Two thousand twenty-three started off with a surprise text message that read: “This is a random text. My name is Courtney. I attended a class at Mt. Ida with your son Nick.” My heart jumped. Nick had died by suicide ten years earlier. Courtney went on to say how sorry she was to hear of Nick’s death and that the reason she was reaching out to me was because she lost her brother to suicide about four months earlier. Her mother was having a very difficult time. She was wondering if I could share some resources, reading material or activities that could be of help to her. I responded that I would send a document by the next day. I felt so blessed to have been asked to help another mother who lost her son to suicide. I had been working on a book about my son and suicide, so hearing from Courtney pleased me as the purpose of the book is to help others in their stages of grief. This communication also contributed to ideas I’ve had for my writing.

Some may think that being reminded of my son’s death would be unwelcomed, but hearing from someone who knew Nick was exciting to me. I want to learn as much as I can about my adult son (who didn’t share a whole lot).

I asked Courtney what made her think to contact me. She told me about her relationship with Nick, how much she enjoyed spending time with him before class each week. I found her stories to be humorous. She reminded me of Nick, personality-wise. She was not a big conversationalist, and neither was Nick, so their conversations were brief and somewhat awkward. The best part of it was they used to laugh at each other’s responses.

Courtney’s surprise text turned into a lunch meeting with Courtney and her mom. You would think we had known each other for years. Our conversation was so natural and heartfelt. We were on common ground. We wanted to share our sons and our grief experiences.

I did some business planning for 2023 but have come to the realization that I love to plan but I do not love following a plan. One of the goals on my list was to keep my desk clean and work on one task at a time. That plan finally came to fruition this month. See what I mean?

In the book I’ve been working on, I talk about Nick’s life and my life after Nick. When it is published, my hope is that it will help put a stop to the stigma of suicide as well as help those who are going through grief themselves.

My writing started the month we lost our son eleven years ago. For ten years prior to that, I was an independent distributor for a nutritional supplement company. It has now been twenty-one years sharing the benefits of these products with people of all ages and professions. I have helped people with everything from seasonal health issues to much more serious issues – issues that are becoming more and more prevalent these days. I now call myself a Healthy Aging Agent – for any age. Without your health what have you got?

During a discussion with business coach in early 2023, she asked me, “how do you know if you’re doing a good job servicing your customers?” Good question. She went on to suggest that I ask some of my best clients to describe my services using one word. Here are some of their responses.

“Comfortable sharing, openness, trust, curiosity, communication, and humor.” These comments helped me to rethink what I wanted in 2023 and that was to do the best job possible. Additional comments that were offered helped me to plan. My favorite comment was “humor.” I love working with people who love life. Some of my clients have been very ill, so finding common ground is important. Sometimes that common ground turns out to be laughter, one of nature’s best medicines.

After looking back at 2023, I realize there have been a few hurtles that I don’t want to share here, but I would like to share what I have learned from those hurtles. Be patient. Not everything has to be done yesterday or even today. Take a breath and think and rethink about what you are about to do and how it will affect your life and others’ lives. Find your happy place – somewhere you can go and just be quiet. Mine is a bookstore or sitting by the edge of a pond. And finally – BE KIND. We need more kindness in this world.

So, what’s in store for 2024?

The first time I heard this question, it caught me off guard, hence I hesitated before answering. It was a big question that over the years I have mulled over quite a bit. When I say “big” I am implying that it has the potential to bring up heavy deep-seated emotions.

My immediate thought about a note was that it would be very private, something survivors may not want to share or talk about. Personally, I had no problem answering that question, because I had an answer, and I had the strength to talk about it. I have put more thought into it over the years, so it has become something I take seriously.

What I would like people to consider is the emotions a loved one may feel as they attempt to decipher what the note meant. To whom was the note written? Who was meant to find the note? Was it left in a special place where the intended recipient would find it? After losing a loved one to suicide, there is one common phenomenon and that is the questions! It is only natural to wonder or ponder what drove the person to take their own life. To have the “note” question asked only stokes the fire.

