I never asked.
I never asked my Dad if he was having suicidal temptations.
I wish I had.
With a pit in my stomach and many, many questions bombarding my thoughts, I stood next to my Mom for hours on end next to my Father’s casket. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we shouldn’t have been there. My Dad had passed from suicide, and other than his struggles with mental illness, he had lived a healthy life. I often hear people say “gone too soon,” but in that moment, it felt like more than a platitude. My Father was only 50 years old at the time of his death, and he had many, many more years ahead of him had depression not robbed him of that future.
Mom and I were hurting and struggling, but so were the nearly 1,000 people who showed up at Dad’s visitation. For hours, they stood in a line that wrapped through our church foyer and into the parking lot waiting to say goodbye to my Dad and to provide any comfort they could to our family. They provided that comfort—and so much more. Their sadness was a reflection of just how much my Dad was loved. Dad spent a lifetime loving people the way that God taught him to. This was the evidence of a life well spent.
We cried with and hugged so many people and had conversations about my Dad that rejuvenated our grieving souls. We talked with family members. We talked with colleagues. We talked with friends. We talked with people who had been in our lives long ago, and those who were also there every day.
There were many interactions that are imprinted on my brain from that night, but a handful that really stand out in particular.
Especially my conversation with Mary Bausano.
When I saw Mary approach the casket, my already tear-filled eyes welled up with a new flood of emotion. Mary compassionately approached me with tears of her own and open arms, and as I sobbed I kept repeating a confession to her that had been on my conscience since the moment I found out my Dad was gone.
“I didn’t ask him. Mary, I didn’t ask him.”
Mary Bausano is one of those unexpected life changers—the people who enter your life when you least expect it or in a super ordinary way that end up having an extraordinary impact. While I was a student at Miami University Hamilton, Mary was the Director of Student Counseling Services and the Assistant Dean of Students to my mentor, Dr. Bob Rusbosin. I interacted with Mary quite a bit because I served in the Student Government Association and spent considerable time in the Office of Student Affairs in Rentschler Hall (although I must admit, some of those visits were simply to pad my pockets with the free suckers that were on Miss Carol Stubblefield’s desk).
More than that, however, Mary was the very first college professor I ever took a class with. I was fortunate to be a student in Mary’s section of EDL 110: The University & The Student, which was a transition course to help new freshmen navigate their college experiences. As a first-generation college student who was a nervous wreck about the four years that were ahead, I needed this course more than I was willing to admit.
And Mary was the perfect guide to help me make this transition. Mary was approachable and confident and helpful and caring—all the traits that, in my opinion, are most important in being a good teacher at any level. Mary used a blend of discussion and course activities that brought a level of interactivity to the college classroom that I had not expected. I look back on the fact that I have now pursued graduate degrees and worked in higher education for quite some time, and I can directly trace the origins of my journey back to the course that Mary taught in a second-floor classroom of Mosler Hall.
I would stay in touch with Mary during my entire time at Miami, and that friendship continued once I joined the staff at the Regional Campuses. But before long, I found myself back in the classroom with Mary, albeit for an unexpected topic.
A staff-wide announcement came across my inbox offering an opportunity for any Miami employee to participate in a free Mental Health First Aid training course at the Hamilton Campus. And to my surprise, Mary would be teaching the course! I responded quickly and signed up for the course, knowing that my motivations for taking the course were more complex than I was willing to let others know about.
During the first day introductions of our class, Mary asked us to share why we were taking the course with our fellow classmates. When my turn came, I made a conscious decision to hide my true motivations for being there. I mentioned that a neighbor had been exhibiting some signs of severe mental distress, and I said I wanted to learn more about the interventions that might be available to help this person and also protect my family.
My real motivations for taking the course, however, hit much closer to our own home than the neighbor’s. The deep-down truth was that my own Father had struggled with depression for his entire adult life (although I didn’t find out about it until later in his life) and I was grasping for answers. I felt completely helpless when it came to my Dad’s depression. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, or what to feel. If my Dad had been suffering from a physical ailment, I likely could have come up with tangible things to do in an effort to make him feel better; but when it came to a mental illness, I just didn’t understand how I could help.
There was more. The deeper, personal truth was that I was suffering from mental illness myself—and intensely. In the chapter of my life leading up to the course, I had been fighting through an intense battle with anxiety that had been completely debilitating. About a year before taking the course, I hit a breaking point and couldn’t function anymore. I was completely overtaken with angst, and unable to function because I had convinced myself that I was suffering from a fatal illness that the doctors could not diagnose. My brain illness had taken its physical toll as well. For months on end, I could only sleep for two to three hours each night, and on many nights, I would startle awake from horrific dreams in which I was an attendee at my own funeral. I struggled to eat and lost weight unintentionally. I felt constantly weak and struggled to maintain my sanity.
I didn’t understand how to help my Dad; but I also didn’t understand how to help myself.
The good result from the bad breakdown was that, after confessing my struggles to my parents, I was finally able to find the help I needed. I began taking anxiety medication with the advice of my doctor, and I began regular appointments with my therapist Jeff Yetter to work through the issues associated with my clinical anxiety. I was finally starting to feel as if I was regaining some sense of control over my thoughts, emotions, and behaviors that had been desperately absent during these dark days.
