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

Gunnery Sergeant Corey Kerr took extraordinary pride in being a United States Marine. He demanded excellence from himself and others, and by recognizing the true potential of the younger Marines he trained, Kerr brought out their best. His legacy, his widow MaryAnne says, will be that of a protector, whose own postwar experience can and must lead to changes in the ways veterans interact with mental health services back at home.

Kerr felt the call to serve as a high school junior in Corry, a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania. The nation’s response to the 9/11 attacks inspired him to enlist in the Marine Corps because he knew something had to be done. By the time he was 21, Kerr had served two combat tours in Iraq with the 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines.

After returning from Iraq to Southern California’s Camp Pendleton, Kerr met MaryAnne in 2007, and the two fell for each other almost immediately. MaryAnne, studying to become a registered nurse at that time, had never dated an infantryman. She realized quickly that Corey would not be especially forthcoming about his experiences overseas.

“I never knew how to be around someone that had seen combat,” MaryAnne said. “I would be willing to listen, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”

While details were often sparse, MaryAnne knew her husband had experienced great loss in Iraq. On Dec. 1, 2005, 10 of Kerr’s fellow Marines were killed and 11 others injured when a pressure plate bomb exploded in an abandoned factory near Fallujah. Kerr did not share many details about that tragic day, but MaryAnne said her husband moved forward with a sense of survivor’s guilt.

Corey’s third combat deployment would be his first time overseas as a husband and a father. This tour took him to Afghanistan in 2010 with the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. He was assigned to the battalion commander’s security detail during the Battle of Sangin, where US forces clashed with the Taliban in a grueling campaign. The Marines of 3/5 endured hundreds of firefights and took heavy losses due to countless blasts from improvised explosive devices (IEDs). By the end of their tour in April 2011, the 3/5 had lost 25 Marines, making Sangin the bloodiest battle for American forces in Afghanistan.

Gunnery Sgt. Kerr took on recruiting duties for the Marine Corps back home in North Carolina in 2018 – 2020, where he and MaryAnne now had two school-aged children. MaryAnne recalls how Corey always had a bit of a temper, but the stress of his job seemed to exacerbate his anger. A few times, she suggested he find someone to talk to about his stress and trouble sleeping and whether it may be related to his combat experience, but Corey continued to push back.

“We were together for 15 years, and I had never seen the man cry,” MaryAnne said. “This man — who has seen so much trauma and has experienced so much loss — was so strong, and I thought, ‘How is he not crying?’”

Corey’s mother Brenda believes her son’s emotional restraint stemmed from his stepfather telling him men should never cry or show their feelings. This attitude, she says, was further instilled by military culture, which places the collective needs over those of the individual.

MaryAnne said the fuse on her husband’s temper seemed to get shorter and shorter, and she did not know what to do. He was drinking more and becoming very combative with his family. Corey scolded MaryAnne when he found out she asked his friends to encourage him to consider speaking with a therapist. Corey was now in his mid-30s, and MaryAnne tried whatever she could to help him realize his behavior had changed.

“This was not normal for Corey,” she said. “The person that I met at the very beginning was the man I married and fell in love with. Towards the end of his life, he was somebody I didn’t even know anymore. I was fearful of him.”

Corey visited a psychologist in December 2020, explaining his struggles with depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress. According to intake notes MaryAnne obtained, he mentioned how these issues were causing problems in his marriage and other relationships. He had his first appointment early 2021 but stopped going until a year later.  He had a total of six mental health visits.

Still struggling at home, Kerr returned to the same mental health clinic in January 2022, following the advice from his primary care manger after discovering Corey had stopped going. This time, according to MaryAnne, his psychologist focused almost exclusively on his marital troubles and less on his military experience and repeated exposure to bomb blasts in the Middle East. MaryAnne said he was never referred to a specialist for further evaluation of TBI after Corey stated he was exposed to multiple IED blasts.

“I wish they had done more than they did,” MaryAnne said. “I don’t feel like he got the care that he needed.”