Did you know that most people who die by suicide do not leave a note? When they do leave a note, it usually consists of a couple words, instructions, or a direct message; so, when asked if my son left a note, I surprise people by saying “No, but he did leave something that I believe was intentionally left for me.”

The night I learned of my son’s death, the police deputy asked if I was up to answering some questions. While I was answering questions, my son’s apartment and car were being searched. I learned later that depending on where a suicide takes place, it can be considered a crime. My son had trespassed onto private property.

I was imagining the car search wishing I could have been the proverbial fly on the wall. My son Nick loved his vehicles, but they held equal status to trash bins. His pickup trucks were the worst because there was a truck bed he could fill. He told us a funny story. He was serving in the Navy and based at Pearl Harbor. He was on his way to work in his ’86 Ford pickup. There was heavy security at the time due to 9/11.  A security guard asked him to exit his truck. At the same time, the security guard on the passenger side of the truck started opening the passenger door. Nick hollered “Don’t open…” but it was too late. The door opened, it was a windy day and trash started flying out onto the pavement. He got in his truck and drove off. He did warn them.

Nick’s car was delivered to my house once it was released. This stirred up so many memories and emotions. No longer would Nick be telling us funny stories. His car in the driveway no longer meant he was visiting. No, this time he did not come with the car. The realization that he would never be driving into the driveway again felt like a knife going through my heart. It took my breath away. How was I going to deal with all of this?

I took the car for a ride a couple of days later. As personal representative to Nick’s estate, I had to take care of the final records, reporting and taxes. I found a receipt. He had his car serviced only days before he left us, as if he were going on a trip. Surprised at first but then I smiled. He always tried to do the right thing and take responsibility. This act was so unbelievable realizing his state of mind at the time.

After taking the car for a ride, I took a few minutes to inspect it myself. My thought was to sell it, so I wanted to note its features. Opening the passenger door from the outside, I looked down and saw a penny in the grip area that a passenger would use to close the door. Did the police see the penny? Did they miss it? Was it there when they inspected to car?

I opened the trunk to search around. Nothing stood out. When I got back into the driver’s seat, I was checking out all the accessories: AM/FM radio, windshield wipers, interior and exterior lights – happy to see that everything was in working order. Then I saw a little red light near the radio controls. “What do you do, little red light?” Yes, I often talk to inanimate objects. I suppose I could have checked the manual, but that is no fun. I just pushed the button!

You will never guess what I found. I pushed the eject button near the red light. A CD was ejected from the CD player. This is great – it had a CD player! After the first CD popped out, the red light was still on, so I pushed the eject button again. There was another CD! And then another. There were six CDs. One purchased and the other five consisted of music Nick had downloaded. Wow – what a find. Therefore, I answer the question “Did he leave a note,” with, “No, he left music.”

Was I meant to find CDs? I will assume yes, and because I found them, I am taking time to listen to the music to decipher a message. Almost ten years later, I am still listening to the CDs and still discovering things about Nick through the words of the songs. I try to understand what went so wrong. Instinctively, I knew he was not doing well. He had dealt with depression for years. His world was collapsing around him. Life was getting increasingly more difficult for him. As I listen to his music, it feels like a never-ending letter that talks about his world. There are so many songs, so many messages. I was surprised to discover that he had downloaded tunes from my desktop. I knew we had similar tastes in music but finding these tunes made me happy. I felt more connected.

Listening to Nick’s music has been an ongoing project, sometimes fun, sometimes sad, and sometimes frustrating. The frustrating part is trying to figure out what he was trying to say, if in fact he was trying to say anything. I am confident he was leaving a message.

This will be a long-standing project for me, and I’m sure he’s happy that I’m spending time on it. I think we can all agree that music is a wonderful thing.

_____________________________________

Here are some words from one of the songs to leave you with. I am guessing it was for his girlfriend.