Things had gotten better, and I was fortunate for that. Even having gone through my own personal struggle, I still felt ill-equipped to help my own Father. I didn’t quite understand all of the reasons why I had gotten better, but I also recognized that my Dad and I, although both suffering from mental illness, suffered very, very differently. I suffered from anxiety caused by a traumatic event which created an unhealthy (and completely unfounded) fear of death; my Dad, on the other hand, suffered from depression, a disease that (when not controlled) made death appear to be a relief from the pain and difficulty associated with it.
Nonetheless, I buried these motivations under the surface and dove in to the course head-first with Mary guiding us through the curriculum. If you’re unfamiliar with Mental Health First Aid (and I absolutely was when I entered), the program has two primary goals: (1) to familiarize individuals with the wide-array of mental illnesses and the unique nuances of each, and (2) to prepare those individuals to respond to those who are suffering in a way that prioritizes health and healing. The goal for those who complete the course is not to be therapists or psychiatrists themselves, but instead to respond in a way that can encourage those suffering from mental illness to get help from those trained individuals. Think of it as someone who completes a CPR course. You don’t have to be the doctor who performs the heart surgery; you just have to know the skills to keep that person alive until the doctor/medical professionals can arrive on the scene. Mental Health First Aid is very similar. MHFA responders become the catalysts for healing and conduits who connect those who are suffering with those who can help.
Partially because of the content and partially because of Mary’s amazing skills as an educator, I dove right into the course. I was amazed at how little I actually knew about mental illness even though I had suffered myself and been so closely associated with my Dad’s struggles. There was so much about depression I did not understand, including its prevalence in our society. Even having suffered from anxiety, I did not understand how easy it was for a psychological disorder to then manifest itself in physical symptoms. I grappled with the pain that individuals with psychosis must have felt when they experienced regular delusions or hallucinations, and my heart ached as I heard the stories of those struggling with substance abuse or eating disorders. As I’ve mentioned here before, there was a pain-filled world existing around me that I had been blind to, either unintentionally or intentionally. The course opened my eyes in ways I had not expected.
What was even more beneficial, however, was the application phase of the course. With a gentle, steady, and determined style, Mary worked with all of us to develop the skills, behaviors, and techniques needed to respond to those who were struggling with any host of mental illness. She helped each of us to realize that, although difficult, we could grow into this role and help those who were hurting.
Like any good training course, Mental Health First Aid offered a great acronym to assist those in the first responder role as they entered into a conversation with the person who was in crisis: ALGEE.
A – Assess for risk of suicide or harm.
L – Listen nonjudgmentally.
G – Give reassurance and information.
E – Encourage appropriate professional help.
E – Encourage self-help and other support strategies.
All of the steps in the ALGEE acronym made sense to me, and pacing through each of those steps intentionally helped me to understand what types of statements, behaviors, responses, and actions were appropriate or beneficial to someone in the throes of a mental health crisis.
But I must admit, the first step gave me pause. Part of the assessing phase of the mental health first aid response was spotting the physical and tangible manifestations of mental illness, or those things that could be outwardly observed or experienced: threats of suicide, talking or writing about death, expressing hopelessness, exhibiting unexplained anger or rage, or even withdrawn behaviors or physical effects. The more difficult part of the need to assess risk for suicide occurred when the person in need of assistance might refuse to talk, engage, open up, or readily send up any warning signs. That interaction required the skill and acumen of a confident responder, because it required asking a question that no one likely ever wants to ask.
Effective assessment, according to all the research, might require us to ask the individual across the table if they were contemplating or considering suicide.
When Mary started to talk about what we needed to do during the “Assess” stage of our conversations, I remember the shock my classmates and I felt. Asking that difficult question just didn’t seem like the right thing to do.
Together, we read this portion of the textbook: “If you suspect someone may be at risk of suicide, it is important to directly ask about suicidal thoughts. Do not avoid using the word suicide. It is important to ask the question without dread and without expressing a negative judgement. The question must be direct and to the point. For example, you could ask:
- ‘Are you having thoughts of suicide?’
- ‘Are you thinking about killing yourself?’” (Mental Health First Aid, 2009, p. 25)
“How many of you are surprised by this?” Mary asked us. It felt as if everyone in the room was as surprised as I was by the recommendation that was being offered. Asking this question, and especially using the word “suicide” with someone who was hurting, led us to believe that we were planting the thoughts of lethality into their already suffering minds.
We talked through our reservations with Mary, and I’ll always remember her sense of openness and her giving us the space (as people who were not experts) to talk through the difficulties we saw with this approach. Without judgement, Mary listened to each of our concerns, but then, slowly and purposefully, helped us work through them to understand why asking the question directly might help someone in the midst of a life-threatening crisis.
“If you appear confident in the face of a suicide crisis,” our books and Mary explained, “this can be reassuring for the suicidal person. Although some people think that asking about suicide can put the idea in a person’s mind, this is not true. Another myth is that someone who talks about suicide isn’t really serious. Remember that talking about suicide may be a way for the person to indicate just how badly they feel,” (p. 25).
