My Uncle Alan struggled with mental illness for years. He bought a gun. He figured out when the shifts changed at the hospital near a park. He sat on a bench and shot himself.
I remember being called to the nurse’s office in high school and being told. When I got home, my father (Alan’s youngest brother) was quietly sitting on a hammock outside. Devastated by anger and sadness. Abandoned by his hero.
We adored Alan: his piano playing, his white buck shoes and his ability to keep his brothers close. That all disappeared when he did.