John Costello

John Bernard Costello was born on September 7, 1917, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and died peacefully at home on September 29, 2011, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.

He graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1940 with a degree in business administration, and was a lifelong supporter of university alumni activities. He was a member of Phi Delta Theta fraternity. During his college years he was an avid boxer; boxing was an inter-collegiate sport at that time. He won the 1938 Minnesota Golden Gloves, Bantam Weight Division.

In 1942, he attended U.S.N.R. Midshipmen’s School at Northwestern University, and was commissioned an Ensign in the U.S. Navy. John saw action aboard submarine chasers throughout World War II, both in the North Atlantic and the Pacific. He participated in the invasion of Normandy on D-Day, and eventually became captain of a sub chaser in the Pacific.

John met Marian Greenwood in the summer of 1948 on a blind date at a dance at Interlochen Club in Minneapolis. They were married June 13, 1949, and observed their 62nd wedding anniversary in 2011.

In 1947, John joined Ford Motor Company in St. Paul, Minnesota, as a “Road Man,” calling on Ford dealers in the Midwest. When he was transferred to Dearborn, Michigan, he moved his family to Bloomfield Hills in 1957. John’s work was primarily in fleet sales and leasing, which involved extensive travel in the U.S., Europe, South America, and Australia. At the time of his retirement in 1991, he was Manager of Government Sales.

John and Marian belonged to various dance clubs through the years, and passed on their love of dance and music to their children. John was an amateur guitarist, and sang with choirs at St Hugo and St. Thomas More churches. He was also an occasional skier and an enthusiastic golfer.

John is survived by his wife, Marian, his children Elaine (Thompson) Potter, Robert Costello, Danny Costello, Cynthia (Cimarron) Buser, and Michael (Melinda) Costello. His grandchildren are Mary Potter, Jimmy Costello, Paul and Colette Buser, and Quinn Costello. He was preceded in death by his son James Costello.

 

 

Ryan Covey

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

 

As a kid, Ryan Covey was either naturally good at something or worked relentlessly to become good at it.

Ryan was extremely bright. He excelled in math and science classes his whole life in Methuen, Massachusetts. He took the SATs in seventh grade and nearly scored a 1300. He was accepted into Norwich University’s future leadership camp in his junior year of high school and planned to attend the school after graduating.

Ryan had a creative mind and loved to build things. His father, Ron Covey, remembers Ryan building incredible works out of popsicle sticks and being a maestro with his Etch-a-Sketch. Ryan had dreams of serving in the Marines Special Operations Command and then an architect.

Ryan always succeeded in sports and competition. He began with t-ball, then ventured into basketball, then started playing tackle football at age 9. He and his grandfather were members of the Methuen Rod and Gun Club and Ryan was Massachusetts’ co-junior champion trap shooter in 2006. Ron grew up idolizing Evel Knievel and took Ryan to see Evel when Ryan was 12. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as Ryan was magnetized to skateboarding and snowboarding.

But above all, Ryan Covey was naturally kind. Ryan came home with a “Star Citizen” award from school too many times to count. He was a fiercely loyal friend. He cherished his brother Timothy and his mother Caryn. He taught his younger cousins how to do all the things he could do.

“He was a beautiful person,” said Ron.

Because of Ryan’s gifts and work ethic, Ron felt his son’s dreams were more inevitable than they were aspirational. But everything came to a screeching halt in February 2006.

Ryan was skateboarding one afternoon during his junior year of high school. A passing driver stopped, left their vehicle, and assaulted Ryan. Doctors found Ryan had a broken nose and a CT scan discovered he also had a brain bleed.

Ryan missed some school to rehab from reconstructive surgery from the injury. When he first returned to school, he was his usual, reserved self. But about six weeks following the assault, Ryan’s ROTC instructor observed him in the school hallways singing, moonwalking, and behaving bizarrely. Ryan became very paranoid about another attack. His cognitive abilities plummeted. He had a psychotic break in late March of 2006.

“It was difficult for him to hook up a DVD player,” said Ron. “It was awful. It was odd. Everything was different.”

Out of concern, Ron admitted Ryan to the hospital, where he was prescribed psychiatric medications for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Ron estimates that hospital stay was the first of more than 40 hospitalizations for psychiatric issues over the next 14 years.

Ryan’s new behavioral and cognitive problems made school, where he had always thrived, extremely difficult. His acumen and work ethic had him way ahead in credits to graduate high school. But obtaining his final credits in an English class became an odyssey over his senior year.