Gunnery Sgt. Corey Kerr died by suicide June 11, 2022. He was 37.

At 3 a.m., just hours after her son’s death, Brenda was scouring the internet seeking any explanation for her son’s tragic spiral. She learned about Project Enlist and decided with MaryAnne to donate Corey’s brain for scientific study.

“We were so desperate for answers, just something to show that there was something wrong with Corey,” MaryAnne said. “He didn’t just wake up one day and decide to be this completely different person that we never imagined him being and he never wanted to be.”

Researchers at the UNITE Brain Bank concluded while Kerr did not have CTE, his brain did show evidence of a history of traumatic brain injury (TBI). MaryAnne says while this provided some sense of understanding, her work was just beginning.

“I’m sure there are so many Marines having these emotions, and they don’t even know what they’re going through,” she said. “How can this loving, charismatic man turn into this completely different person?”

MaryAnne hopes her family’s frustration with Corey’s experience seeking mental health services is not in vain. By its own admission, the Department of Defense has inadequately identified, tracked, and treated traumatic brain injury among service members. Corey’s experience, MaryAnne says, illustrates the necessity for better veteran mental health care and TBI treatments.

In addition to her push for systemic changes, MaryAnne hopes Corey’s story helps break down the mental health stigma grounded in military culture. She hopes anyone struggling with symptoms like Corey’s recognizes they are not alone, and help is available.

“Seeking help doesn’t make you weak,” she said. “If anything, it makes you look stronger, because you are not only looking out for yourself, but you’re doing it for your family.”

Corey Kerr put his life on the line for his country and for his fellow Marines. MaryAnne Kerr believes his story will continue to inspire brave men and women in uniform.

“He loved the Marine Corps and the people he served with in that brotherhood,” she said. “He would have wanted his brothers to know what went on with him, because this could help them.”

Paul was born in Boston on December 12, 1932. He was raised and educated in the Charlestown neighborhood and graduated from nearby Malden Catholic High School. Paul was very proud of his Charlestown roots and was a true “townie” who maintained life-long friendships from his early years. There, he also met his best friend and true love, Ruthie Dole. They would remain married for 67 years until her passing shortly before his. This is their story, really…

In 1961 Paul and Ruthie moved “up country” to the town of Wilmington, MA as their new family was beginning to grow, and grow it did! Over their years in Wilmington, they raised a beautiful family of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and were extremely close to their neighbors. Their home was the center of life for family and friends alike, where all were welcomed to just drop by or join them for their famous annual Christmas Eve bash. The “Silent Night” procession, the birthday cake, the prayers, and the laughter are never to be forgotten.

Paul was a Veteran who enlisted in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War, entering into service on October 23, 1952. He was sent to the Hospital Corp School and was stationed at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Chelsea, MA. Paul proudly served his country and received the Good Conduct Medal; honorably discharged to the United States Naval Reserves where he served until October of 1960.

Prior to his military service, Paul worked as a pharmacist apprentice for the Bunker Hill Drug Company in Charlestown. After returning from the Navy, Paul used his GI Bill to further his education and earned a degree from the New England College of Pharmacy (which later became part of Northeastern University). He went on to have a long and rewarding career in pharmacy that he approached with hard work, integrity and compassion at all times.

In 1967, Paul and Ruth opened their first drug store, The Village Apothecary in Billerica, MA. A legacy was born. The Village Apothecary was a “true, old fashioned family business,” run with a huge family atmosphere and everyone was involved. For both family and friends alike, if you needed a job, Paul was quick to put you to work. He worked hard and was always professional. He also had a heart of gold and would go over and above for his customers. Paul was known to show up at a customer’s home to deliver in all kinds of weather, run an account “on the cuff” if needed, and do whatever he could to help them through a rough patch with kindness and trust. He knew most of his customers on a first name basis and they referred to him as “Doc.” Paul made everyone feel as though they were the most important person in the store. In the mid-1980’s, Paul and Ruth decided to expand their venture when their son, Chris, joined his father’s profession. They opened The Village Apothecary II in their beloved hometown of Wilmington and the legacy grew. Paul eventually retired from the stores after more than 30 successful years and went on to work at the Veteran’s Hospital in Bedford, MA.

