For Chuckie

I almost let this day slide by, until I couldn't

Five years ago today, my brother, Chuckie, ended his life.

This was my first thought of the morning, and it’s been wrapped around my shoulders all day long. Only now, though, am I writing the words. Nighttime draws near. The monster of memory is knocking at the door.

So much has happened in the news in recent days. I am immersed in the coverage of these events, but tonight I just want to write about Chuckie. It feels wrong to let the day pass without acknowledging out loud how much we miss him.

I no longer think of my parents on the anniversaries of their deaths. Those were hard memories and I used to think they could never be erased, but over time they’ve all but evaporated. Now I think of Mom and Dad on their birthdays and on countless other days of the year. They visit me like film clips from silent movies.  

Memories of Chuckie are different, because suicide is like no other way to die. Five years later, the memory of that day is still in present tense.

It’s dark outside, and Sherrod and I are watching an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale. I am lying on the sofa with our dog Franklin sprawled across my lap. Sherrod is handing me a bowl of popcorn when my phone rings.

I hold it up to show him who’s calling. It’s my little sister, the teacher who maintains a school schedule every month of the year. Early to bed, very early to rise. I know something is wrong, and that this is the call I’ve been fearing for years.

I can barely understand her as she yells into the phone. I hear one man’s voice in the background telling her not to step any closer.   Another man is asking for a name. She is standing in a yard just an hour from my home, but it feels like we are in different countries.

“I’ll drive,” my husband says as we pull on our sneakers.

Twenty minutes later my sister calls again. “Go home, Con,” she says. “They took him away. Chuckie isn’t here anymore.”

Most people who love me have never heard that story. If Sherrod hadn’t been with me, I’m not sure I would have told him. I can’t explain why I held onto it, but I might be ready to let it go.

Chuckie was 56 years old when he died. In his obituary, I wrote that, in addition to family and friends, he was survived by his dog Sadie, whom he often jokingly described as the only female in his life who loved him unconditionally. I have no memory of writing that, but I’m glad I did because it would have made Chuckie smile. God, he loved that girl.

That’s Sadie with Chuckie in the picture above, sent to me recently by a family friend. It’s not a crystal-clear image, but I’d know Chuck’s stance anywhere. One hand shoved in his pocket, probably jingling keys or coins just like our father used to do. He is standing on the shore of his beloved Lake Erie.

Seeing this photo for the first time feels like a gentle hello.

After I first wrote about my brother’s suicide in 2019, my life changed in a significant way. Survivors started reaching out to me—in letters and social media posts, but also in person. They approach me in airports and grocery stores, after a book talk or during a ball game. We’re everywhere.

There’s that moment when you’re chatting with someone you’ve just met and suddenly you know. Their voices soften as they lean in slightly. Sometimes they reach for my hands and look around to make sure no one’s listening before they speak. So often, their faces age before my eyes.

“My son….”

“My wife….”

“My sister.…”

“My best friend….”

I’ve learned to ask for their loved one’s names. They often thank me for that, just like I do when a stranger mentions Chuckie by name. There is so much secrecy and shame around suicide. So many ways to feel blame. I know I’ve made some people feel uncomfortable when I talk about how Chuckie died. I used to feel guilty about that, but I’ve set that boulder down. My brother was more than how he died, but how he died has changed who I am.

A few weeks ago, I was helping Sherrod pick out ties for a day of shooting campaign ads. He held up three that were nearly identical in color.

“I don’t remember buying any of those for you,” I said. “Clearly, a favorite color of yours.”

“These are Chuckie’s,” he said. “He picked out these ties.” I draped the ties across my arm as Sherrod moved in a little closer and put his hand on my back. He never knows how this kind of moment is going to land, but he never looks away.

“I’m good,” I told him. “I’ve learned something new about my brother today.”

This is the link to the 988 Suicide and Crisis Hotline.