Shela Covey, Ryan’s stepmother, came into Ryan’s life a few months after the assault. She helped Ryan persevere through high school and the two of them developed an extremely close relationship.

After graduating from Methuen High School in 2007, Ryan attended UMass Lowell. He left college before he finished his first semester due to another psychotic break.

“He’d come over and give us hugs and sit with us, but he couldn’t really have conversation. We’d kind of just talk at him,” said Shela. “It was awful.”

Ryan was admitted to Arbour Hospital, a mental health hospital in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, over the holidays in 2007. There, he was diagnosed with Schizoaffective disorder and prescribed clozapine, an anti-psychotic. The new medication helped him stabilize and function again.

During the years following the 2006 assault, Ryan began experimenting with drugs. In 2012, he was believed to be on an extremely high dose of cold medicine and suffered another massive crash while attempting to skateboard down a steep hill near his apartment. Ryan spent days in the ICU being treated for swelling in his brain. He was eventually discharged without any definitive diagnosis of concussion or TBI. Ron and Shela say the 2012 crash precipitated even more drastic changes in Ryan than the 2006 assault did.

“It was a complete game-changer,” Shela said. “His personality changed. Everything changed. He became very withdrawn and upset that he couldn’t do the things he wanted to do.”

After the crash, Ryan stopped taking his anti-psychotic medication. His drug use accelerated. His core group of friends distanced themselves from him. In search of a new community that would accept him, Ryan surrounded himself with new, strange people. Ron and Shela say the new people were not his friends, rather people who used Ryan’s generosity – and his apartment – so they could use drugs behind closed doors.

“He couldn’t understand that,” said Ron. “He couldn’t see the forest through the trees.”

In 2014, a psychiatrist in Andover, Massachusetts was caring for Ryan when he suggested Ryan undergo a functional MRI to assess for brain damage. Until then, Ron and Shela assumed Ryan’s problems were stemmed from his own mental illness, as Ryan had a family history of mental illness. But the psychiatrist was the first person to associate his issues with brain injuries, and suggested Ryan participate in clinical research for brain trauma patients.

The suggestion caused Ron and Shela to ask Ryan about his concussion history. Ron knew of one diagnosed concussion Ryan suffered playing football. But he also skateboarded and snowboarded, so maybe three or four in total, they guessed.

Ryan chuckled at the estimate, leading Ron and Shela to assume he had suffered many more concussions in his life. Ron believes his son, who never quit anything before he had mastered it, could have tried and failed skateboard tricks hundreds of times, usually without wearing a helmet.

For the next five years, Ryan was in and out of various institutions. Mental health facilities in Massachusetts helped him find jobs for brief periods of time, but his impulsive behavior frequently cost him employment.

Ryan’s waywardness continued until it came to a head in June 2019. He was arrested following an altercation with Methuen police after he tried to steal a police cruiser. He was believed to be on drugs during the incident.

The resulting court appearance concluded with a judge ordering Ryan to stay off drugs and alcohol. Ryan diligently followed the orders and the sobriety brought him some long-lost clarity.

“I really got to know Ryan for Ryan,” said Shela. “Because there weren’t all the drugs interfering with his personality.”

Ryan was clean but still not mentally healthy. He was constantly, painfully anxious. He talked openly with Shela about the pain he was in, including thoughts of suicide.

Ron describes Ryan’s 31st birthday on September 28, 2019, as “horrible”. While out to dinner with family, Ryan couldn’t sit still and rocked back and forth violently. He was later admitted to the hospital from an anxiety attack.

“That one pulls at my heart strings,” said Ron of that birthday dinner. “That was an extremely helpless feeling for me. He was tormented.”

On February 3, 2020, Ron went to pick Ryan up so they could go get haircuts. When Ron entered the apartment, he found Ryan dead. Authorities ruled his death a suicide. Toxicology reports concluded Ryan was drug-free at the time of his death.

In their anguish over the next 24 hours, Ron and Shela remembered Ryan’s psychiatrist suggesting CTE in 2014. They called the UNITE Brain Bank and donated Ryan’s brain for research.

“It’s helping the study and the future,” said Ron Covey to the Eagle Tribune after he donated Ryan’s brain. “My son would have loved that.”