My classmates and I still voiced our concerns. “But I feel like asking that question could do harm,” we responded. “What if the person isn’t thinking about suicide, and then we put the thought in their head?”
But Mary reassured us that asking was better than leaving the conversation unsaid—and the research that is being conducted in mental health and suicide prevention resoundingly confirms this (for more information, see the resources I’ll include at the end of this post). The trainers for Mental Health First Aid were not encouraging responders to run around asking every single person they interacted with if they had contemplated suicide. This isn’t a blanket response. Instead, the trainers encouraged responders to use their newfound knowledge of the warning signs related to depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and other forms of mental illness to spot someone who might be having suicidal ideations or who could be headed down that path. Then, in those specific situations, responders have a duty to ask a question that can often turn the stomach of the person asking it.
I am a man who trusts experts because the expertise they’ve earned is often hard-fought; and in this circumstance, even though it sounded counterintuitive to me to bring up the topic of suicide with someone who was in pain, I vowed to follow the instructions. I believed, in my heart, that the individuals at Mental Health First Aid and my teacher, Mary, had the best of intentions and wanted to equip my classmates and me with the skills to help those who are suffering from mental illness.
Fortunately, Mary did more than just implore us to ask this question (another sign of what a wonderful teacher she is). After giving us space to question and engage with the idea, Mary then put us into pairs and told us that we would have an opportunity to practice asking the question.
As awful as it might feel, we were going to role play asking this question.
Mary gave each of us a small sheet of paper which included our “acting directions,” which were signs and symptoms that we needed to exhibit when playing role of the person suffering from a mental illness. We were to do our best to showcase the symptoms that had been described to us in the “character directive” and to make the role-play-situation as real as possible. Then, the person serving in the role of the mental health first aid responder would respond with empathy, sincerity, and ultimately, ask the individual about any potential for suicide.
Even in a simulated environment, I was amazed at how difficult it was to ask another living, breathing human being if they were considering self-harm. My palms were sweaty and my hands were shaking. I felt a lump in my throat as I asked my class partner if she was contemplating suicide. When she responded that she was (in character), I did my best to empathize, normalize, and tell her how much she mattered. Then, mutually, we worked together to try and devise a plan to get help, which included seeking the treatment offered by a licensed therapist.
We continued to practice, and I must admit…although the words and processes started to become more standardized, routine, and familiar, I don’t know that the emotion of having to ask that question ever faded.
What did change, however, is that I slowly became a bit more confident and accustomed to the emotion of the moment.
Mary gave us time and space in the course to talk through the emotions we felt asking that question. Hearing how difficult it was for my classmates was also reassuring. It was good to know it wasn’t just me who struggled. But we also listened to the reaction of the person playing the individual who was suffering. Being on the receiving end of that hard question, they largely mentioned that hearing someone care enough to ask that question made them feel as if they mattered. It gave them hope. It let them know they were not alone.
Throughout that 4-week course, we continued to practice asking that question at Mary’s direction. The more we practiced, the better our responses became. The more our confidence was built. We were not only able to detect the signs of someone who might be suicidal, but we were also able to try and respond with helpful resources, tools, and action plans that might help the suffering individual find the treatment he or she needed to survive. In addition to these questioning and response techniques, we also learned more and more about the varying typologies of mental illnesses and the differences in their symptomatic manifestations. It was heartbreaking and simultaneously enlightening. Prior to this course, I had never considered the complexity of mental illness and the different ways that it played out in the lives of so many individuals. I was blown away by the prevalence of mental illnesses in the lives of others in our country.
In every example of mental illness that we discussed, I must admit I thought of my Dad; however, I never, never once considered that my Dad would become a part of such a scary statistic.
Sitting across from my Dad in the darkened family room of our family home on July 24, 2013, I tried to talk with my Dad. In the heat of what I knew was likely the darkest moment of my Dad’s battle with mental illness, I tried to rapidly think back through all the things I had learned from Mary and the Mental Health First Aid course.
Just a few hours before his story morphed into a tragedy, I asked my Dad a lot of questions. I asked him how he was feeling, even though I knew that his answer would not even come close to reflecting the true pain that tormented his soul. I asked him if everything was okay at work. I asked him about other burdens he was carrying in his life and whether or not these felt overwhelming. I asked him about the doctor’s appointment he had scheduled for later that afternoon. I asked him about his misgivings and apprehensions related to seeing a counselor or therapist, although I couldn’t seem to convince him that this would help.
Successfully in some respects, I employed many of the tactics I had learned from the course. But in the midst of all the questions I asked my Dad on that fateful day, I did not ask him if he was having suicidal thoughts.
No matter how much practice I had, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I could not bring myself to ask the man who had guided me through this life if he had thoughts of ending his.
Unfortunately, it’s the question I didn’t ask that still haunts me.
Standing near the casket on the day of his visitation, I wept and confessed my guilt to Mary. In true Mary Bausano fashion, she stepped forward and she grabbed both of my shoulders. In a compassionate and empathetic voice, she brought her hand to my cheek and did her best to minister to me in that moment of grief and guilt.