At the VA, Paul had a soft spot in his heart for the veterans returning from active duty with injuries ranging from physical disabilities to PTSD. He worked diligently with the doctors, making rounds with them daily to help develop plans that would suit their patients’ needs. Paul would also serve as preceptor to many pharmacy students just getting started in the profession – a role that he loved. In allowing students to shadow him in his work, he enjoyed sharing his professional knowledge and thrived on hearing their perspectives in life. Through his openness and lively personality, he impacted new generations of pharmacists as they would also learn by example to understand his style of compassionate care. Not surprisingly, he received the “Preceptor of the Year” award on multiple occasions. Paul also advanced his profession through his active membership in the Massachusetts Pharmacists Association and the Boston Druggists Association.

Through the years, Paul and Ruth kept in close contact with their childhood friends, made new ones, raised their family, vacationed, and spent happy times together. Paul contributed to his community and to future generations in ways that cannot be fully stated – both in the character he passed down to his own family and that which he shared with colleagues, acquaintances and strangers alike. In this spirit, he joins with others who contribute to a legacy of research and discovery that might bring hope to countless families in the future.

When passersby walk by the Martinez family’s home in Reedley, California, they come across a memorial for Matthew Martinez. Some visitors drop flowers next to Matthew’s monument, honoring the young man who grew up intrepidly exploring the valley’s natural splendor. Many salute his United States Marine Corps plaque, remembering the former Iraq War Veteran, gone too soon.

In the last 10 years, Carmen and Dale Martinez have developed many coping mechanisms to protect from the pain of their son’s death. They are comforted to know Matthew lived a robust 22 years, full of adventure, novel experiences, and so much laughter. They can look at Matthew’s son Noah, his doppelganger in both appearance and spirit. They can remember how Matthew did what he set out to do from a young age by serving his country.

But coping has its limits.

“As parents,” Carmen said, “we are not equipped to send our kids off. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”

As much vitality as Matthew and the countless other Veterans lost to the invisible wounds of war gave in their time on Earth, we could help them have even more, says Dale.

“These heroes who have served – they all have a story to tell. We want them to be healthy. We want them to seek help when they need it so they can share their stories of their life to their children and their grandchildren.”

Matthew Martinez was born on September 19, 1988. His parents fondly remember young Matthew’s zest for life.

“He was just a cool guy,” Carmen said. “He always wanted to please and do good for everybody.”

From a young age, he took advantage of the nature around him in California’s Central Valley. He was notorious for starting lemon fights on the Martinez family’s 25 acres of citrus orchards – hurling the fruit at his siblings and cousins.

Matthew was in his element during family camping outings at Sequoia or Yosemite National Parks. The vast landscape around him offered a chance to swim, hike, run, climb, and extract as much fun as he could from the world.

“He’d be the first one up a rock,” Carmen said. “Like Spiderman.”

After school, Matthew loved playing sports, dirt biking, working on cars, and taking camping trips with friends.

Many of the men in the Martinez family served in the United States Armed Forces. At the family’s many gatherings, Matthew listened closely as his grandfather, great uncles, uncles, and cousins shared stories from their time overseas.

Matthew was 12 years old on September 11, 2001. He watched many of his cousins immediately enlist in the war and serve in the initial invasion units in Iraq. When Matthew was a sophomore in high school, he decided to enlist in the U.S. Marines.

“He took a lot of pride in his family’s history of service,” Dale said. “He wanted to make us proud for his service and by his service. And he did.”

Martinez entered the Marines two months after graduating from Reedley High School. He graduated from boot camp in Camp Pendleton in San Diego in October 2006. A year later, he was deployed to Iraq.

A platoonmate of Matthew’s from his first deployment remembers a sudden thud to the back of his head while he was looking out into the distance.

The thud came via Corporal Martinez, who threw an orange at the platoonmate’s head. 7,500 miles away from home, Matthew found a new citrus to play with.