And so I’m sailing through the sea
To an island where we’ll meet
You’ll hear the music fill the air
I’ll put a flower in your hair
Though the breezes through the trees
Move so pretty you’re all I see
As the world keeps spinning round
You hold me right here right now

 

My life was turned upside down on a Monday evening in May of 2012. It was the day after Mother’s Day, 7:30 in the evening. My husband was taking a shower, and I was in my office listening to a recorded call. It was an ordinary Monday night, when the phone rang. It was Foxboro’s chief of police.

“Wendy, I’m at the entrance of your apartments. Can you tell me which apartment you’re in?”

I replied, “We don’t live there anymore.” (My husband and I had been married 17 years and had moved six times in those 17 years. We like change.) “Where are you?”

I gave him our new address. He said he needed to see me. I calmly said “okay, see you in a few minutes, Ed,” and hung up the phone. Immediately, I went into the bathroom to tell my husband that the Chief just called and was on his way over. He wants to speak with me.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I told him I thought it was Nick.

“What do you mean you think it’s Nick?” He sounded scared and irritated at the same time.

“I think something’s happened to Nick. Hurry up and get out of the shower.”

When the Chief entered the house, he said “there’s been an accident.”

“It’s Nick. We found his car at the scene.” This was not making any sense. My head was spinning out of control trying to understand what he was trying to tell me. I wanted to ask, What scene? Where? but I just kept silent. Feeling respectful of his position, that this was probably the last thing he wanted to be doing that Monday night. Finally – “It appears it was suicide.” There it was – that news I never wanted to hear. My husband who had been standing beside me fell into the chair that was behind him, crying “no, no.” The Chief stood there with us, giving us time to absorb the news he had just delivered. I was numb with the news so remained silent. He told me that Nick had been hit by a train. An Acela train.

Nick’s car was parked in a small lot beside the tracks. It was locked, and his phone was in the car. They unlocked the car and accessed Nick’s cell phone. Looking at his Facebook account, seeing his profile picture, it became pretty clear it was him. The recovery along with searching the car and viewing his phone gave them sufficient evidence. They compared Nick’s Facebook profile picture with a sleeve tattoo that Nick had proudly designed and wore on his right arm. It was his profile page that gave them enough evidence to contact me.

He had recently updated his profile picture. It was not a recent picture, but it was a clear picture of his tattoo. Did he do that knowing it would be one step used to identify his remains?

The Chief asked if I was up to speaking with the detective who had accompanied him – to answer some questions. “Sure.” The detective ended up staying about an hour until friends and my other son started showing up. Later that evening while speaking with the detective, he told me that the Chief never made these visits, but he had known me and my two boys for almost thirty years, so it was important to do it himself. I loved talking about Nick even under those circumstances.

I later understood that they were asking all these questions for their ongoing investigation, because Nick had broken the law by trespassing onto the railroad tracks. The next day they would be searching his apartment and his vehicle for any information they could gather. I’m sure drugs were in question.

Some of the detective’s comments made me smile. He found it interesting that Nick locked his car with the keys hidden from sight. Unless you knew Nick well, you would probably wonder why he bothered locking his car. I explained that Nick probably locked his car because that is the responsible thing to do, and he was a responsible man. In later weeks I discovered that on the morning of the day Nick died, he had gone to his eye doctor’s, who happens to be my eye doctor too, to pick up a pair of glasses he had ordered. It just so happened that I had an appointment with that eye doctor three years later on the third anniversary of Nick’s death.  I asked the doctor if he knew what day it was, and his facial expression said it all. He did remember that day as if it were yesterday. I asked him why he thought Nick picked up his glasses the day he had planned his suicide. He was baffled by that question. I explained to him that Nick was one of those incredibly responsible kids (kid in my eyes) who wouldn’t want to stick anyone with a bill; he ordered the glasses, so he should pay for them. It was just the right thing to do.

That evening of Nick’s death feels like it happened yesterday. It was the beginning of an incredible journey into unchartered territory. How do you respond to something like this? I describe it as an outer body experience. I had no problem speaking with the detective in a calm, controlled manner. It helped that I loved to talk about Nick. I was so proud of his accomplishments and his moral character. I’ll never forget my husband Buddy asking me that unforgettable, “How can you stay so calm?” I learned many years ago how to “let go” of anything that is not in my control. My son’s death was not something I could have controlled, but it was something I could choose to recover from, in my own time. But my immediate answer was, “It’s my job. I need to do this for Nick. He has left me with the biggest challenge of my life.”

