Outline

Chapter 4

The Suicide

On Saturday, November 18, 1979, I went deer hunting with David Frasier. He generously put me in his best deer stand and said, "Whatever you do, John, don’t shoot a doe!" Just as dawn broke and it was light enough to see, I spotted three deer directly in front of me. I fired two shots and got one. Unfortunately, I hit a doe. My friend was very upset with me for not following his instructions. As this was my first deer hunt, I lacked the patience to wait for a clear shot. All I knew was that deer were near me and I was deer hunting. (One of the three was a buck, but I fired haphazardly and killed the wrong one.)

After loading the doe in the truck, David and I went to his house to clean it. We gutted and skinned it and loaded it into my station wagon. I headed for home. I was so excited! I could hardly wait to show my dad. As I had hoped, he was happy for me -- although his thoughts seemed miles away as he congratulated me on my kill. It was as though I had interrupted him in the middle of something very serious and pressing.

I didn’t have a clue as to how to process the deer so I asked my dad to help. Almost as unskilled as I, he incorporated the skilled service of a neighbor, Doug Grider, a fellow professor at Tech. While Mr. Grider was there, my father seemed distant, aloof, and extremely uncomfortable. In fact, I expected he would have another anxiety attack. Mr. Grider made several futile attempts to dialogue. Though cordial, Dad spoke little – not especially odd as he had been ill at ease around everyone since his return from the hospital. He was, however, particularly uncomfortable around people from work.

As soon as the butchering was completed, Mr. Grider left. Dad and I went back inside the house. Unable to locate the freezer bags, I became frustrated. My frustration quickly transferred to Dad. He responded with another anxiety attack. His nerves were so shot that the slightest trial made him fall apart. I am so sorry I upset him. If I could only have that day back, I would tell him over and over how much I loved him. I would hug him and reassure him that things would be okay.

Still savoring the thrill of the morning’s success, I called another friend, Scott Moncrief, to arrange an afternoon hunt. It was set. I went to let my father know where I was going. At first, I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere. All of the sudden, he came in from the garage wearing a startled look on his face. After I told him of my plans, Dad extended his hand. I took it. He grasped my hand, put his other hand over mine, looked into my eyes, and said gently, "Bye, son".

It took us about an hour to get to our hunting spot. Once we put on our gear, I determined where we would meet at dark and we separated. After a lengthy walk through the woods, I found my deer stand and climbed into it. Thirty minutes later, something happened that I cannot fully explain. I felt as though something went right through me. I had no idea what it was, but I knew something was terribly wrong. I needed to get home immediately. I got down form my stand, ran as fast as I could through the woods, found Scott, and convinced him that we needed to hurry home. Running through the woods in the middle of deer season is insane, but there was no time to lose. II knew I had to get home – fast.

When we reached my house, I ran in to see if everything was okay. I found my mother in the kitchen cooking supper. As soon as she saw me she asked, "John, where is your father?" Instantly, I knew. I knew my father had taken his life. I can not explain how I knew, but I did. "Mom, I don’t know." She responded worriedly, "Well, it’s not like him to leave without saying where he’s going."

I ate supper and then just around, hoping my instinct was wrong. As time went by, Mom became very worried. I tried to comfort her with the idea that Dad probably went somewhere for help. "Maybe he was tempted to relapse, Mom, or maybe he did relapse." I said anything to keep her from worrying, knowing in my heart my father was dead. I truly believe that when he shot himself, I felt it. I know that sounds ludicrous, but it happened. When I went to bed, all I could do was cry and pray. I prayed with the hope that my gut feeling was wrong. I prayed that God would keep my dad from killing himself.

Early the next morning, I searched for my dad with Mr. Taylor, a fellow AA member. I told him that if my father had killed himself, he would have done so somewhere between our house and Lake Claiborne. He loved that lake; it was where we had done most of our fishing. Dad knew the roads well, and I had a hunch he would go there. Searching feverishly, we turned down every little road in the direction of the lake – every road, that is, except one. When we pulled up to a short, nondescript turnaround road, I told Mr. Taylor not to go in there. "Dad wouldn’t have gone down that road," I assured him. Actually, I was afraid. I just had an eerie feeling.

The next night, sleep again escaped me, I cried and prayed for hours, I pleaded with God to prevent my father from killing himself if he had not done so already. The following morning, the search continued. Dad was nowhere to be found. When I arrived home, Mom informed me that Dad’s pistol was missing. She had found a letter. In that dimly lit room, those last two weeks, that must have been what he was composing.

The next day a sheriff’s deputy pulled into our driveway. My next door neighbor was in the car with him. I ran up to the sheriff, "You found him, didn’t you?" He said, "Yes, Son, we did." I fell to the ground. I just went limp. It felt like all my insides were thrown out on the ground. I was numb. As soon as I could get to my feet, I ran crying into the house. The picture I saw when I entered my home is as vivid today as it was nineteen years ago. My mother and youngest sister were crying uncontrollable in our living room, the deputy attempting to console them. I sat down by Mom. She grabbed my hair with both hands. The look in her eyes was frightening. I thought she was losing her mind. In my parents’ bedroom, I found my oldest sister lying on their bed, clinging to Dad’s artificial leg.

The next thing I recall is the sheriff’s account of Dad’s death. He showed us where the bullet entered his head. Dad had been dead for several days. I asked where they found him. He described the very road I had been afraid to go down. What a great mercy of God it was that I was not the one to find Daddy. The autopsy report stated that a portion of his brain was exposed and maggots were all over him. I don’t believe I could have every gotten over the sight of my father in such a gory state.

The ensuing days were murderous. Grief and agony overcame me. I wept. I grieved. I wondered how I would or if I could go on without him – we were so close. Funeral arrangements were not easy. Selecting a casket to enclose my dad’s body brought to bear the stark reality that he was no more.

The funeral was held on November 21, 1979. My mother and grandmother didn’t want to see Daddy in the casket but I had to. I don’t think I could have ever accepted his death if I hadn’t. As I disparagingly gazed upon my father lying in that coffin, he looked different. His body had lost so much fluid that his face was flat and pale. I remember thinking this wasn’t really my dad.

During the funeral service, I was emotionless. I had cried until there were no tears left. Friends and family acquaintances cried, but I couldn’t. I wondered why my eyes were dry. Not until we arrived at the cemetery did my emotions overcome me. I wept uncontrollably. I could not bear the thought of my father being buried – that meant I would never see him again.

At home, friends and family members came to encourage us. Some offered to help; others acted as though nothing had happened. Two men made small talk and laughed. I burned with anger and asked, "How can you laugh at such a time?"

One of them commented, "Son, life must go on."

"Get out of my house!" I ordered.

In another conversation, I overheard a man from my father’s AA group commenting that Dad had said to him, "I have a gun and I’ll use it." He also said my father asked him to see if his insurance policy would pay in the event of suicide. It angered me incredibly to think that this man knew my father was considering suicide and did absolutely nothing.