“Tyler. He was your Dad. You have to understand the dynamics of the relationship and how that affected your conversation that day. Your Dad was an authority figure in your life, making it even more difficult for you to ask him if he was contemplating suicide. He was your Father. Tyler, you are not responsible for this.”
I needed to hear that validation from Mary, the person who had taught me how to respond to those who were in the throes of a mental health crisis. I needed her encouragement and reassurance that I had not been the lynchpin in my Dad’s tragic end.
Standing near my Dad’s casket, I felt it was important to talk with Mary for a long time because her instruction had been so important to my understanding of mental illness. Even though My Dad’s life had ended from suicide, I also felt that the information Mary had taught me helped me to be more empathetic and understanding of my Dad’s struggles (and eventually my own) when he was here in this life. As she had encouraged me so many times before as a student, Mary refused to let this moment defeat me. We stood there, and with a tender heart, Mary helped me understand how deeply my Dad was hurting and suffering, even if his wounds and injuries were not physical or visible.
I was thankful to Mary on that day. And I’m still extremely grateful for all she taught me. Even though my Dad’s life might have ended prematurely, much of what I learned about helping those who are struggling with mental illness I can trace back to Mary’s course.
And I’ve been in many situations since losing my Dad when, thankfully, I’ve had the confidence to ask that difficult question. Ultimately, I know how important it is to ask.
Here’s the truth: A person who is suffering from depression and already feels like a failure will likely hide those feelings behind a mask. If we expect those same individuals to readily offer up their suicidal ideations without being questioned, we are fooling ourselves when it comes to the hard truths of mental illness.
The reality is this: I did not think my Dad was suicidal. I don’t think anyone in his life did, and in some senses, I try to remember that when I feel guilty for not asking him. My Dad was too bright, too outgoing, and too full-of-life (in my mind) to ever be suicidal. It just didn’t compute with the image of the man I knew.
That being said, I still wish I had asked. I’m not writing these words to beat myself up over what was left unsaid. I’m writing this in the hopes that those who are reading and find themselves in a similar position that I was in might have the courage to ask.
My Father’s death offers important lessons, and when I can help to prevent this same occurrence in the lives of others, I’ll do it. The lesson when it comes to asking this question is this: in most cases where a suicide occurs (like my Father’s), it’s rare that those around them could have ever envisioned this as a likely scenario. Whenever I talk with survivors of suicide (individuals who lose a loved one to suicide), they typically all say the same thing: we never could have imagined our loved one was suicidal. Yes, there are some cases where there may be visible warning signs on the surface or previous suicidal attempts (it doesn’t make suicide acceptable, but some instances are more predictable in others). Even in those situations, however, I think that no one really envisions suicide as something that is “likely” to occur. That’s because it’s unnatural. That’s because it shouldn’t occur. Life wasn’t designed that way.
But the unfortunate statistics bear out: it is occurring, and it’s occurring at a heartbreaking clip. Recent statistics are beyond frightening, showing an average of 130 deaths from suicide per day according to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.[1] On average, that’s a death from suicide roughly every 11 minutes in the United States.
So, the message is clear. We must ask. When we suspect a suicide might occur, we must root it out. We must give the suffering individual hope and a path forward other than death. We must overcome our own fears and ask a difficult question, because it may be exactly what the recipient of that question needs to hear to know they matter and bring them out of the cloud of hopelessness they are living within.
I didn’t write this story to wallow in my own guilt; I wrote this story to serve as an example to everyone in this life who loves someone or cares about someone that struggles with mental illness—and if the statistics tell us anything, that’s likely everyone. I wrote this story in the hopes that we might be able to normalize and de-stigmatize the conversation around mental illness. I wrote this story in the hopes that, in the same way we might inquire about someone’s health in the midst of a physical injury, we might learn to do the same in the throes of a mental injury. I wrote this post in the hopes that, someday, the question of “How are you doing?” can be met with more honesty than a perfunctory “I’m fine.” I wrote this story in the hopes that, someday, just one person who is unfortunately sitting across from someone who is hurting under the surface might find the courage to ask this unbelievably difficult question and save a life.
Had I asked this question, I don’t know what my Dad’s response would have been. There is a good likelihood that he would have kept his mask on tightly (as he did so many times before) and responded that he was not feeling suicidal even if he was. There is a good chance the question might have caught him off guard and sent off a warning sign that would have put myself and my family into a different mode of response. There is a good chance that he might have answered with honesty and we would have had an opportunity to talk him through how important he was to all of us who loved him while moving to get him the medical attention he so desperately needed. There is a chance we could have had a breakthrough.
No plan is full-proof, but even if there was an infinitesimal chance that it could have saved his life, I desperately wished I had asked it—even if the response from my Dad was not truthful.
Take it from me: I wish I had asked.
Sometimes, I wonder how I would have felt had my Dad told me that he was not suicidal only to have him die from that mechanism a few hours later. Would I be riddled with guilt that I put the thought into his head?