Researchers at the Brain Bank did not find evidence of CTE in Ryan’s brain. They did, however, find significant damage to Ryan’s frontal lobe. The damage helped explain Ryan’s behavioral changes, impulsivity, loss of reasoning skills, and diminished cognitive abilities over his last 14 years.

Ron hopes Ryan’s diagnosis will help those who wrote him off as a drug addict understand him differently. He knows Ryan may have been bound to suffer from mental illness at some point in his life. But he believes the 2006 assault completely altered the trajectory of his son’s life.

“He would have been that brilliant, smart kid,” said Ron. “He would have made a fantastic father. Because he was so good with kids.”

Thinking back, Ron and Shela both wish they knew more about the potential effects of brain injury. It wasn’t until after Ryan’s death that they ever heard of Post-Concussion Syndrome or considered the extent to which Ryan’s head trauma may have impacted him. They hope his story can be a gift to other families who are navigating the same waters they did.

“There has to be more out there about traumatic brain injury, not just CTE,” said Shela. “CTE is a good jumping off point that makes people perk up and listen, but brain injuries should not be ignored.”

The prevailing word Ron and Shela use when describing Ryan is love. They remember Ryan’s deep love for his family – extending to Ron, his brother, his cousins, and to Shela and her children. And they loved Ryan, unequivocally.

“I know that he knows that I loved him more than anything,” said Ron.

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 988 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.

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.

This story adheres to the Recommendations for Reporting on Suicide from reportingonsuicide.org

Joseph Coyle

The honor of being at my father’s side when he passed on September 21, 2022, was a day I’ll hold dear the rest of my life. I felt it a privilege to be there in the final moments of a life I believe was that of a hero. For certain, he was a good man. He always tried to do his best and my earliest memories in life are of him and how good a Dad he was, how much he wanted what was best for me.

Joseph “Joe” Francis Coyle was born in the Mission Hill neighborhood of Boston on June 21, 1936. It was a tough Irish Catholic neighborhood and he was definitely a city kid. The 1940s in Mission Hill were much like the rest of America where post-Depression and WWII were the dominant forces for kids growing up. He was very intelligent, however school and academics were not his focus and he enlisted in the Marine Corps at 17.

His strong personality and being from Boston made for interesting stories, including his tour of duty in Korea. He incurred several documented injuries where he suffered head injuries, one in particular was severe and his brain/skull was operated on. He was young, strong, and recovered quickly and probably thought little of it after the fact.

After being discharged and returning home, he worked several jobs, including joining the Metropolitan Police Department (merging later with the Massachusetts State Police). The Metropolitan Police was a department that covered unique jurisdictions ranging from rural state properties to inner city patrol assignments. He did them all with the same intensity as the city kid who joined the Marines.

Before they had some of the current police equipment of today, cops in the 60s, 70s and 80s resorted to much of their suspect interactions using their hands, engaging in arrests resulting from a fight. He certainly did not back down from anyone and from all accounts was in the fight whenever needed. I’m sure he took additional brain trauma in the years he was working nights in Boston.

He was well read, well spoken, and challenged me to expand my goals and intellectual pursuits. He truly was the smartest guy I’ve ever known. He was always available for any advice I ever needed and looking back, he was instrumental in my life and successes. Whether during my time in the Marine Corps, or in college, or at a new job, or in a relationship, I could talk to him and get the advice of a dad who only wished the best for his son. I have so many memories of having a tough, but loving dad that truly wanted and prayed for my success. I’m so grateful for every day I had him and miss him still, always will.

In 2016, when he was age 80, I started to notice little things, forgetful inconsequential patterns which I wrote off to natural aging. Just a missed appointment or repeating himself or losing his train of thought easily – all of which were very new for me to see in him. Concerned enough, I moved him in with me in Boston, so I could look out for and take care of him as he always did for me.

At the time, I was a Boston firefighter and worked 24-hour shifts, but felt calling him often while at work would be OK on those days. It was only living with him that I realized it was so much worse than I thought. I was seeing how short his memory had become and when I returned home, I could tell he didn’t really know how long I had been gone. It was apparent to both of us he needed 24/7 care that I wasn’t able to give him.

Once in the care facilities in Boston, we could really see something was very off. Some medical professionals thought it was typical Alzheimer’s and/or dementia. As a firefighter I had seen a lot of both diseases and just didn’t think it fit him. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but knew it was something else.