Over the next couple of weeks in preparing for the funeral services, I connected with friends of Nick, co-workers, and fellow students of his.  It pleased me no end to hear the stories about Nick helping others, or teasing them, and how they would never forget him.

At the wake and funeral, it felt as if we were all walking through a thick fog, searching for one another while pondering what to say when we found each other.  In this regard, there are no failures, only experiences, doing the best you can. Almost seven years later in hopes of helping others, I am starting to share written experiences as a Mom who lost her son to suicide the day after Mother’s Day.

 

 

Monday was the day my son Nick died of suicide. I will never forget that Monday. I had texted my son that morning and heard right back from him. Typically he would get right back to me. I had shared a joke with him that I heard on the radio that morning. “Ha ha.” We weren’t using LOL at the time. As the day progressed, I found it more and more difficult to concentrate. By two o’clock that afternoon I threw in the towel for the day. I was literally unable to work, so I grabbed a book and headed for a local coffee shop to take a break. No sense sitting at my desk staring at the collection of binders, papers, pens, phones and other paraphernalia atop my desk. None of it was making any sense.

Off I went in my little Mini Cooper that Nick while sitting in the back seat one day described as an “urban assault vehicle” due to it’s hard, feel-of-the-road ride. He always made fun of my vehicles. Never thought I’d miss that so much.

I jumped onto a local highway ramp and headed to the coffee shop. It was a perfect day in May, at least when I left the house it was. Once I was on the highway, I became lost in thought thinking about nothing and suddenly realized I didn’t know where I was. All I remember is that it started to pour and I was on the highway, a little car along side big tractor trailers,  trying to figure out where I was and trying to remember where I was going. Normally this feeling would have been unnerving, but for some reason I felt nothing. A big truck passed me on the right. It was difficult to see with the water the truck was kicking up, so I decided I’d slip in behind the truck and get off at the next exit and figure out where I was. I had gone by the exit I wanted and became so confused that it was best to travel side roads, get off that highway. It continued to pour buckets of rain for another ten or fifteen minutes as I drove back home to safety. The sun was out when I returned to the house. What a strange day. By now it was about four o’clock in the afternoon. I texted Nick as I had promised I would earlier in the day and then took our dog Ben outside. Our second dog Ruthie was staying with local English Mastiff breeders who were helping us. Ruthie had just had puppies the week before. My husband and I had no experience with newborn puppies, so it made sense to have the breeder take care of Ruthie and the pups.

A little later my husband arrived home. I told him about my day, how I couldn’t concentrate and had this strange uneasy sense of being, not living in the moment but living outside of myself. We decided to go out and grab a bite to eat and then go for one of our frequent visits to see the puppies. Little did I know that at 4:45 Nick was hit by a train.

That was the beginning of an incredible journey into unchartered territory. How does one respond to such a traumatic event?

When the police showed up on my doorstep, I already knew something horrible had happened to Nick. I had no problem speaking with the detective in a calm, controlled manner. It helped that I loved to talk about Nick. I was so proud of his accomplishments and his moral character. I’ll never forget my husband Buddy asking me that unforgettable, “How can you stay so calm?” I learned many years ago how to “let go” of anything that is not in my control. My son’s death was not something I could have controlled, but it was something I could choose to process and recover from, in my own time. But my immediate answer was, “It’s my job. I need to do this for Nick. He has left me with the biggest challenge of my life.”