Here’s the truth: Knowing what I know now, the thought was already there. Maybe it had been there for longer than any of us knew. And it’s a thought that, unfortunately, is there for so many individuals who are struggling with mental illness. It’s a thought that burrows under the surface and invades our psyches when we are mentally ill. It’s a thought that, when given too much power, can close off our rational mental processes. And it’s a thought that, sadly, cannot be exposed unless someone from the outside shines a light on it.
It’s a thought that might only come to the surface if we find the courage to ask.
Asking that question is our way to shine a light on this epidemic. Asking individuals if they feel suicidal doesn’t put the thought there; it exposes a thought that is likely already in existence. Most importantly, asking the question is the only way to open the doors to healing and treatment for many who struggle to ask for it when they need it.
I won’t live my life wondering if I should have asked my Dad this question because I know I should have. That being said, I will not give into the temptation of guilt and feel responsible for my Dad’s death. There is no one, no one, who is guilty for what happened to my Dad on that fateful July morning—including my Dad. I don’t blame him. I don’t blame anyone in his life. I blame mental illness. I blame depression. I blame the stigmas developed in our society.
The only way to counter these is to ask. Mary taught me that—and having gone through a tragic loss of a loved one to suicide, I still believe she was right.
The only way to clear the path to that vulnerability and healing is to ask. When you interact with a loved one who you think might be suicidal, ask them and respond accordingly. Keep an eye out for warning signs. If they are suicidal, stay with them and find them the help they need offered by medical and psychiatric professionals.
And most importantly, love them. It might not seem like it, but just by asking this very difficult question, you are showing love. You are showing compassion and tremendous care by asking someone who is struggling if they’re contemplating a dangerous and unthinkable end. You would only ask that question if you loved that individual—remember that yourself, and remind the person that you’re asking just how much you love them.
In the end, those individuals that you ask will thank you for doing the difficult thing. And as a son who lost a beloved father to a horrible mental illness, I’ll thank you for helping to make sure that my Father’s story does not become someone else’s.
Together, we can learn to ask this question—and together, we can learn how to respond with empathy and care to those who answer it.
Dad, I miss you more and more each day that goes by. As much as I don’t want to, I often sit back and replay our last conversation together and wonder if I could have done more. I wonder what would have happened had I asked you whether or not you were experiencing suicidal thoughts. I don’t know that you were. I just know that I miss you. I just know that I wish I could have done more because we all loved you so much. You brought such vitality and fun to all of our lives. You were the glue that held so many of us together in unique ways. You were important to all of us, and even thought it has been more than seven years since your death, you are still missed beyond belief. Dad, I would give anything to be able to sit down with you again on that day—not for me, but for you. You deserved a long life. You deserved to grow old, and become a Grandpa, and retire, and all the things that come with a long life. Even though you’re gone, I am grateful that your story lives on and that you continue to inspire all of us through the way you lived your life. Dad, I have so many questions for you; but I’m thankful that when I get to the other side, none of this will matter. All of the hurt and pain that we experienced in this life will be gone. Together, we will be able to rest in an everlasting paradise where the pains of this life are a disappearing vapor. Until that day, know that I love you. Know that I’ll continue doing everything I can to keep your memory alive. Thank you, Dad, for always being there for me—I can still feel you here now. I love you, Dad. And for now, seeya Bub.
“For this is the message you heard from the beginning: We should love one another.” 1 John 3:11 (NIV)
Additional Resources: If you’re like me, you still struggle with the idea of asking someone you love and care for whether or not they are considering suicide. It’s a difficult idea to come to terms with, because those conversations about life and death are not fun to have. But the research is clear—your asking someone whether or not they are considering suicide or having suicidal thoughts could, in fact, save that person’s life. If you are struggling with this idea or have additional questions regarding this important part of assessing risk for self-harm, please explore these additional resources. I promise you that the time you spend reading them will be worth it to the individual lives that will be impacted by your desire to learn more and help:
“The Question That Could Save a Life” by Karen Young (Hey Sigmund)
And of course, I recommend that you learn more about the life-saving techniques offered through Mental Health First Aid, and if possible, I would encourage all of my readers to enroll in and complete a course.
References:
Over time, I learned—we all learned—how to support Dad when he crashed, and I think we learned by watching how he supported all of us. We didn’t get it right every time, but we tried to be there for him because that’s what he always did. My Dad was the guy who was just there for people. He listened, he didn’t judge, he empathized, and he gave us all reassurance and confidence that the crash didn’t define us. That’s what we all tried to do to support Dad. It was imperfectly executed, especially by me, but we tried. We gave it our best effort.
Dad, The comfort I felt in your arms walking home after my failed-and-unintentional-bike-stunt was a feeling that I can instantly snap back to at any moment—and it’s a feeling that I desperately miss. You were my rock. You were my safe haven. You provided protection from the dangers of the world, but you encouraged me to not play it safe. Dad, thank you for giving me the feeling of safety that allowed me to ride freely. Thank you for being there on all those days when I needed you most. I never questioned whether or not you were at my side, and even since your death, I’ve known that you were there. I think about you each day and wonder what life would look like if you were still here. Even though there’s sadness at that longing, I know that you’re in a place where the pain you experienced here exists no more. I’m thankful that you’re basking in the glow and warmth of Eternity where the pain of crashing is no more. Dad, I love you, and I miss you like crazy. Thanks for always being there for me—both in this world, and in the next. Until I can thank you face-to-face, seeya Bub. 