Matthew wrote home often during his first deployment. Over occasional video calls, Carmen and Dale saw the same joyful Matthew they raised for 18 years, albeit a bulkier version.

The first tour ended in May 2008. Matthew was back on U.S. soil, stationed a seven-hour drive away from home in Twentynine Palms, California.

In February 2009, Matthew’s son Noah Scott Martinez was born.

Once Noah was born, Matthew went home every chance he could, flooring the gas pedal from Twentynine Palms to Reedley. Matthew adored Noah and loved playing with him.

“Noah was his pride and joy,” Dale said.

Matthew left for his second deployment, a marine expedition unit (MEU), in September 2009. The MEU represents a dark period for the Martinez family’s communication with Matthew, as letters home were less frequent, and Matthew had less access to video calls than he did on the first deployment.

Dale and Carmen are still unsure about the specifics, but they know Matthew experienced a fair amount of injury on the MEU. They know he suffered several falls over the course of the deployment. They also know he operated heavy artillery – regularly putting him in range of blast waves that emanate from firing weapons.

Martinez returned from the MEU deployment in May 2010. He was honorably discharged from the service three months later. He was finally coming home for good.

“We were elated,” Carmen said. “We didn’t have to worry about him getting blown up, shot at, or taken prisoner. He was safe.”

Carmen looks back on those first few months of being reunited with Matthew as a “honeymoon period.” When he first came home, Martinez told his family he wanted to grow his hair out and relax for the first time in years. But for the next 10 months, he struggled to find such peace.

“It’s a disease that hides,” Carmen said. “He was fighting silent battles all while we thought everything was fine.”

The first sign of trouble was the headaches. Matthew frequently complained to his parents about headaches so painful he couldn’t sleep, and he rebuffed every time Dale and Carmen suggested he take medication and seek medical services.

Matthew was effortlessly cool and easygoing growing up. He loved life too much to be fazed by much of anything. After he was back home, Carmen was stunned to see her son get so upset when he discovered his burger order had been mixed up.

“The mood swings were probably when we first thought, ‘Whoa’,” Carmen said. “This is not Matt.”

There was a distance between pre-deployment Matthew and post-deployment Matthew. A similar distance emerged between Matthew and his son.

In between his first and second deployments, Matthew wanted as much to do with Noah as he possibly could. But after the MEU, Dale and Carmen noticed Matthew didn’t possess the same energy when he cared for Noah.

Matthew could tolerate caring for Noah for brief periods, but his patience grew thin over time due to the stressors of raising a toddler. When Noah began to fuss, Matthew would become agitated and leave the room.

Dale had seen this before. His father was a Vietnam Veteran and battled PTSD for much of his childhood. When Dale saw his son suffer from headaches, nightmares, and anxiety, he urged him to seek professional help.

Before Matthew’s service, he and his mother had a close relationship. They could talk about anything. But when Carmen asked him questions about his deployments, Matthew reassured her she didn’t need to know about what he experienced.

“That’s kind of how it works with Veterans,” Dale said. “They protect their loved ones from some of that exposure.”

Finally, in April 2011, Matthew and a cousin went to the VA together. There, Matthew received a referral for a psychiatric appointment he’d never make it to.

On Friday, June 3, 2011, Matthew erupted in rage while working at the family business over a simple matter. That night, Matthew made peace with his father over the outburst.

The following morning, Matthew woke up with a headache and took a nap in his parents’ bed. Hours later, Matthew died in his sleep of a brain hemorrhage. He was 22 years old.

In the hectic wake of tragedy, the Martinez family’s search for clarity led them to Dr. Ann McKee, Director of the UNITE Brain Bank. Dale spoke with Dr. McKee and arranged for her to study Matthew’s brain.

“I knew something wasn’t right,” Dale said. “This was a strong kid, 22 years old. How the heck does his brain explode?”

