Lately I’ve been revisiting the memories from my childhood that shaped me—the moments that seemed ordinary at first but ended up changing the course of my life. Some are joyful, some painful, but all of them are pieces of who I became. This is one of those memories.
It started like any other day in August 1973. The weather was warm, and with the beginning of school still two weeks away, it still felt very much like summer. Back then, classes never started before the first Monday after Labor Day.
My mom and sister were off at a shower for a family friend, so it was just Dad, me, and our dog, Pals. Dad decided we’d go visit Grandma Lubker. I was excited that Pals got to ride along—he didn’t always get to tag along on family visits.
Grandma lived in a four-family duplex on Morganford in South City. The building sat plain against the street, with just one tree, a bush, and a small front porch. Dad, Pals, and I climbed the steps and knocked on her door. No answer. Dad’s face shifted immediately—he knew something wasn’t right. He knocked again. Still silence.
Then came the scramble for his key.
At twelve years old, I wasn’t prepared for what we found when we walked inside. Grandma was lying on the couch under a blanket. She was alive but unconscious. The room was undisturbed, almost peaceful. Pals jumped up beside her, confused, and gently licked her face. She didn’t move. That was when I knew something was very wrong. Grandma never liked dogs—she would never have let him lick her without protest.
Dad was in full panic mode. This was long before 911 or cell phones. He tried calling for an ambulance, but back then you had to contact the ambulance company directly, and at first no one was available. He even tried lifting her himself, but she was too heavy for him to manage alone. Finally, one of the ambulance companies arrived and transported her to the hospital.
Without a cell phone, Dad struggled to track down my mom. Using the White Pages, he eventually found the house where the shower was being held. She and my sister rushed to join us at the hospital.
Grandma never regained consciousness. Three days later, 52 years ago today, she was gone. She was only 71 years old.
For many years I believed she had died of a heart attack. Only later did my mom tell me the truth: depression had overcome her, and she had taken her own life. At first, I hesitated to share that part of the story. But depression is real, and back then we didn’t understand it the way we do today. Maybe things would have been different if she’d had the support and resources people have now.
That summer taught me something I didn’t want to learn so young—that growing up also means losing people you love. First Uncle Ollie. Then Grandma Lubker. And with each loss, the world felt a little less safe, a little less certain.
Looking back now, I share this not only to honor my grandma, but to acknowledge the reality of depression. If talking about it helps even one person feel less alone, then her story continues in a way she never got to live out herself.
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