Suicide destroys more than its victim.
It rips into the lives of those left behind. Families, friends and witnesses agonize over questions that have no answers.
Some blame themselves. Some wrestle with what more they could have done. Most struggle to move on.
This year, an estimated 250,000 people will become survivors of suicide because a loved one died.
Today marks a worldwide event in which suicide survivors gather to share their stories of healing. International Survivor of Suicide Loss Day was inspired by U.S. Sen. Harry Reid, whose father, Harry, died in 1972.
While examining suicide’s devastating toll in Ohio, The Dispatchreviewed more than 1,500 coroners’ cases and interviewed dozens of survivors and bystanders.
Some shared their stories of loss and what they wished the victims had known before they took their lives. Working with the survivors, The Dispatch turned their thoughts into letters to those who died.
Timothy Mayle was diagnosed with cancer in September of 2013. With his wife, Debbie, by his side, he fought the disease with chemotherapy and other treatments. But the cancer spread from his spleen to other organs, and he was told he had two months to live. In March of 2014, upon returning from the Cleveland Clinic to his house in Geneva, in Ashtabula County, the 48-year-old attorney shot himself in front of two of his four children — Shay 25, and Zach, 11. His other two children, Lindsey, 17, and Alexis, 13, were not home at the time.
Dear Tim,
The cancer is what took you. It ate away your insides and turned you into someone we didn’t recognize. And it was so cruel for all of us, because for months, the doctors kept saying, “This is treatable. You are going to be okay.”
Then after months of chemo and all that pain, they tell us you’d have two months to live.
I’ve replayed that last night in the hospital over and over. When you called me to come get you, I knew you were in such pain. I could hear it in your voice. I can’t believe they listened to you and took you off your pain medication and steroids. Why would they do that? What were they thinking?
I can’t believe how much pain you were in when I got there. The pain had taken over your mind, and you weren’t you.
On the way home from the hospital, I could hear you moaning in the back seat.
I left for the pharmacy thinking that you would just stay in bed until I got back with your prescription. And then I got the call from Shay. She was screaming and crying, saying that you shot yourself in the backyard. That she and Zach begged and pleaded for you not to do it.
The kids watched you, Tim. They watched from the kitchen window.
You were the best father any child ever could have had. No parent has ever devoted more to his kids. Basketball wasn’t your life all those years; it was just how you shared your love with the kids. You never missed a game as a coach or dad.
And I know that wasn’t you with the gun. But our kids witnessed that, Tim. They had prepared for you to die because you were so sick, but not like that. Both of them would be diagnosed with PTSD.
I was so angry at you for the longest time.
You were still alive when I got there. I still have visions of giving you CPR, putting my fingers over the hole in your chest and you taking your last breath.
For the first couple of weeks afterward, the kids and I slept together as a family in the living room, because no one wanted to be alone.
The counseling helped some, but the kids really struggled. I would hold Zach at night until he fell asleep. He blames himself. He thinks he should have been able to stop you.
He just wants to go play ball with his daddy or have you in the stands for his games.
Shay was so angry. She is playing professional basketball in Germany now, and you would be so proud of her. She knows she wouldn’t have played at Duke without you. She wouldn’t have made it to where she is without you.
All four of the kids just miss you so much.
You gave up your career to stay home and take care of our kids. You cleaned the house, did the laundry, fixed the cars and took care of our lives.
Everything changed here when you died.
Now, I have long days teaching at school and taking care of the kids. They have learned how much you did, because they have to do a lot more now.
I miss you, too, and I’m thankful for all the good you brought to my life.
I feel like I have to do more to help stop suicide. Just recently, a boy I had in class, a 16-year-old football player, killed himself. It just devastated our community. Last year, a girl approached me at school and told me she thought of killing herself. I got her some help, and I want to help others so they don’t go through anything like this. I’m sure the Tim I knew, the real one, not the one the cancer took, would want the same.
Love,
Debbie
Donna Jackson, 55, of Middletown, in southwestern Ohio, suffered from high blood pressure and heart problems in the summer of 2011 and went into a coma for weeks. Doctors weren’t sure she would survive. Her twin sons, Meshach and Shadrach, were devastated. When Jackson awoke, she learned that Meshach, 19, had taken his life.
Dear Meshach,
I can’t believe it will be almost five years since I lost you. Since we all lost you.
I knew something was wrong the moment I woke up from the coma. I still don’t know how long I was out. Two or three weeks; I just don’t remember.
I went walking down the hallway asking where my family was and asking the nurses if anyone had called.
And then I found your brother, and he read me a passage from the Bible. He led me into that room where our family and friends were waiting with the pastor, and they told me you were gone.
I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.
They told me you prayed over me in that hospital room over and over, night after night. I think a lot of people thought I was going to die. Did you think that? Is that why you did this? It’s the only reason any of us could think you would want to leave us.
I don’t know. Only God knows.
I try hard to think about the good and not the bad.
I remember when you and Shadrach, my little toddler twins, got into the cupboards and poured salt and pepper, honey, flour, sugar and all that stuff on top of one another. And you guys were just laughing and laughing when I was giving you a bath. Or when you guys were playing high-school ball together and you threw him the alley-oop and he did a one-hand dunk, and the whole gym went crazy. Or the time you made the half-court shot just before the buzzer.
You and your brother were so good at basketball. I loved watching you play all those years.
And you were doing so good at college, and I was so proud of you boys always getting good grades. I was nervous about you going to the Air Force, but I was proud of that, too.
You were so happy the last day I saw you, and you were getting ready to go to Texas for your training. You were so handsome, and I know you would have looked so nice in that blue uniform.
I try to visit the cemetery, but that’s so hard. I was still in the hospital the day of your funeral. The doctors let me go to the church and the memorial, but they wouldn’t let me get out of the car at the cemetery.