Dr. McKee found changes suggestive of CTE in Matthew’s brain. The Martinez family remembers Dr. McKee explaining how the findings of Matthew’s pathology report were unlike anything she had ever seen. She likened Matthew’s brain to that of a much older person. She theorized how the overlapping of Matthew’s PTSD with his likely history of TBI may have contributed to his sudden death.

The results brought a wave of emotions upon the Martinez family.

First, there was relief. If Dr. McKee did not report any changes to Matthew’s brain, Matthew’s last 10 months would have devastated Dale and Carmen.

Then, there was clarity. The mood swings Matthew exhibited after he returned home seemed to come from an entirely different person than the man Dale and Carmen raised. They often wondered what they had done to upset their son so much.

“Now we know it wasn’t us,” Carmen said. “There was so much more going on in his head.”

Finally, there was pride. Matthew was fiercely proud of his and his family’s military service. The family is assured he would have been proud to be part of research that will help other Veterans manage the symptoms of TBI, PTSD, and possible CTE.

The family supports CLF’s Project Enlist, which recruits and conducts outreach to the military and Veteran communities to encourage them to donate their brain for research. More research will beget ways to prevent, diagnose, and treat the invisible wounds of war Matthew endured.

Carmen and Dale urge other Veterans to embrace vulnerability and seek help.

“PTSD is a silent killer,” Carmen said. “Matthew was screaming out and no one could hear him because he could only hear himself.”

For parents of other struggling Veterans, they suggest persistence. If you see your child struggling, raise the issue and advocate for seeing a professional. Silence only contributes to the crippling stigmas of mental health in the military community.

Carmen Martinez’s favorite quote is also her wish for her son’s legacy.

No day shall erase you from the memory of time.

June 4, 2021 will mark 10 years since Matthew Martinez’s death. The Martinez family is planning a gathering to celebrate Matthew’s life and preserve his memory. Friends and family will join to reminisce on a life cut far too short.

“He was a hero to us,” Dale said. “He forever will be.”

Keith was born in Cleveland, OH on February 23, 1951 to Frank and Frances Pinkham and was the eldest of six kids. Keith always liked the outdoors and it was evident growing up. While in school he had trouble concentrating in class due to always staring out the window looking at the birds, squirrels or anything that had to do with nature. He learned how to hunt and fish with his father and grandfather. His younger brother Kevin was his favorite hunting and fishing buddy.

Keith Pinkham was kind, funny and an avid outdoorsman who loved to hunt, fish, and garden; he was smart and a jack of all trades. Keith could hold a conversation with people from all walks of life and fix just about anything, if he didn’t know how he would figure it out even if it took him all day.

Keith enlisted in the U.S. Army after graduating from high school in 1969. After completing basic training, he was deployed to Vietnam. His duty was to detect land mines and spray Agent Orange to clear the fields for the troops. One story he would tell was the time he stepped on a land mine; however, it didn’t detonate because it was not positioned in place correctly for it to go off. Upon his return from Vietnam, much like other Veterans, he had trouble adjusting to normal life. Back then there was no such thing as PTSD and Vietnam Veterans did not receive warm welcomes upon their return. He struggled with substance abuse and the demons that can come with being a war Veteran. Keith married, had two daughters, Krista and Julie, and divorced.

I meet Keith in Denver, CO in 1982 and we were married in 1983. I was a flight attendant at the time and lived in the apartment across from his brother Kevin. To this day I still can remember the first time I laid eyes on him. We both fondly remembered that day. He could recall what I was wearing and what I was doing. Keith came knocking on my door a couple weeks later.

Keith experienced a lot of trauma in his life, including the death of his brother Kevin in 1982 shortly after we met. Kevin was working overnight at the shop he managed. He had an accident and fell and hit his head. Keith found him the next morning when he went to relieve him. The paramedics did all they could, but it was already too late. Keith was devastated. Kevin was not only his brother but also his best friend. Keith struggled with night terrors about finding his brother and memories of Vietnam. Eventually, he overcame the loss. In 1998 his mother passed away after being diagnosed with stomach cancer just six months earlier. Her death was so sudden and was another big blow to Keith. She was the glue that held the family together. Despite these losses Keith persevered and went on to become an accomplished auto body repairman and painter, a trade he learned from his father.

