Ron was born on October 13, 1937, in Roseburg, OR. His parents, Frieda and Eugene Leonard, were farmers from Kansas who moved there during the Great Depression looking for work. He had one older brother, Gordon, who was both his idol and co-conspirator throughout life in terms of mischief.

When Ron was young, his family moved back to a farm in western Kansas, outside of the small town of Quinter. He worked on the farm from a very early age, often rising before dawn to tend to the fields before going to his one-room schoolhouse. He and Gordon would also go hunting for quail and doves in the morning before school, and so he grew comfortable using close-range firearms.

When he was eight years old, “Ronnie” began playing peewee football. At that point in 1945, all the players wore leather helmets and limited pads. Ron was a three-sport athlete through high school: football quarterback and halfback, baseball pitcher, and spring track sprinter. His teammate and good friend Gene Tilton remembers them both having their “bell rung” multiple times, shaking it off, and being put back in the game to continue playing.

After high school, Ron was recruited to play baseball at Kansas State University but pivoted to play football as a quarterback. He spent one year there before taking a sabbatical to “find himself” as a milkman in California. This also could have been a result of having “too much fun as a freshman and not enough time in the classroom,” in his words.

Ron returned to Kansas and transferred to Fort Hays State, starring as a quarterback for his final three years. He recalled multiple instances of suffering concussions, including crashing into an opponent’s bench after an especially fierce tackle in the rain. He recalled that he “came back to, in the huddle,” and barely remembers the rest of the game.

After a successful athletic career at Fort Hays State, Ron graduated with a biology degree and began to teach high school for several years. However, as much as Ron loved teaching and mentoring students, he felt a deep need to serve his country and pursue adventure in the military.

In 1963, Ron was commissioned into the United States Air Force, following his brother Gordon’s path as an enlisted man in the USAF. At the same time, Ron was recruited for the USAF inter-military football team and continued to play there. However, after two years in the Air Force as a communications specialist, he again grew restless in a desk job.

Through a fortuitous contact, Ron managed a one-time transfer into the U.S. Army with no loss of rank. It came with one stipulation – he would have to attend Airborne and Ranger School. His extreme and arduous training prepared him tremendously for extended combat in South Vietnam in 1966. He often remarked that the lessons he learned during those long days and nights saved his and others’ lives in Vietnam.

In November 1967, Ron and his company were at the center of action on Hill 875 at the Battle of Dak To. As Captain and company commander, his involvement and determined heroism are detailed in the book “The Long Gray Line: The American Journey of West Point’s Class of 1966” and “Dak To: The 173rd Airborne Brigade in South Vietnam’s Central Highlands, June-November 1967.”

For his service and bravery, Ron was awarded multiple military medals, including the Distinguished Service Cross (second in recognition only to the Medal of Honor), Silver Star, and several Purple Hearts due to injuries suffered during his career. He was shot in the leg and had a grenade explode in his proximity, leaving shrapnel in his torso which would remain for the rest of his life. At one point, Ron’s compass was shot off his wrist while lying on his back. He was also exposed to blast injuries while calling in air strikes and survived mortar attacks, along with the continuous trauma of being exposed to high caliber firearms at close range.

After his first tour in Vietnam, Ron returned to the U.S. and was honored to be selected as an instructor/cadre at the Ranger school in Florida. During the “jungle phase” of the Ranger course at Elgin AFB, he met Dabney Osbun Delaney. Dabney remembers many times where Ron would jump out of airplanes and “bounce” landings, a military term for a parachute failure and a hard landing. He finished his Army career as a Master Jumpmaster, having completed more than 150 airborne operations, i.e., “jumps.”

Approximately 18 months after they met, Dabney and Ron were married. In 1971, he headed back to South Vietnam as a district senior advisor. At one point in time, it was reported that there were no American survivors in his district. Fearing he was MIA or killed, Dabney and their new daughter, Kathryn, waited for information while stationed in Hawaii. A few days later, Dabney received a note from Ron saying he was alive, lying in a ditch, and had been calling in air and artillery fire on enemy positions.

