Remembering Levi

Levi has been on my mind lately. Not always consciously. It’s the kind of thing that’s sitting right below the surface, ready to emerge at any moment. I didn’t even know him that well. That’s what I found myself saying out loud to my therapist a few weeks ago. I didn’t even really know him.

Let’s go back to the night of the Moriah rescue that I have written about previously. It was a dark and stormy night. Moths were dive-bombing my face due to the headlamp right above it. I remember lightning strikes, pouring rain, wet slabs, and my pounding heart. At one point, while I was carrying the litter to the patient’s right, at their feet, the volunteer behind me slipped and fell onto my back as we were descending a steep, rocky section of trail. For a few seconds, I was suddenly carrying a volunteer on my back while keeping a firm grip on the litter so as not to drop the patient.

Overwhelmed by my surroundings, I eventually swapped with another volunteer and got off the litter rotation. This was only my second mission with SAR, and I felt way over my head. Aside from the environmental stressors, there were the internal cries from my stomach. I had not eaten nearly enough for this physical demand.

Just a few hours prior, I had been casting my lure over the calm waters at Moore Dam, enjoying the blue skies and the summer breeze. I remember the call coming in and pressing ‘1’ to confirm that yes, I would be there. Looking back, I wish I could have gotten a preview of what was to come. I would have most definitely pressed ‘2’.

But I pressed ‘1’. Here I was now, walking in front of the litter crew. Behind me was a Fish & Game Conservation Officer who, although young-looking, presented himself as calm and confident. He wore his uniform well and moved with ease. I immediately felt safe, and he offered a great distraction while we worked our way to the trailhead. I remember at one point he told me he had a newborn baby and he wasn’t sleeping much at night, so losing sleep on this night was no big deal. He laughed about it at the time, and I laughed with him. I asked him what his name was, and he said it was Levi. We became friends that night.

The next time I saw him was at a SAR dinner at the AMC Highland Center in Crawford Notch. I picked him out of a crowded room of strangers and immediately went over to say hello. He was friendly and curious, asking me all sorts of questions, and we quickly discovered we both shared a religious upbringing. I remember feeling like I had found a kindred spirit.

A couple months passed. It was October of 2024. I was scrolling Facebook when suddenly Levi’s picture caught my eye. It had a date range below it. I will never forget the way my heart sank. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I just couldn’t. I still don’t want to. Minutes later, I received an email from the president of AVSAR letting all of us on the team know that Levi had died by suicide.

It’s hard to write about these things. It touches a nerve every time I let myself think too long about it. There is a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And so often, I have hesitated to share this for fear that it would trigger someone. But I was reminded this past week that people are craving the permission and safety to be open about such dark parts of our humanity. Even though it’s much more pleasant to focus on all the good things, sometimes we must wrestle with the hard things to better understand ourselves and others.

I’ve attempted suicide a few times in my life. I’ve never openly admitted that. Many years ago, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and was prescribed antidepressants. Therapy is something I’ve had for decades at this point, not because it’s “not working,” but because I know I need it to keep myself sane and accountable.

My closest attempt happened when I lived in Ecuador. I had overdosed on pills, and they messed me up bad enough that I was in the hospital for a few days. I remember, once I was awake, not being able to speak but being fully aware of my surroundings. Trying to tell my mother, “I have to pee,” turned into a guessing game of vowel sounds. “I a o ee.” The consonants just weren’t there. I couldn’t walk, so it was the only time I’ve ever had to pee lying down with a bedpan underneath me. It was not a graceful situation.

Had the overdose worked, I would have slipped into deep sleep and never woken up again. Painless for me. Shattering for those who loved me. Deeply shattering for the version of me that exists today. It hurts my chest to think about how I arrived at the decision to end my life and how close I was to succeeding. It hurts even more to know that Levi, my calm and confident kindred spirit, made a similar decision and succeeded.

Whenever I find out that someone is struggling with depression, I immediately remember my own experiences. Kind of like how I think of that Moriah rescue whenever I get a call-out from SAR that states ‘thunderstorms 50s’.

When I learned that Levi had died by suicide, I cried not only for his death. I cried for the suffering he must have been feeling when I knew him. The suffering that he kept hidden deep inside. I know what that feels like. Somewhere along the way of my ups and downs, I made a commitment to myself to never hide that kind of suffering again because it would almost certainly mean my death if I did.

That doesn’t mean I walk around pretending that everything is fine. It just means I hold myself responsible to speak up when I feel it. It’s a level of pain that always requires outside help. And I mean always.

Accepting help, I know now, doesn’t mean I’m weak. It actually is a sign of strength. Superhuman strength, because we’re not only resisting our inner demons that tell us to end it, we’re resisting the voice that says “nobody cares” or “you should feel shame for this.” And that is the most dangerous part of depression. The part that tells you to keep it a secret.

I still struggle sometimes, and I mentioned this in a Facebook post last week, which seemed to resonate with so many people. Even strangers. And I am paying attention to that. It tells me there are a lot of hurting people out there who are looking for permission to say, “Me too!”

This is not the kind of blog where I tell you, “I’m cured and here’s the solution!” This is me reminding you that there are a lot of us all around you, holding pain close to our chests, looking for relief.

I keep thinking back to that night on Moriah. I was overwhelmed and exhausted, and Levi hiked with me toward the trailhead. He made me feel safe. He distracted me from what I was struggling through, and for a little while, he helped make the hike easier.

I wish I had known then that he was carrying something too.

While I can’t go back and walk beside Levi through whatever darkness he was facing, I can pay closer attention to the people walking beside me now. And I can keep speaking up when my own load becomes too heavy.

Maybe that’s what remembering Levi means for me.

To notice what people carry. To make it safer to say when the load is too much. And to remember that sometimes the most important thing we can do for another human being is simply walk beside them until they reach the trailhead.

-Amanda