Epitaph

Nicholas Noah Paris (Meder) 

January 24, 1977- July 5, 2011

I try not to collect regrets. But I own a few. 
I lived with Nick & his mother for eleven years. I entered his life shortly before his seventh birthday. I was told he’d been a happy, energetic child possessing a giggling curiosity that enamoured all those lucky enough to cross his wake. But his parent’s early divorce & a brief abusive relationship suffered by his mother left him sullen and especially wary of men. Confronted with this, I found it convenient to follow the example my father had set. I stayed in the background. It didn’t occur to me that by doing nothing, I was doing something. That’s my first regret.

Nick passed through his childhood with the typical miscalculations associated with youth. When I departed the relationship in his eighteenth year I felt we’d come to accept each other’s limitations. From the outside where I comfortably sat, all seemed normal. It wasn’t.  

Nick’s life became more tempestuous. His teens disappeared along with his twenties. He would appear to be on the right path only to stumble again and again. Eventually, he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. His attempt to comfort himself with drugs resulted in addiction. His mother and stepfather offered patience and guidance, but the toll was exacting. We all resented Nicholas for the pain he caused them. When his father’s sudden illness took his life, a part of Nick seemed to die with him.  

The other side to Nick, the side I failed to notice, hadn’t completely disappeared from his early childhood. In the midst of his struggle, he changed his surname to that of his mother’s. He’d wanted to do that for many years, but had held off so not to offend his dad. He also took his step-father’s middle name in recognition of his efforts to parent him. It was this compassion, along with his wit and intelligence, that those who knew the “real” Nick tell me they will miss the most. I wasn’t fortunate enough to be one of those. I never asked. That’s my second & deepest regret.

What caused Nick to end his life will never be fully understood. It just is. A familiar story that replays itself so often that we’re almost immune. Until it lands on your doorstep.

I remember shopping with Nicholas and his mother on our first Christmas together. We passed by the Salvation Army matron clanging her bell. I self-consciously looked away. Nick reached into his pocket and put the five-dollar allowance his mother had just given him into the kettle.

A man beset with big problems and an even bigger heart is gone. That’s a tragedy.