Altogether, Ron ended up spending 28 years in the military with the Air Force and the Army. His service included stations at Fort Bragg, NC; South Korea as the battalion commander of the 2nd Infantry Division in the DMZ, Fort Leavenworth, KS; Carlisle Barracks, PA; Fort Stewart, GA; Fort Monroe, VA; Fort McNair, DC, as an instructor at the National War College, and the Pentagon.

Ron retired from the Army in 1991 and began working as a defense contractor in the Washington, D.C., area. He was stationed at the Pentagon on the morning of September 11, 2001. He and a friend were walking to get coffee when they noticed a female passerby who appeared lost. They reversed course, escorting the young woman in the other direction down the hall. Several moments later, American Airlines Flight 77 struck the Pentagon, crashing into the area where Ron and his colleague had originally been heading. After several hours of no contact, his family learned he had taken it upon himself to hold the door open for thousands of Pentagon personnel fleeing the building.

After many years of combat and defense contracting, Ron officially retired in 2005. He continued to drive thousands of miles to assist with his grandchildren’s care, and to satisfy his love for “packing, moving, and anything orderly.” Ron’s physical health remained excellent, competing annually in his age group at the Pentagon’s Army Ten-Miler.

Slowly, over the next decade, those who knew Ron best began to notice changes. His stories became disorganized, and he confabulated more. He became moody and withdrawn at times and exhibited some uncharacteristic aggressive behavior. At the request of his family, Ron was evaluated by his military health team at Fort Belvoir, VA, between 2016-2017, and was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment (MCI). As a proud former athlete and military hero, this was a shock to everyone, especially Ron.

In 2018, Ron was inducted into the Army Ranger Hall of Fame at Fort Benning, GA, and spoke to the audience when receiving his award. It was clear at that time he was struggling to communicate his thoughts and was frustrated by his limitations.

 

As his disease progressed, Ron struggled to function at home. In the spring of 2020, COVID struck and the family was forced into isolation. This period was especially difficult as he also lost his loyal dog, Jack. Going from walking the dog several times a day and exercising, Ron now retreated to sitting in his chair for hours at a time. Dabney noticed a decline in his mood and ability to function on his own.

Ron became dependent on Dabney for most tasks, like what groceries to pick up at the store, how to get home, and grew progressively more confused. In addition, he began to lose significant weight and have sleep disturbances. Ron was often awake multiple times during the night, wandering around and trying to leave the house to go “home.” He would forget the relatives and pets who had passed away and ask where they were.

The family made changes to the home, altering locks to prevent Ron’s wandering and sundowning, removing stove handles, and enlisting a wonderful aide who came and spent time with him during the day. Together, they sang and danced, something he loved to do throughout his life.

In the fall of 2022, after several disturbing episodes where Ron angrily tried to force his way out of the house, it became clear he could not safely be managed at home. Dabney and the family quickly, but reluctantly, decided to move out of their 30-year family home and into a progressive senior retirement community with associated memory care.

On December 1, 2022, Ron moved into his individual room at The Sylvestry Memory Care Center at Vinson Hall, in McLean, VA. The following day, Dabney moved into an independent living apartment across the street. She visited daily and watched as he became quite serene in this new environment. Ron became one of the favorites among the Sylvestry staff. He was known to be a gentleman by all the workers at the facility. As a military retirement memory care center for dementia patients, he was surrounded by other ex-military officers, some of whom he had served with during his career.

 

 

On March 19, 2024, Ron passed away peacefully after a brief illness, with family surrounding him. He died with dignity and will be buried at Arlington National Cemetery in late August 2024, with full military honors. In his last hours, the family decided to donate his eyes, brain, and spinal cord to the UNITE Brain Bank.

Ron started contact peewee football at age eight, suffering repeated brain injuries well into high school and college. As a decorated Army Ranger, he also endured multiple blast injuries and stress related trauma. We firmly believe the combination of the two arenas contributed to his rapid decline and ultimate diagnosis of Alzheimer’s dementia and CTE.

Our hope is that Ron’s unique situation of being a high-level athlete and a combat veteran will contribute significantly to the CTE community. If his donation helps identify serum markers which can be used to diagnose and limit further damage during one’s lifetime, his legacy will truly live on indefinitely.

Warning: This story contains mentions of suicide and may be triggering to some readers.

