Now that I
have finished our story, your memory will once again sit silent in my heart and
mind.
For the first time, Rogue and I will ride
together at bike MS on September 23. I’m trying to change something I don’t
understand. She knows many of my demons—I never met yours. She sees my body
weakened and struggling—I only remember the confidence of a man who never
faltered. I will continue to be the dorky dad, showing up in her world no
matter how out of place I may feel—you only invited me into your routines, unable
to see life through the eyes of a child. I don’t want to kill myself—I don’t
think that was your plan. Hopefully, I will be enough to end our cycle.
My reaction to your suicide, those gripping
emotions that are impossible to share, turned to inspiration. “What if you
could capture and re-create sensations?” I answered that question with my next
story. With a smirk on my lips, I chose to release Sensations on October 8, 2023. Selfish promotion? Lemonade out of
lemons? Perhaps, but stories are the only way I can illustrate my turmoil.
My
favorites are those based on the utter confusion in my head that I just can’t
quite accurately describe; the alternate fantasy world became a surrogate for
the chaos I was unable to express otherwise. (“Chaos”
2018)
I am going to take full advantage of our mistakes
and pain. I earned that.
On that Sunday, I travel home from my 30th West
Point reunion, where I will have celebrated that milestone with my beloved
classmates. They embrace me, though I remember very little of our time
together. Two days earlier marks 24 years since I first read the words
“possible multiple sclerosis” on my lonely drive back from a Korean hospital.
Just like October 8, 1988, just like October 6,
1999, my mind races today with the thought of, “What’s next?”
Many more bad days are sure to follow, but I hold
on to the memories of everything good. The fear that builds in me will become questions,
thoughts, and stories I share with the world.
If your story helps one person, if mine brings someone a single night of comfort, our mistakes were not in vain.
Please consider a donation of support for Rogue and Kevin, riding together in Bike MS: Oregon 2023.