After seeing several documentaries on CTE in football and some subsequent reading on the subject, I just knew it was the answer. I really had no doubt. I told my dad my thoughts, he would listen and agree and two minutes later he would tell me he thinks he’s having memory issues and wasn’t sure why. I’d tell him about CTE and he would listen and agree – and two minutes later tell me he thinks his memory is failing and he’s not sure why.

I researched BU’s Brain Bank and made a point of telling my dad more than ten times over several months I wanted us to donate his brain for study. We had a laugh once when I told him again about the plan and he sat up and said, “When?!?” I told him, “After you pass.” “Oh that’s fine,” he replied back. I can still hear his laugh, so genuine, just wanting to enjoy the company with him and make sure everyone around him felt good.

Within an hour of his death, arrangements were made with the amazing and dedicated scientists at BU to harvest and study his brain. I was hopeful, if my suspicions were found to be true, some good needed to come from his donation.

In the week between his death and funeral, friends of mine from the military and fire department started gathering to recall stories of my dad and begin to assist me in laying him to rest. It was an honor to have them, heroes of mine, to help me in giving the first hero of my life the burial honors he earned and deserved.

The researchers got back to me once my dad’s study was complete and told me they found stage 4 (of 4) CTE. It was comforting to know the answer as to what had been impacting his final years. To have my friends, all serving in those very roles he served in, carrying his casket I immediately knew I wanted his life and service to continue in the Legacy efforts to help others. I look forward to sharing my dad’s story so military members returning home or young cops on the job might be more aware of the critical education and care needed for themselves and their peers, regarding brain injuries resulting from work related traumas.

The effort was best summed up when I told Congressman Seth Moulton about the report findings and my hopes for my dad’s story helping others: “And now he continues to serve others!” I look forward to the path ahead, gaining education and working together to advance awareness and policy to care for those who protect us everyday.

Maybe my next conversation with Congressman Moulton will be more formal.

 

Louis Creekmur

Lou Creekmur was unwaveringly loyal and relentlessly tough in everything he did. Creekmur was born on January 22, 1927, in Hopelawn, New Jersey. He went on to play college football at the College of William and Mary, but his football career was interrupted when he served in the US Army to fight in World War II in 1945 and 1946.

Creekmur returned to William & Mary and finished school before being acquired by the Detroit Lions prior to the 1950 NFL season. He immediately held the crucial responsibility of protecting Bobby Layne and Doak Walker, the Lions’ star quarterback and running back, respectively. Early in his first season, Creekmur felt Layne’s scorn after allowing a sack. He made a vow to his quarterback.

“I didn’t want to take the wrath of Bobby Layne. If I was going to stay in the league, I was going to block for Bobby Layne. I was going to do everything possible to not let any one of those defensive guys get to Bobby Layne,” said Creekmur in an NFL Films documentary.

He lived up to his word. Creekmur played every single snap in every practice, and all 165 preseason, regular season, and playoff game the Lions played from 1950-1958, including NFL Championship games. In many of those games, Creekmur was playing with at least one significant injury.

“I played one complete season with a crushed sternum and just put a pad over it… You were going to get paid on Monday, so I had to play on Sunday,” said Creekmur.

In addition to his litany of bone and muscle injuries, Creekmur also suffered several concussions in an era where offensive linemen led with their heads, not their hands. He and his last wife Caroline recounted “16 or 17” concussions in his career.

 

During Creekmur’s career, playing in the NFL wasn’t all that lucrative. He, like many of his peers, held day jobs during the football season. Creekmur was a manager at the Saginaw Transfer Co.

“There were many days when I’d make a call on a Monday morning after a football game with a black eye or a bloody nose or a cut across my forehead. For some reason, I was always let in to see the boss first,” said Creekmur.

After the 1958 season, Creekmur retired from football to focus on his business career. But after the Lions started out with a dismal 0-4 record in 1959, Creekmur’s iconic loyalty was on full display. The Lions called him back to play, and Creekmur obliged to help the Lions finish out the season. He officially retired from football after the 1959 season.

In 1996, Creekmur’s tenacious nature paid off once again. After years of urging, Creekmur was enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

Creekmur went on to serve as the Public Relations Director of Ryder Systems, Inc. until his retirement. But in the late 1970’s, Creekmur began to experience cognitive and behavioral issues. His memory progressively faded, he grew inattentive, his executive functioning declined, and he became increasingly intense, angry, and aggressive. He was thought to be suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

Lou Creekmur passed away on July 5, 2009, at age 82. After his death, his brain was studied by Dr. Ann McKee and the research team at the UNITE Brain Bank. He became the 10th former NFL player diagnosed with Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE).