I remember the day Cameron called me at the Pentagon, a week before his high school graduation and proclaimed he was enlisting in the Unites States Marine Corps instead of going to college. Truly not the path I envisioned for Cameron, and a very different path he was about to take. Cameron had a fund already in place to pay for his college, and he was a good student at competitive Conneaut Lake High School in Pennsylvania. Cameron surprised our entire family by telling us he wanted to enlist in the Marine Corps. As I look back, the truth is, his choice in enlisting in the military over college deserved much more than a blank stare.

Since Cameron died by his own hand in January 2021 at the age of 22, over the several months since his passing I have had some says directly to me: “suicide is a selfish act.” I was not angry or insulted, but rather very sad that people still believe this to be true. If anything, in the mind of the one who takes their own life, it’s a selfless act. In Cameron’s case, his writings, and the discussions he had before he died, indicate to me that he felt he was a burden to those who loved him. In his suffering mind, Cameron felt we would all be better off without him.

Based on my experience with Cameron the little I had as his father, I believe his mind was so tortured and he was in so much mental pain, he was not thinking rationally when he took his own life. That is not what I would call selfish. Reading online from most since his death, Cameron was the kindest, most giving and thoughtful man many have ever known, and he would never do anything to intentionally hurt anyone.

Cameron grew up in Saegertown, PA and was an incredibly bright and intelligent kid. Due to the nature of my work in the Navy, I was often far away while he stayed with his mom and older sister in Pennsylvania. Cameron was close with the entire family and despite our physical distance, we still spoke often, and he had a very happy childhood.

Cameron continued to be an outstanding student in high school. He was part of the varsity wrestling team where he excelled but unfortunately experienced a couple of severe concussions.

Communication started to fade during Cameron’s sophomore year. After a few of his head injuries, he felt depressed and pulled away from us a bit. Recovery wasn’t going as expected and he became increasingly frustrated. We were able to reel him back in for a while and it seemed as if he was all set to attend college the following year.

That is, until a recruiter from the Marines reached out and asked if Cameron was interested in joining. The next thing we knew, he was off to boot camp only one week after graduating from high school. He told us he wanted to branch out from what he was accustomed to and have his own purpose in life. After boot camp, he served a four-year enlistment and was deployed for six months to Iraq.

Upon his return, Cameron seemed like a different person. We knew Cameron had suffered from traumatic brain injuries (TBIs) while in the Marines; once in a car wreck and another while on deployment in Djibouti. He was more withdrawn from the family and preferred to be alone. A counselor suggested he was struggling with PTSD, but it was never officially diagnosed. We believe his changes in behavior were linked to the head injuries he suffered both during his time playing contact sports and in the military.

There were so many cracks Cameron fell through. I don’t think he had access to the appropriate resources he was looking for and needed. I was told he was getting help, but no one had any records of his care when I checked. He was passed around from one person to the next until his honorable discharge from the Marines. Though he originally had a job lined up, things didn’t work out as planned. I know Cameron felt left behind, watching his friends from high school going off to college, getting married, and buying a house. Yet here he was with nothing to show for his service.

Cameron was popular, talented, and loved by his many friends and family members. Yet he felt alone in his struggles.

It’s hard to see a possible lesson the moment you get the phone call. It’s difficult to find a meaning when you’re attending the funeral with their anguished mother, sister, and devastated friends. It’s challenging to feel like you’ve somehow been educated in all matters of life and death and the moments in between when you’re struggling to find their last text messages and re-listening to voicemails and holding onto whatever lingering piece of them you have left.

But time as pushed forward and the pain becomes a second skin and the longing becomes commonplace, you realize a death like this, a death that is self-inflicted and self-decided and self-manufactured, is a death with a lot of lessons.

When my son chose to end his own life, I learned that we should not blame ourselves as a family (but it is a difficult task). While there were moments, I believe we could have intervened and things we could have said, the complexity of individual’s decisions and the way in which those choices manifest are too layered and mosaic to possibly understand. We use our own hindsight against us, but even when it is 20/20, it is a filtered view. It is colored in guilt and agony and while it seems clear, it is nothing if not blurry.