Why am I getting all this mail?! Every night when I got home from work, I’d go through the mail received that day. I couldn’t understand why I was receiving so much junk mail all of a sudden. This occurred soon after the running of the 1996 Boston Marathon. Nick was a teenager. It all came together when I received a phone call one evening from someone who had a table at the Marathon. He told me I had filled out a form that day, and that I had requested a call from him. Now things are starting to come together. I was not at the Marathon, but my little friend Nick was. I confronted Nick that night asking him how many forms he filled out at the Marathon. He laughed and said, “you finally figured it out.” He had gone to watch the Marathon with his friend and his friend’s parents. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I do know that whatever he did, it was always in good fun. He loved to challenge people’s intellect and sense of humor. I was his victim. Now I smile and think of Nick every running of the Boston Marathon. I miss his antics and challenges.

In a recent discussion with a psychologist, we were discussing psychotic breaks. He called a scenario I described as my son’s “first break.” I had never heard that term, so when I returned home, I looked it up.  Symptoms of a psychotic break “can range from harmless delusions to violent outbursts and major depression.” I suspect he was dealing with bipolar disorder. He cried a lot. One of the last times I saw him, he walked in the house and stood in the middle of the living room and stared out the window. I had the feeling he wanted to talk, but then I had the feeling he didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to stand there. Maybe he was looking for a comfortable place to be for a while. His eyes were swollen red. I wondered if he had been drinking the night before, but now I think back and I know he had been crying, probably all night. He could not sleep. He had suffered with insomnia probably for years. When he was angry with someone, he would destroy his cell phone – smash it. I’m sure there were many other symptoms that point to psychotic breaks. Towards the end of my son’s life, he seemed like a different person, and I wasn’t the only one to notice that.

My son refused to see a professional. “It’s a stigma,” he said. You could not convince him otherwise. He was a Navy veteran and was working in the funeral services business when he died. He heard stories of individuals who died of suicide and their experience trying to adapt to medications and adjust to the dullness they experienced as a result of the drugs. That was not the way he wanted to live his life.

What could I do for him? Nothing. We had many conversations, some where he sat and cried. All I could feel was his hopelessness, a very uncomfortable feeling. Hopelessness on my part as well, because I could not convince him to get help.

The fourth anniversary of my son’s death is fast approaching. What will this year’s anniversary be like? Only time can tell. My plan is to keep busy and spend time with people who are supportive and loving. And my son? I’m sure he’ll be walking by my side, guiding me through this anniversary.

I ran into a somewhat awkward situation the other day. To give a little background, I do a lot of networking, so I am meeting new people almost every day. This particular day, I approached a small group of fellow networkers, people I already know, who were in “good morning” mode – asking each other how their weekend was, anything new going on, how was the graduation party for your son? One of the individuals is a customer of mine. I asked them, “How are you doing on the product?” and their response was “if I was any better I’d have to kill myself.” We were five people, quietly talking to each other. Silence swept through like a sudden wind. “Awkward” is the best way to describe my feelings and probably the feelings of others who were standing there. Obviously feeling the awkwardness as well, one of the individuals stepped up and tried to counter the “kill myself” statement with a more positive saying. We all know that once something is said, it is said. You can never take words back.

Being the survivor of suicide, of course this statement got my attention. How do I feel about it? I talked about how I felt with this person later, because they actually called me that afternoon to apologize. Knowing me well and knowing I had been affected by suicide, they couldn’t believe they came out with that statement. This was truly a lesson learned.

I thanked this person for calling me and told them this was not the first time in the last three years someone has said something like that. In fact, how many people do you see mimic holding a gun to their head when they’re feeling frustrated or angry? It happens often. Maybe, again, I see it or notice it more because of my experience. Am I sensitive to that? I don’t call it sensitivity – I call it awareness. As quickly as I felt the awkwardness, I let it go. My response to the call that afternoon was to explain that this is not the first time something has been said or done that could be uncomfortable for me or others in my shoes. I have made a conscious decision to use a situation such as this to help others. You see, I cannot expect everyone to be walking on egg shells in my presence. I have too big of a heart and feel too much joy, and I want to share that with others. However, if they had made such a statement in front of someone else, the results could have been disastrous. I suggested that in the future they think about using different “words” to describe their enthusiasm for life. This person was very appreciative of my understanding, and I feel that it has strengthened our relationship.