In May of 1991, we moved to Austin, TX where Keith continued in the auto repair field eventually working his way up to manager of a successful local auto body repair shop. Being in this field throughout his adult life he started getting restless and looking for a change. He was offered a job working for a south Texas hunting outfitter and gladly accepted. You name it, Keith did it. He served as a hunting guide, cook, and learned everything he could about the business because his dream was to start his own outfitting service.

Keith did this for a couple of years before starting his own business “Old Buck Outfitters.” He thought the name was appropriate, an old coot starting his own business. He worked hard to get Old Buck Outfitters started, he would drive all over southern Texas to scout out properties he could lease for hunts until he found 500 acres with a ranch house in Sabinal, TX. Keith started advertising everywhere he could, and the business started growing, booking deer, hog, and dove hunts during season. I always teased him that it must be nice that his job is his “hobby.” Keith couldn’t have been happier, and I was delighted that he was finally doing something he thoroughly enjoyed and woke up every day feeling he had a purpose.

During the energy crisis in 2004-2005, gas prices rose and less people were booking hunts, but Keith still tried to keep the business going. Then as fate would have it, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer in late 2006. The cancer was serious but contained and hadn’t spread. With treatment, doctors gave Keith a good prognosis. Keith endured eight weeks of radiation therapy every day, followed by the implanting of 80 radioactive seeds.

In the middle of the radiation therapy Keith’s personality began to change; he became angry and distant, he started having nightmares of his mother and brother, and started drinking heavily. I assumed it was due to the diagnoses, treatments, and the business not doing well. I suggested therapy, however he declined. After months of pushing me away, Keith came to the realization that he needed help in dealing with his issues and realized he had to shut the business down. I found a psychologist that specialized in PTSD and couples and family counseling. Dr. Albanese ended up being a blessing. Keith was reluctant at first but started to open up about his feelings, night terrors, and experiences in Vietnam. Keith was suffering from PTSD and had a nervous breakdown. Dr. Albanese explained how traumatic life events can cause a person to start reliving situations they hoped to have forgotten.

Mentally, Keith started making good progress by seeing Dr. Albanese regularly. Unfortunately, months later he started having trouble breathing. After having numerous tests done, he was diagnosed with COPD and was prescribed medication to assist in breathing. Shortly after he developed jaundice followed by a diagnoses of Stage 3 cirrhosis of the liver; which led to ascites and constant outpatient visits to the hospital. After treatments and medication, things seemed to be under control when he developed radiation cystitis from the prostate cancer treatments. Keith ended up needing three blood transfusions due to blood loss and was in the ICU for a week. Because of the seriousness of the cystitis, his urologist suggested Keith get hyperbaric oxygen therapy to heal the wound from the radiation and help prevent a recurrence. He received oxygen therapy Monday through Friday for 40 days. Once again, his health started to stabilize and looked like he had made it through another health scare.

He wasn’t able to work due to the COPD but was still able to get around on his own and decided to get a companion to keep him company at home. In 2011, we adopted a beautiful, spunky chocolate lab puppy he named Hondo. Keith’s plan was to train Hondo to retrieve birds so he could take him hunting.

Unfortunately, in 2012 Keith started having a harder time breathing. We tried changing medications and increasing his dosages but he still struggled. He was placed on oxygen 24/7 and had to carry a tank everywhere he went. A year later the prostate cancer returned, however due to the COPD, a biopsy or surgery was not an option. Doctors were afraid to put him under sedation, so he was treated with hormone therapy. All they could do was attempt to slow it down and keep it from spreading. Keith received this treatment every six months, however in 2013 he was diagnosed with Stage 4 COPD and advanced cirrhosis of the liver.

