On March 9, 2023, my parents came to my house, unannounced, while I was nursing my 3 week old newborn on my couch. They entered silently and in exhaustion, sat down and quietly took off their shoes. Then, my Dad appeared in my kitchen doorway with a red face, stained with tears and deep pain. The moment I saw him, I knew that she was gone. The vision and sounds of that night and its aftermath, my Father’s disbelief, my Mother’s sobs, my own screams of “NO!” fracturing the cloudy, spring night air. It seemed to be our worst nightmare, and it came true.
After an almost lifelong battle that started with bulemia nervosa and anorexia, major depression and crippling anxiety, and was later complicated by complex trauma and PTSD, my beautiful, remarkable, intelligent sister overdosed on her own medication in order to escape her unrelenting, exhausting mental pain. Ashley was 37.
One person dies every 11 seconds from suicide in this country. Suicide is the second leading cause of death in the US in young people. More teenagers and young adults die from suicide than from cancer, heart disease, AIDS, birth defects, stroke, pneumonia, influenza, and chronic lung disease combined.
As you read this story, and by the time you finish reading this specific sentence, enough time has elapsed for six people to have died by suicide. SIX. Think about that for a moment. Six of our sisters, or six of our brothers… six of our daughters, or six or our sons… six of our elderly, or six of our youth. After every suicide, it is estimated that 135 people are affected. Some will bring their pain to their grave, others will miss the person distantly. For me, that pain is a deep, searing, ever present ache.
My husband, Ramon, works as a Drama Therapist at Children’s on the Eating Disorder and Child & Adolescent Psychiatry units. When I originally wrote this, he related to me that his youngest patient was age 6. A few months have past, and I am now revising this data to be even more bone chilling: his youngest patient so far was age 5.
I am a Family Physician at Denver Health. I yearn for the past, and guilt plagues me, when I think of some of the signs I “missed,” or suspicions regarding Ashley’s lack of proper treatment or diagnosis that I didn’t jump on. The week after returning to work after my extended bereavement leave following Ashley’s death, a 15 year old came to my office complaining of “abdominal pain,” which turned out to be deep depression and very real suicidal ideation. I thank God I asked her that day, and Ashley, I am so sorry I didn’t ask you.
May we hold these patients of ours, our family members and friends lost, and their surviving loved ones in the light. May they, and may we, be well; may we be happy; and may we be peaceful in our journey towards health and healing. May we recognize and confront the stigma, delicate and intricate nature of mental illness. It is more elusive, more painful, more costly in every way than so many physical ailments.
I miss you, Ashley! This is for you, and it’s also for all those beautiful kids in the unit right now. I know you fought valiantly, from the time you were an adolescent yourself, and your foe was relentless. You are brave. You are amazing. They are too. You are in me, as well as in Mom and Dad. In me, too, are the many patients of mine who are fighting, most of them alone in this unforgiving culture and society. In me are those I will never know. I am psyched to climb (every pun intended). The team I am riding on sponsors the Pediatric Mental Health Institute, and every dollar I raise will go directly towards supporting their invaluable efforts.
Ash, I know that you will keep me safe as I try not to pass out riding my bike up a mountain. Dad can’t ride this one (I know you already know that, though) so this is for all of us.
Love, Lindsay
