Gregory Freeman: Former Roommate, Longtime Friend, Lingering Question. P-D 10/16/1997

Headline: FORMER ROOMMATE, LONGTIME FRIEND, LINGERING QUESTION
Reporter: By Gregory Freeman

Publication: ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Last Printed: Thu., Oct. 16, 1997
Section: NEWS, Page: 1B, Edition: FIVE STAR LIFT

TODAY'S COLUMN is one I never thought I'd write.
A good friend committed suicide this week. An adult cousin took her life when I was about 10, but I've never known anyone since who committed suicide.

Any suicide is a tragedy, but it seems a greater one when the person is a good friend.
   David Schechter was that kind of a friend. We were joined together at the hip - at least for a while - when we were students at Washington University. We both worked for the twice-a-week college newspaper, Student Life. David was the Tuesday news editor; I was the Friday news editor.
   We were both sophomores, but David was younger than I - nearly three years younger. He was a bright kid, and although younger, he often seemed more mature, more thoughtful than many of us.
   David had lived with his folks in University City; I had lived with my family in north St. Louis.

By our senior year, both of us wanted our independence and rented an apartment near the university. It was there that we learned that we were the true odd couple. David was Felix Unger to my Oscar Madison. He was very neat and wanted things just so; I was a slob of incredible proportions.
   That probably strained our relationship a bit, but the one thing we always had in common was a love for journalism.
   We were seniors during the heyday of the disco era, and I'll never forget his wondering what the craze was all about. "The songs don't make any sense, " I remember him saying once while I was playing a disco tune whose only words were "Fly, Robin, fly, up up to the sky." He shook his head when I told him that no one paid attention to the words.
   He loved jazz, and his love of the music was infectious. I learned that, as a student at University City High School, he had played trumpet in a jazz combo. The combo was the first amateur group to ever play at Disneyland.
   David had a great sense of humor. He laughed easily. He did the funniest imitation of the Spinners singing "Games People Play." When my wife and I got married, other wedding guests gave us silver goblets, crystal and the like. David gave us a soft toilet seat. He wanted us to be comfortable in our marriage, he said.

After college, I went to work for a newspaper in Pontiac, Mich. He worked for a while as a copy clerk for the old Globe-Democrat. He later took a job with a small paper in Connecticut.
   We stayed in touch. And when he started having health problems that prevented him from working full time, he returned to St. Louis, and he, my wife and I would get together from time to time.
   He began writing free-lance stories and editing books. We knew that he was in pain, but he retained his sense of humor. He'd learned to cook - meals that were much more complicated than the macaroni and cheese dinners we often had when we were roommates. He'd occasionally have us over for dinner, and we'd spend hours, reminiscing, talking about journalism, talking about old friends.
   When I was hospitalized a couple of times for health problems of my own, David came and visited me, intent on cheering me up. He did it, too, telling funny stories and making amusing quips.

His health problems got worse. He began to give up on modern medicine and started trying such things as acupuncture to make him feel better. They provided some relief - but I suspect not as much as he had hoped.
He was distraught after his mother's death a couple of years ago, and I don't think he ever got over it. He'd talk about her sometimes, and about how he missed her.

When I got the news that he had killed himself, my thoughts immediately went to a month ago. David, my wife, my son and I had gotten together for dinner in the University City Loop. He wasn't his usual self. He talked of being depressed, of not feeling good about himself.
We told him that he was a good person, that he should try to do some things to take his mind off his depression. My wife later sent him an e-mail letter telling him that she was aware of some professional help that he might take advantage of. He wrote back, saying he was getting all the help he needed.
Despite his troubled last years, I'll always remember David as the fun-loving guy I met in college.

But I suppose I'll always wonder if there was something more that I could have done, something that I might have said to prevent him from taking his life.
I'll never know.
But it's a question I'll carry with me the rest of my life.

Daniel Schesch - Webweaver

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