As Keith’s health slowly worsened, ironically Hondo was growing into a strong, healthy dog. Hondo was a great companion and loved and looked after Keith. If he felt he was coughing too long, he would run around the house to find me and barked until I followed him to check on Keith. He would stare at Keith while he slept; at times he would yelp two or three times to wake him. Once he was sure he was awake and okay, he would go lay down. Hondo rarely left his side.

By the end of 2013, Keith had been in and out of the hospital. He had breathing issues, a collapsed lung, and head injuries from falling. He was also having trouble remembering things. At times he seemed confused, he could remember things clearly from the past but wasn’t sure what he did in the morning or would take his medication twice forgetting what time of day it was. I attributed this to his lack of oxygen and the encephalopathy from the cirrhosis, which his doctors said could happen.

Keith was still seeing the psychologist. His dreams and night terrors seemed to subside, and he would practice the exercises she suggested to deal with them. He hadn’t talked much about his time in Vietnam except for a story now and then but Keith started sharing the stories he kept to himself with Dr. Albanese. Talking about his experiences seemed to help, especially when he started sharing them with me after his sessions. It pained me to know what he and other Veterans went through. I never judged him and just said I loved him. I could see how these memories had affected his life throughout the years.

By now the only times Keith left the house were for doctor’s appointments or for medical tests. The last two years for his life were very hard on Keith. He had come to the realization that he was never going to be able to do the things he had enjoyed all his life. One Sunday morning in April, 2016 he started having trouble breathing and looked gray in color. I rushed him to the ER, they immediately tried to stabilize him however nothing worked, there was no option but to intubate him to help his breathing. After careful monitoring he seemed to be stable, they removed the tubes and he was breathing on his own with the help of oxygen. Over the next few days, Keith had to be intubated three times, with the third time briefly stopping his heart. Nothing helped Keith breathe on his own. Doctors said there were only two options; do a tracheotomy and insert a tube to help him breathe, however there was the risk of infection since it’s an open wound and he would need 24-hour care in a nursing home with no guarantee this would even work. The other option was to make him as comfortable as possible and let him go peacefully.

Even though Keith never wanted to be kept alive by artificial means and had an Advance Medical Directive, it was up to me to honor it and make the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make in my life. For the last few years Keith hadn’t had much of a life or anything to look forward to. It was time to set him free. On April 21, 2016 at 5:30 p.m. he took his last breath and died peacefully with me holding him. He was only 65 years young; that year we would have been married 33 years. I struggled with this decision for months.

I was asked if I wanted to donate Keith’s corneas upon his passing, however with his medical issues he was not a potential donor. I asked the representative of the cornea bank if he knew of any other organization that I could donate his lungs or liver especially for medical research to help others. He called back to inform me about the research that Boston University was doing for traumatic brain injuries. Being a football fan I had heard about this, but Keith never played football. He said they were doing research on combat Veterans to see if there is any correlation to CTE. If I was interested, he could get the paperwork emailed to me immediately as it needed to be done quickly. I agreed not only because of the importance of this research but it could provide me with some answers on Keith’s behaviors over the last nine or so years.

I received the call from Lisa McHale, CLF’s Director of Legacy Family Relations, to explain the interview process, how long it would take, her role and history of how she became involved in this research I knew I had made the right decision. Lisa was so very kind and compassionate. In December of 2016, I received the final diagnosis. Keith did not have CTE, however he did have age-related tauopathy with severe frontal and temporal lobe atrophy and the early stages of dementia. I had struggled with the decision to stop all treatments for Keith but this research allowed me to have closure and realize I made the best decision for him. It explained so much of his behaviors.

I’m so grateful for the research the Boston University CTE Center is conducting and I thank all the doctors who I spoke to as well as the ones behind the scenes. I cannot thank Lisa McHale enough. Her guidance though this process was incredible and appreciated.

I was blessed to have Keith in my life for many years, he introduced me to the outdoors and experiences I would not have had if it weren’t for him. My years as a flight attendant allowed us to travel and see new places. I was glad to have been able to give Keith this opportunity he might not have had otherwise. When Keith passed away I not only lost my husband but also my soul mate and best friend. When he took his last breath, Keith took my heart with him.