Dad, At times, Christmas has felt so empty without you. My heart has been enraptured with pain when I think about what was stolen from you and us by mental illness. You deserved many more Christmases. You deserved to celebrate with our growing family, and to eventually be a Grandfather who were spoiled with your generosity and sense of childlike wonder. The holidays had a special sparkle when you were here to celebrate them, and since you’ve been gone, we’ve all felt an overwhelming sense of loss, guilt, and sadness. But the gift that was given to us was the reassuring truth of knowing that you are safe in God’s arms—free of pain, distress, and all the unfair difficulties that haunted you in this life. Dad, there is no question in my mind where your Eternal mailing address is. I know you are in Heaven, watching down over all of us and telling us that life is going to work out even on the days when the pain of losing you makes it hard to believe. I think of you all the time, but even more so on Christmas. Christmas was a happy time because you provided so much joy to those you loved. Watching the way you enjoyed spending time with your family has been an inspiration to me, and I wish you and I could sit around, share a glass of punch, and laugh again the way we always did. Dad, thank you for teaching me what it means to be a man who loves his family not just at Christmas, but every day of the year. I have many more Christmases to go without you, but I’m looking forward to that first one we can spend together in Eternity. Until that day, I love you. Merry Christmas, Bub. 
Dad, my heart breaks each day when I think about losing you, and the past six years have been unbelievably difficult. I don’t want to have to navigate life without you because you had so much more to live for. Life was simply better when you were in it, Dad. You brought joy and laughter and security to the world around you, and we’ve all felt your absence every day. I also feel tremendous guilt because I wish it wouldn’t have taken your death for me to realize just how bad you were hurting. Dad, I should have been more patient and understanding. I should have shown you more empathy and grace because you were suffering from a disease that you couldn’t explain, identify, or even put into words. There are so many moments that I wish I could redo—days in which I treated you unfairly or without compassion. Although I can’t replay and fix those moments, I want to spend every day here on Earth trying to redeem your death. I want to make sure that everyone who reads my words and hears my voice knows your story, learns from it, and chooses a different path forward because of it. Dad, you gave me the courage to carry on in the face of your death, and although I’d do just about anything to have you back, I’m so grateful that you taught me to do everything I can to help others who are hurting. Thank you for always loving me. Thank you for always teaching me, even in your death. Thank you for all you gave to me, even on days when you couldn’t even take care of yourself. I love you, Dad, and I miss you tremendously. I can’t wait to be reunited forever in the glory of God’s eternal kingdom. Until that day, seeya Bub. 
Dad, Of all the difficult things that have happened since losing you, watching other fathers and sons has likely been the hardest. I still get jealous when I see other fathers and sons enjoying life together, because deep down I feel that you and I were robbed of precious time spent with one another. I don’t always know how to deal with these feelings, but you taught me to appreciate what we have in life more than longing for what we don’t have. And for all the experiences and moments that we might not have been able to share with one another, the 26 years that we did spend together as Father and Son here on earth were always filled with life, adventure, appreciation, and love. You taught me that it’s okay to be hurt and to not know all of the answers, but that in spite of that hurt, we should strive to love others at all times. And Dad, in spite of the pain I still feel to this day, I often ask God to teach me how to love others like you did. Although I still experience jealousy, it’s always coupled with an unfailing sense of longing for what is to come—a heavenly reunion in which I’ll be able to tell you, again, how much I loved you. Thank you, Dad, for always modeling hope. Thank you for giving me indelible memories that will never, ever be erased by the pain of jealousy. And thank you for loving me and everyone in your life with gusto. I love you, Dad, and until we can enjoy the gift of being near one another again, seeya Bub. 
It’s rare in the world of academia that a program is defined by the people who design and manage it, but Peter and Marcia were intellectual celebrities that earned every bit of that recognition and respect. Peter Magolda had been a faculty member at Miami since 1994, having earned a B.A. in Psychology from LaSalle College, an M.A. in Student Affairs from The Ohio State University, and a Ph.D. in Higher Education Administration from Indiana University. Peter’s work was ingenious. With respect and inventiveness, Peter was able to take anthropological tools and concepts usually associated with studying foreign cultures, and he applied those cultural study techniques in college settings. Prior to coming to graduate school, I would have never thought of that approach as a real or viable option for research; but Peter was exceptional at taking something that seemed undoable and bringing it to life.
His intellectual acumen was only matched by that of his wife, Dr. Marcia Baxter Magolda. Marcia’s name was everywhere within the field of higher education. To this day, her work on student development theory and self-authorship serves as the cornerstone of many graduate programs in education, and many colleges and universities use her findings as their primary pedagogical foundation. That she and Peter were able to find one another and grow together as partners was always so wonderful to me.
