Lessons from My Father's Suicide

How to Deal, and not Deal, with Survivors of Suicide

The saddest day of my life

Feb 19, 2019, was the day Dad committed suicide. I found him in a pool of blood with a gunshot wound to his head, and the revolver was next to him. He was dead, and I was at the beginning of a long, less-traveled road.

My elderly father had fallen again the night before, banged, and cut his head. We went to the hospital, where he got a CT and was stitched up. He acted differently from times previously at the hospital. This time, he kept telling me, "Thanks for all of your help." That night, once discharged, I took him home. I helped him shower and stopped the reoccurring bleeding. A small voice said I should stay the night, but my will to return home won out. As I left my Dad's house, Dad followed me into the living room. He was very emphatic when he said: "Jon, I know you had to change your life for me, and I just want to say thanks." I responded by looking over my shoulder with a dismissive look and a wave of my hand.

The following day, I called him at 8:20 am. He sounded despondent but nothing alarming. The last thing I said to him was, "I will see you in a bit." At 9:30 am, I walked into his house through the garage, calling for him. No answer. I called him from the laundry room, then from the living room. My intention was not to startle him. I walked around the corner into the bedroom and saw him lying on the ground beside the bed. There was a massive amount of blood all around him on the carpet. I started yelling, "Dad, Dad, Dad." I rushed to his side and kneeled next to him. I thought he had fallen again. Still yelling, I started shaking him, but there was no response. Still shaking him, I spotted the gunshot to his head. I started screaming and crying, "No, no, no." My mind was tearing into a thousand different pieces, and screams were coming from each piece. With my hands on my Dad, I looked around to confirm what I was thinking. Then I saw what I was looking for. I saw the revolver about three feet from him. It verified what I already knew. I was on my knees praying in screams that none of this was real.

In complete shock and disbelief, I found my father's phone and called the only person I could think of: my father's friend and pastor. Pastor Dewey answered, and I told him what I had found. I heard Dewey's painful sigh of disbelief. He assured me I had done the right thing by reaching out to him and said he was on his way. The weight of the situation began to crash down on me like a granite boulder. I texted my brother and sister on our family group chat. Both called me immediately, but I struggled to find the words to convey the nightmare I had walked into. Both my brother and sister were in shock. Pastor Dewey arrived at the house in record time. Everything started to accelerate from there. We called the police, and soon, several squad cars were parked outside. They asked a few questions, entered the bedroom, and closed the door behind them. Neighbors started gathering outside, and the scene turned into a surreal blur. After hours of various police officers arriving, investigating, and photographing behind the closed bedroom door, the coroner finally arrived.

A female police supervisor noticed me and asked me to step outside to talk in private. She looked at me and told me how this had happened to her with her father some time ago. She gave me few details, but I will always remember the last thing she said, “It will get better.” I did not know what to say. She looked at me with a very sad smile, excused herself, and drove off. I knew, in my heart, she understood what I was going through and what I was going to go through. What she said that day stuck with me and helped me get through this ordeal for years to come.

About 30 minutes later, the coroner and police officers emerged with my father's body on a stretcher, zipped up in a body bag and draped with the US flag. After that, I never saw him again.

After everyone left, I sat in Dad's house until sunset, trying to understand what happened. Running through what I thought were my Dad's last moments. My mind was full of questions about my father's last moments. Where did he sit at the kitchen table to have breakfast or coffee? Where was he when I talked to him at 8:20? What was he wearing? Did he shower that morning? I also could not stop looking where my father had been lying when I found him. The spot was outlined with his blood. Why, why, why.

The day finally ended in restless sleep with pain and guilt that would not go away for months and several years to come.

The next day, I returned to the house. I cut up the bloody bedroom carpet, put it in a bag, and threw it out. Then, I mopped up Dad's blood. Anguished hours turned into gloomy days and then into weeks. In the coming weeks: the funeral home, the memorial, the phone calls. Then, in the months to follow, selling the house, the car, the lawyers, the court, and the contents of the house. Nobody knew the real story, and everybody wanted a deal. I did the best I could to sell things at a reasonable price or not. I was at the house for the next three months, finding out what he and my mom had left behind. Ninety-one years — paper by paper, photo by photo, box by box.

Surprisingly, I never became bitter at my Dad; I started discovering the pain of living he had been experiencing during the last four years. It started when Dad lost the love of his life, my mother, after a 60-plus-year marriage.

More recently, Dad started to perceive that he was becoming more invisible and dispensable in our heartless society. All this pain worsened when his health slowly started declining, and he got on the healthcare merry-go-round.

During the months following my Dad's death, I had a real wake-up call concerning what people were made of. Many christians I knew and talked to were more interested in passing on their theology about suicide than trying to understand what my father went through or, for that matter, what I was going through.

I won't forget how a pastor at my church treated me after asking him for help. I needed somebody to talk to; 30 min was all I wanted. This pastor treated the incident as a nothing-burger, just another "make an appointment." What added more to my pain was that two weeks before I asked for help, this pastor made all sorts of efforts and phone calls to pick up my poor Dad's leftover medical supplies to send to Haiti. Hard to explain how marginalized I felt. Gut punch on the way down. I left that church, and it has taken me almost three years to step foot into another Church. To this day, I am still very critical of churches and christians. I learned not to trust pastors because of their position of authority or trust in a church because they have a great sound system and lighting setup. Thank you for the life lesson. I also found out that many of these people and others talk the talk and never walk the walk. These were some of the most painful lessons I learned during this time.

Then there were the friends who were shining stars during these dark times. These were genuinely caring people: Christians and some not. They asked if I needed help or called to see how I was doing. A friend from Denver miraculously called just as I thought it could not get darker. He insisted that I come to Colorado and go camping. A friend in Tennessee listened to me ramble on and on till I did not know what to ramble on about. Some other friends would listen to me, advise me, be honest with me, empathize with me, and hang out with me when I was not that fun. Another blessing was a Survivors of Suicide (SOS) support group I attended for almost one year. I was also able to get remarkable counseling through hospice. Another friend opened their beach home and let me stay for an extended period. These people were the ones that helped me get through this. I am forever grateful to them and thank God for these individuals.

My world is much smaller now, and at the same time, I have a sense of freedom. I insist on no more fake friends, strawman religion, strawman christians, or strawman pastors. I am not as bitter as I was, have learned to keep my boundaries and realize I don't need to like everyone to be a Christian.