I remember the first time I saw a parent outlive their child.
I don’t remember as vividly the next time I was present at such a moment, or a few of the times after that. But that first one, I remember.
The deceased was in his late teens or early twenties, though it was tough to tell based on what little of his face was left. He died with his friend, the two of them seated in a shitty car just north of Englewood on a bright summer day. Ambushed by men belonging to another gang, riding in another shitty car.
The crime scene stretched for blocks — dozens of shell casings, tire marks, bits of plastic bodywork from the vehicles involved in the shooting — it took over a dozen cops to hold the scene down as all the while a crowd grew increasingly impatient with CPD’s apparent lack of urgency. Few civilians understand the meticulous tedium that comes with a homicide investigation.
The crowd swelled, in size and in energy and anger, until they outnumbered the police at least 5 to 1. They started advancing on the line of us guarding the scene — we all moved deliberately and calmly, wary of causing any “provocation” — but the situation continued to deteriorate. A violent confrontation was becoming an inevitability. Until all on scene heard a voice over the clamor and shouting.
“Let him rest! Let him rest! That’s my son! That’s my boy. Let him rest.”
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Almost immediately, the energy and anger in the crowd dissipated, and the scene became quiet and somber. The police were able to go about their jobs unimpeded, and soon even the angriest voices in the crowd were silent.
And after all this time, what sticks with me is how clearly the boy’s father spoke, how deliberately. There was no shock in his voice — no alarm or surprise in his demeanor — a stark contrast compared to the other times I was there when a parent learned they just outlived their child. At that moment, all this father wanted in the world was for his son to have some dignity in death.
My memory isn’t the best, so I write down my funny stories for fear that in time, they’ll be forgotten. I don’t need to do that with this story. Instead, this one goes in a mental “box” — a box I’ve filled with moments where I went to bed that night a little bit different of a person than I was when I woke up. Just a little bit.
Add enough to that box, though, and the damn thing won’t close. It just stays cracked open, always, even when you sleep, and little bits of these moments that changed you are constantly trickling out, being played in your mind over and over again. Moments of loss, of danger, of waste, festering in your thoughts, manifesting as insecurity, paranoia, depression, and doubt in the worth of your work and yourself — the positive aspects of your personality chipped away until you barely remember a time when you weren’t cynical and angry. There’s some guilt associated with even having such a box to begin with — someone has always suffered worse than you, and seems to be handling it better.
I can’t speak for the dozens of Chicago Police we’ve lost to suicide over the last few years, and sadly they can’t speak for themselves. But when I was sitting alone in my car late one night after work, my pistol in hand and my finger on the trigger, if I had gone through with it, it would’ve been to finally close that fucking box.
Writing this now — with the benefit of a year’s hindsight — I’m glad I went home to the woman who would have missed me instead.
EAP — 312-743-0378
NAMI Chicago — 833-626-4244