With just fourteen pages of thoughtful, handwritten notes that were altogether positive, sometimes critical, and always constructive, Peter helped chip away at the feelings of doubt and insecurity that had been holding me captive for that first year of graduate school. For the rest of that semester, I reminded myself of the faith Peter had in me. Anytime a reading was incomprehensible, I read through it twice. If a concept didn’t make sense to me, I asked Peter about it outside of class. I wasn’t trying to impress Peter—I was just trying to live up to whatever he saw in me that I could not see in myself.
Upon starting the activity, Peter spotted the Mr. Sketch markers. “Hey. Are these those markers that smell?” he said, not intending to be funny at all, but causing all of us to laugh. He grabbed the markers and went through each one, taking the cap off and waving it under his nose, giving us a play-by-play commentary of each scent. “What the hell is that supposed to be? Lime? I’ve never smelled a lime like that,” he said.
I had heard the news of Dad’s death and collapsed in the front yard before being whisked away by my neighbor, Billie. She took me into her home and sat me on her couch, tending to my grief with love and thoughtfulness. I was trying to process my thoughts and come to terms with the tragedy that was my life without the man who had been my hero, all while our family and the authorities were trying to get a handle on the crisis. After meeting with a detective and answering his questions to the best of my knowledge, Billie asked me who I needed to get in touch with immediately to inform them of the news. I said that I needed to talk with my pastor, Harville, and to my undergraduate mentor and Dean of Students, 
On that morning, I had shared the
Of all the pictures he took, however, he would rarely pose for a photograph himself. If you did ask for a photo with Peter, he would often make jokes about how he would only take one, and he would scramble and squirm to get out from in front of the lens as quickly as possible. I look back on those moments, however, and his anxiety over being photographed and preference for being the photographer make perfect sense because Peter Magolda was one of the most humble, other-centered men I have ever met in my entire life. Peter’s academic career was spent observing and telling the stories of others. His works—which were vast and impressive in both quality and quantity—were never braggadocious. Peter wanted to shine a light on those who he felt were overlooked and undervalued. His photography was just an extension of this life calling. He spent an entire life snapping pictures of the people he loved because he knew it made them feel the love they deserved.
When Peter called my name (same cadence as always), I stood next to the podium, and tried as hard as I could to hold back tears as he talked and shared my story. He talked about how proud he was that I had worked part time at Miami University Middletown all while earning my graduate degree. He talked about my ability to deal with adversity, recounting a story from shortly before Dad’s death when I had extinguished a severe electrical fire in my home that could have caused me to lose my entire house less than a year into owning it.
Peter’s death has not felt real to me; and now, nearly two months after hearing the news, it still doesn’t seem real that he’s gone. I can still hear his voice, his chuckle as he told amusing stories, and his unmistakable dialect. Over the past two months, I can’t begin to count the times when I’ve wanted to call Peter and seek his wisdom. As I continue to work on my doctorate, I want his advice about research topics and resources and dissertation committees. As I navigate challenging circumstances professionally, I desperately want to hear his perspective and vent with him. I want to tell him about my upcoming wedding, and I want to hear all about how much he is enjoying a retirement that he deserved more than anyone I know. I cry when I talk to others about Peter because I already feel the deep pain of his absence, and I feel an unrelenting guilt that I should have done more to connect with him and make our friendship a priority.
Peter was my encourager. Peter was my jokester. Peter was the man, just like my Dad, who reminded me that I didn’t always need to take life so seriously, and that I should enjoy those little moments. Peter was my conversationalist—the person I could talk to for hours on end, never feeling weary or bored because he was so engaged and so interesting. Peter was my processor and my wise mentor. His perspective, advice, and words of wisdom were a beacon of maturity and thoughtfulness to me—a young, often brash, emotionally charged rookie in the world of student affairs and college administration. Peter was my teacher—just like my Dad—giving me guideposts for how to live an authentic, significant life. That was who Peter Magolda was for me, and losing him feels like I’m losing another piece of my Dad all over again; and although Peter never claimed to be a replacement for my Father, he was surely there to be a Father-figure when I needed one most. And Peter, I will never, ever be able to say thank you enough.
Peter, I know exactly what you would say had I been privileged to share this post with you: “This is entirely too long, and you make me sound entirely more important than I actually am.” I feel as if I could have written many, many more pages, however. Even then I would have been unable to capture the impact your life made upon mine. Peter, you were an educator in every sense of the word. In the classroom, you taught me to analyze, and to examine, and to criticize and better the world around me. In our friendship, you taught me to enjoy life and spend less time worrying about the things that didn’t matter. And in the depths of my despair, in the darkest moment of my life, you helped me see through the walls of grief and loss that threatened to consume me. Peter, I will never be able to say thank you enough for the value you brought to my life and my journey. After losing my Dad, you were a Fatherly figure in my life. You helped council me and offered advice during difficult decisions, just as my Dad had always done. You encouraged me and pushed me with a perfect balance of compassion and motivation, just as my Dad had always done. And just like my Dad, you helped me laugh again. Peter, losing you has felt like losing another piece of my Dad, and even though you taught me how to be resilient and courageous, I’ll always be deeply saddened when I think of a life without you. Peter, your loss has already left a void in my life that is hard to articulate, and there are so many others who loved you that feel the same way. We wish you were still here, because we were all better people when you were in this life. In your honor, Peter, I hope we are all able to carry on the things you taught us. And Peter, thank you for never giving up on me.