“By examining his brain, I was able to confirm that there was absolutely no sign of Alzheimer’s disease or any other type of neurodegenerative disease except for severe CTE. This is the most advanced case of CTE I’ve seen in a football player; his brain changes were similar to those of profoundly affected professional boxers,” said Dr. McKee in 2009.

Creekmur’s brain pathology helped show the world the toll a career in football could have. He will forever be known for his relentless offensive line play and his dedication to his country, his teammates, and his family.

Jim Crenshaw

Jim Crenshaw grew up in Weir, Mississippi, where Friday night lights were the weekly highlight for the entire town. He began playing football in middle school, continuing for 10 years and suffering multiple untreated concussions. He received a scholarship to play for Mississippi State where he played for one season, but when Jim’s coach moved to University of Richmond, Jim followed. There, Jim was co-captain of the football team, played in the 1968 Tangerine Bowl, and holds the record for most punt returns in a game. His primary position throughout football was running back.

I met Jim in 1991. We were friends for a couple years before we became a couple. He was charismatic, funny, and so very handsome. What attracted me most was his strong faith. He believed completely in God’s faithfulness and grace which was what got all of us through this long journey.

Jim never met a stranger and could strike up a conversation with a tree. That is probably why he enjoyed such a successful career in medical sales. I knew he was disorganized and that he often forgot things but I thought that was “just Jim” and it did not at that time interfere with his success or relationships.

We married in 1996 and began what I thought would continue to be a life filled with travel, laughs, and new memories. We both loved football so autumn weekends were our favorite and bowl season was a traveling frenzy. Within a couple years I saw Jim’s struggles more closely—how he had to work so hard to remember appointments, to get places on time, and the extra time he put in his work to get it all done. I noticed erratic sleep patterns and some nights of almost no sleep at all.

We talked about his sleep issues and decided they had to be due to stress. Jim agreed to see a psychologist who diagnosed him with ADHD and his family physician prescribed an anti-depressant for anxiety. This helped but it was certainly not a cure. It thankfully allowed Jim to manage his symptoms. Sleep came more easily, but he still never slept more than five hours per night. He lived by sticky notes and his calendar.

The years moved on and Jim’s personality changed slowly. His methods of compensating were no longer working so his symptoms became more obvious. He was more emotional and frustrated. There was more memory loss. The man who could talk to a tree now struggled to carry on a comprehensible conversation. I was so frustrated at this point because I had no clue what was happening to my husband. In hindsight, I didn’t know how good it would have been if Jim’s symptoms plateaued there. But it got worse.

Jim forgot bills had to be paid but continued making purchases and nearly drained our finances. His financial mismanagement was the biggest red flag of all. At his best, Jim was the most frugal man on Earth! He lost important papers. He got traffic tickets. He got lost in the most familiar places. He would sneak out at night. He hoarded everything from toilet paper to newspapers to water. He was not being productive at work, so he was asked to take early retirement, which was very kind of his employer. They could have let him go with no compensation.

Jim saw a neurologist, internist, cardiologist and family physician. In a twist of irony, the internist referred us to the psychologist that had seen him 15 years earlier. No one could give us a diagnosis. The neurologist offered early Alzheimer’s Disease which I immediately rebuked. This just did not look like the typical Alzheimer’s symptoms. But the neurologist had no other guess.

From there, life became a blur. Jim took a nosedive into the deeper symptoms of CTE and by 2013 I truly thought I was going crazy. We had sold our home in Atlanta and moved to Florida to be near our daughter who is a nurse. I needed a support system. Our new primary care physician there recommended a neurologist in the area and we had our first appointment with him in July 2014. He spent five minutes with Jim and said, “It is CTE.” I said, “What is CTE?” He proceeded to tell me. At that point it did not matter that he said there was no cure. I finally had a promising suspected diagnosis we could confirm after death. There was a reason my husband was having these problems. He was not choosing to be a different person. He did not want to be like this. He did not want to make my life difficult. He was the same person I married except now, his brain was so sick it was affecting every other part of him.

Jim passed away on January 18, 2019, at age 71. His brain was sent to the UNITE Brain Bank. Researchers there confirmed our suspicions. Jim was diagnosed with Stage 3 (of 4) CTE.