People were being nosy and asking all kinds of questions back then. They still do sometimes. I try to answer them, but I don’t know what to say. Their hearts were in the right place. They had a candlelight vigil for you at the high school, and people still tell me what a nice boy you were.
I’m doing OK, but I have to go see doctors all the time for my heart and my blood pressure.
Your brother misses you so much. He lives in Arizona, and we both just take it one day at a time.
Sometimes I wish I had never come out of the coma..
I go to the support groups, because talking about you helps. They call me a survivor. I’m not sure what that really means. There are plenty of days I don’t feel like one. I’m just your mama. And you will always be my baby boy.
It’s so hard, but God doesn’t make mistakes. All we can do is hold on to each other.
Love,
Your Mama
Hilliard resident Jeff Russell, 60, was at Griggs Reservoir Park near Upper Arlington in August 2014 when a 60-year-old Columbus woman drove her car off Riverside Drive and into the Scioto River. Russell tried to save her. Authorities ruled her death a suicide. (Her family was comfortable with Russell sharing his story but asked that their loved one not be named.)
To the woman I tried to save,
When I saw the car come off Riverside Drive onto the grass and head toward the river, I thought it was kids messing around. I thought for sure the car was going to veer off. But it just kept going.
And somehow, the car made it through the one narrow opening among all the trees and went airborne into the river. It never slowed down, and I never saw brake lights.
I’m a caregiver for elderly people, and that day, I was there to take a 100-year-old woman for a drive. I told her to stay in the car. Then I ran more than 100 yards down to the river and yelled to a man bicycling on the trail to call 911.
I was going to dive, but I saw the rocks and had to wade in before I jumped into the deeper water.
The car had started to sink, but I pounded on the window and managed to get your attention. You cracked the window but said nothing. We made eye contact for a couple seconds, but then you turned and looked straight ahead. You didn’t show emotion. You never spoke a word to me.
I didn’t understand what was happening. You were just holding on to something with a tapestry on it, and you stayed focused on that. I thought maybe I could break the back window and pull you out, but I didn’t have a rock or anything. I never got the feeling that you wanted to be saved.
Then the car went underneath the water. I just kept diving down. Over and over.
I was hoping that you had gotten out, or that there was an air pocket. I saw a policeman in the water with me, and later I learned a third person jumped in, too. I treaded water with the policeman until the emergency vehicles arrived, and then I climbed back onto the rocks to wonder what had just happened.
I was upset with myself for not being able to do more. I thought I should have been able to get you out. I didn’t want to talk to the reporters there, and the police officer tried his best to comfort me and make me feel better.
The police and firefighters gave me a bravery award, but I was far more concerned about your family. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
When I heard it was ruled a suicide, I didn’t know what to think. I thought maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe you were just in shock or something. But you didn’t look like you wanted help.
I didn’t know what was wrong or why you drove into the river that day, but I’ve thought about that day so much. I went back to that spot by the river the next day and saw the tire tracks. They stayed there for about three weeks. I went down there maybe a dozen more times after it happened. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted some kind of closure.
I recently met with your family after they reached out to me. It was a good meeting. I think it helped them, and I know it helped me.
I don’t dwell on it, but I was depressed for a while.
Every time I drive by the river, I think about what happened. I think about you.
I’m a Christian, and I can only hope that you found peace.
Sincerely,
Jeff
In March 2010, Ohio State University custodian Nathaniel Brown, 50, of Columbus, walked into the OSU mechanical building, shooting and injuring one boss and then killing supervisor Larry Wallington before taking his own life. The murder-suicide left many people reeling, including Brown’s common-law wife, Donna Dunson, and Wallington’s mother, Shirley, both of Columbus.
Dear Nate,
I couldn’t take it anymore, Nate. That’s why I left you a few days before you did what you did.
You weren’t a monster or a bad man like the news made you out to be, but you had a dark side. I felt that dark side too many times over our 30 years together. And that last time, when you left the scar on my face — well, it was too much for me.
You had two personalities. One was very sweet and kind. You were the kind of man who would do anything to help people out. You made the best barbecue I ever tasted, and we had so many good times.
But the other Nate was just so angry.
I know it was that side of you that came out that day at Ohio State.
I know you felt you weren’t treated right, but you shouldn’t have gotten guns and did what you did. I think you just snapped. I think you needed help, Nate, and if you had gotten it, a lot of things would have been different.
I know it was hard for you as a kid. Those other boys who were supposed to be like your brothers beat you all the time. And that man who was supposed to be like a father to you was just mean. I think that’s where you got all that anger.
I feel bad for the families of those other men. I’m sorry for the pain you caused them, and I wish we could have found a way to make you better before it came to this.
I was devastated. I still am. I can’t believe it all ended like this. I will always love you.
Love,
Donna
To the man who shot my son,
I used to call you the devil. I used to say the devil killed my son. You did kill him.
I was in shock and disbelief when my oldest grandson called to tell me what had happened. You hear about these murder-suicides on the news all the time, but you don’t understand it until something like this happens to you.
At first, I thought it was a straight murder, but when I heard it was a suicide, too, it changed my attitude.
I hear all these stories about people having tough upbringings, and that’s why they do bad things. I don’t buy that. We all have to take responsibility for our actions. But I’ll admit some of the anger went away and my feelings turned into sadness for everyone.
I didn’t have much of a relationship with my son anymore, but we had recently had a breakthrough. We made plans for him to come over that weekend and straighten things out between us. I thought it was going to be a new start for us.
Instead, I had to bury my son. I never got a chance to tell him I was sorry. Or that I loved him no matter what.
I feel bad for your family and your wife. And I would tell them that I forgive you.
Life is too short to be walking around with all that anger.
Rest in Peace,
Shirley