Dad, I know you were a busy man, but it meant so much to me that you would come into my room each and every morning to say goodbye before you went off to work. I don’t know if I told you at the time, but I look back on those moments and realize how lucky I was to be able to start each and every morning knowing that I was loved. I’m so glad that we can laugh about the time that you forgot about me (I’m going to tease you about this on the other side, too), but more importantly I’m glad that the absence of a morning goodbye wasn’t routine for you. Dad, your life routines were based in love for other people. Your interactions with those around you were always rooted in care, grace, and a desire to let people know how you felt about them. I know that I don’t always live this lesson out, Dad, and I’m thankful that I have your life and plenty of those little moments to continue teaching me how to live in love with others. Dad, I pray that you never stop teaching me through your example. I pray that your life is a beacon to me and the multitude of people who knew you, and I hope that we never forget the ways in which you showed love to others. More importantly, I pray that we have a greeting rooted in love when Eternity calls, because I’ve missed you so very much. Thank you, Dad, for living a life led by love. Until I can get another pat on the head (after Willow, of course), seeya Bub. 
Dad, I’m sorry for all of those moments that we should have spent together. I’m sorry for all of those times that I wasted when we had the opportunity to just be together, but I didn’t realize the value of those moments. Ultimately, I’m just sorry we didn’t have more time. Dad, you brought such joy to my life—and to everyone’s life that you interacted with. Any amount of time with you would have failed to be enough. There are so many things we should have done together, and I’m sorry I didn’t make a more genuine effort to make those things happen. Dad, I hope that I’m still learning from your life. I hope that I am taking the time that God has given me and using it more wisely than I did before you died. It still doesn’t erase the pain of losing you and the desire to have more of you in my life, but I hope that I’m realizing the fragility of life and the need to invest my time in the things that matter—the things associated with loving God and loving other people. Dad, please continue teaching me. Thank you for living a vivid life that still feels important each and every day. And Dad, I’m keeping a list of all those things we should have done. Someday, we will have the opportunity to do them all, and I can’t wait. Until that day and the glorious reunion that awaits, seeya Bub. 
Dad, I really miss Christmas with you. I miss so many things about the Christmas mornings and holiday seasons we spent together. I miss seeing your smile as you opened tools and other gifts that Mom and I bought you. I miss watching you laugh at and take videos of Willow or Lucy as they tore open dog bones and puppy toys wrapped in shiny paper. I miss the elaborate and precise details of your gift wrapping, and I really miss watching you try to explain why you bought Mom certain gifts that puzzled us all. You showed all of us how to find joy on Christmas, and you never took a moment for granted on those special holiday celebrations. For that matter, you never took any moment in life for granted, and I’m trying to do that more and more each day. Thank you for teaching me, in the way you lived your life, how I should live my own. Thank you for helping me remember, even in your death, that the moments we have in this life are meant to be savored and enjoyed. Dad, I’m really looking forward to that first Christmas that we will have together in the life after. I’m looking forward to a reunion unlike any other. And I’m so excited to see you again, that I might even let you sleep in an extra fifteen minutes. Thank you for being a great Dad on Christmas, and a great Dad every single day of the year. Thank you for continuing to watch over me, and thank you for always reminding me what matters most. Love for God, love for family, and love for life are lessons you’ll never let me forget. One of the best Christmas gifts I’ve ever received is having a Father who made life count each and every day. I love you, Dad. Merry Christmas, and until we can celebrate again, seeya Bub. 
Like Sherlock Holmes getting ready to divulge the certain facts of a case that only he could divulge, Dad took a deep breath with a smug look on his face and launched into his explanation. “Because socks wear differently. Over time, the heels and toes start to get worn thin, and you can’t be comfortable in one thick sock that’s brand new and one thin sock that’s about to get a hole. So, I number them, and I don’t have to worry about that problem any longer.”
Dad, I still laugh when I think about your sock-numbering-insanity. I still smile when I think about all of the times I would rib you about putting numbers and letters on all your socks, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really miss seeing those numbers. More importantly, I miss seeing you kick your feet up on the recliner in our family room. I miss laughing with you while we watched television together. I miss hearing you snore as you napped in the recliner wearing your lucky pair of 14’s, and I miss those moments of levity and peace that we were able to build in our family home. Your personality was a force for good in our family, Dad. Through the big moments and the little, everyday behaviors, you made our home a better place. You made all of us better people—even though you couldn’t get anyone to join in on your sock-numbering. Those beautiful little moments gave life vivid color. You gave us entertainment and joy in seemingly simple ways, and I’m glad that I remember the quirks of your personality. I’m glad that I can focus on the simplistic beauty of your life without obsessing over its tragic end. Dad, thank you for always making life more beautiful. Thank you for giving to all of us more than we could have ever given you in return. I miss you tremendously. I miss you each and every day. And if I get to Heaven and you have numbered socks on, I seriously don’t know what I’m going to say to you. I’m sure you’ll keep me on my non-numbered toes. But until I can tease you again, seeya Bub. 
Seeya Bub 