I feel situational depression and in the days since Cameron died, believe it is in no way even close to what Cameron must have felt suffering from his depression. The despair and hopelessness I feel as a failed father are so tortuous, I can’t even imagine what Cameron was going through in his final days. A month or so before he died, Cameron told me he was fine and he was working to get his back on track, but also afraid. He could not (or would not) share with me what he was afraid of. Only now do I realize how much he must have been suffering.

I believe there are two possible reasons why some say suicide is a selfish act. The first may be an attempt to comfort the suicide loss survivor(s) in an effort to help shift the guilt burden (blame) to the one who died. The second reason may be that it is easier for them to say “suicide is a selfish act” rather than really try to process why someone would take their own life. Being a suicide loss survivor gives one much more perspective – I hope to use this perspective to educate others.

After Cameron’s passing, his sister Kayleigh suggested donating his brain to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs VA, Boston University, and the Concussion Legacy Foundation (VA-BU-CLF) Brain Bank. She had done some work and research in Boston for her PhD degree in psychology and recommended we reach out. We immediately agreed since it was a way to honor Cameron’s legacy and allow him to help others even after death. If his donation helps even one fellow veteran, he will have made a huge difference.

While there was no official diagnosis of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), the researchers found disturbed white matter in Cameron’s brain. There is the possibility he was in the early stages of the disease, but it’s not definitive.

Since my son died by suicide, I learned that we rank death and, in turn, the level of mourning or heartache we should feel about it. While the result is the same, the manner in which a person dies somehow determines the manner in which the people left behind, should mourn. It’s strange, how we quantify death in order to fit our morals or beliefs or feelings of justice and vengeance.

I learned that death, itself, is strange.

I learned that while strangers react differently to the death of another stranger, depending on how they died, loves ones do not. Regardless of who or when or why or how, a loss is a loss to those who loved you most. The pain is the same. The sense of endless longing is the same. The forever wishes to see them one more time are the same.

I learned that if silence wasn’t considered a strength and vulnerability wasn’t considered a weakness, there would be far less funerals attended, and memorials visited.

I learned that there are moments in life, and in death, which do not come with answers. That while we so desperately need to understand the reasons why people do what they do or say what they say or believe what they believe, some things are not meant for understanding. That while it would calm our minds and hearts to know that our questions have conclusions, sometimes, it isn’t about our peace of mind. It is about theirs.

I learned that those left behind are not alone in their pain, nor are they particularly set apart because of it. Others have felt what you’ve felt and have tasted the tears you have tasted and have struggled to adequately describe it all. Just like you.

I learned that there is no single, foolproof path towards healing. While some need to talk, others desperately require the comfort of silence. While some seek solitude, others feel safe in a sea of strangers. While some need to saturate themselves with memories, others need distance and time before thinking about the one they lost. No way is right or wrong.

And I learned that, yes, there is a lesson to be learned at the end of every life, regardless of how that life was lost. That when the pain becomes a second skin and the longing becomes commonplace, you will be changed in a way that is both hurtful and helpful. Despite efforts to get him help, he slipped through our grasp. It is now that I must come to terms with the most brutal outcome for a parent: We could not save him.

And it is that knowledge that, perhaps, can help someone else.

Before it is too late.

I would highly encourage other families of veterans to consider donating their loved one brains as part of Project Enlist. Brain donation helps researchers gain a better understanding of the unique effects of military brain trauma exposure. I myself have also pledged my brain in the hopes of helping advance research for the next generation of veterans and servicemembers.

Suicide is preventable and help is available. If you are concerned that someone in your life may be suicidal, the five #BeThe1To steps are simple actions anyone can take to help someone in crisis. If you are struggling to cope and would like some emotional support, call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 to connect with a trained counselor. It’s free, confidential, and available to everyone in the United States. You do not have to be suicidal to call. If you’re not comfortable talking on the phone, consider using the Lifeline Crisis Chat at https://988lifeline.org/chat/

Are you or someone you know struggling with lingering concussion symptoms? We support patients and families through the CLF HelpLine, providing personalized help to those struggling with the outcomes of brain injury. Submit your request today and a dedicated member of the Concussion Legacy Foundation team will be happy to assist you.