From 2014 until Jim’s death, I watched that sweet, fun, lover of mine stop talking, walking, and eating. I watched him turn into something no one should ever have to become. CTE took so many good years of his life and the lives of our family. It took away a fun grandfather of 13 and stole years of unmade memories. It took his dignity. It took his arms, legs, and organs. But it could not take the legacy Jim Crenshaw leaves behind for his family and friends, and all the people he met along his journey — those “trees” he talked with who probably did not even know his name. Thank you, #42. You are loved and missed!

Jared Crippen

 

This story adheres to the Recommendations for Reporting on Suicide from reportingonsuicide.org

Laura Lowney entered her son Jared’s room in Brick, New Jersey, at 6:00 a.m. on the morning of April 23, 2019. He wasn’t there. This had happened before. Jared could be any number of places. He could be lifting at the gym. He could be surfing. He could be at the lacrosse fields. But an ominous feeling told Laura something was very wrong.

The night before, Jared had left to go to a party. He returned late that night and went to Laura’s room to say goodnight. Jared was 16, popular, handsome, and athletic, but he was never ashamed of how much he loved his mother. He hugged her tight, then bent down at the foot of the bed to kiss the family cat, Nala. Jared came back and hugged Laura again.

“I love you mom.”

“You seem mellow, Jared. Are you okay?” Laura asked.

“I’m okay. I’m just tired,” Jared said as he left the room.

Golden Boy

Born on December 6, 2002, Jared Crippen was special from the start. Baby Jared was constantly smiling. Tantrums were not in his repertoire.

Jared’s teachers found him adorable and appreciated his work ethic and infectious energy. He got along with everyone, worked hard, and thrived in school.

Jared was also naturally athletic. He got on a surfboard and balanced himself in a lagoon for the first time in fifth grade. Twenty-four hours later he was riding waves. In just one day, a lifelong hobby was born.

Jared wanted to wrestle and play lacrosse. Jared pleaded to follow in his older brother Jaden’s footsteps as a wrestler, but Laura held him out of competition until sixth grade. Once he started his strength, coordination, and speed allowed him to excel in both sports. As a freshman at Brick Memorial High School, Jared made the varsity wrestling and lacrosse teams.

Jared reached the regional championships for wrestling while competing against juniors and seniors. College coaches took note of his athletic ability.

“He was a caring friend and teammate. He had that ‘it’ factor. I could feel it. People were attracted to him,” Jared’s wrestling coach Mike Kiley said. “When he would walk into the gym, students would flock to him. He was just that type of kid. You wanted to be around him.”

In lacrosse, Jared’s ability to win face-offs and fly up the field untouched for goals had him dreaming of playing at Johns Hopkins.

He also excelled in his one season of football his freshman year, but the sport wasn’t for him. Football’s demands made it hard to paddle out later in the day to surf.  Despite prodding from coaches, Jared called it quits after one season.

Surfing wasn’t a team sport in the traditional sense, but Jared found community along the beach with friends, surfers from neighboring schools, local riders, and even small business owners who, like most people he encountered, adored him. Surfing offered Jared something football, wrestling, and lacrosse never could.

“Surfing was no competition, no coaches, just him and the ocean,” Laura said. “He was free.”

“Mom, I don’t feel so good.”

Heading into his sophomore lacrosse season, Jared was eager to build off the success of the previous year. He was starting at midfielder for the Mustangs.

With three minutes left in a preseason scrimmage on March 14, 2019, Laura momentarily turned away from watching the game when she heard that Jared had collided with a teammate.

Jared collided face-first with a teammate and was sent to the ground. He came off the field, where Laura went to check in on him. Jared waved her off, assuring her he was fine.

Once the game was over, a still-helmeted Jared told Laura he was going with his friends to IHOP instead of coming home for dinner. About an hour later, Jared came home and walked up behind her in the kitchen.

“Mom, I don’t feel so good.”

Laura turned around to see Jared for the first time without his helmet on. There was a gash on the left side of his face. He said his head was pounding and his body felt tingly and almost numb. Without hesitation, she took him to the hospital.

ER doctors diagnosed Jared with a concussion. They told him to lay low; no screens for a few days, no exercise.

Laura watched Jared sleep the night they returned from the hospital. Doctors reassured her he would be fine, but she wasn’t one to take chances.

For the first three days after his concussion, a splitting headache and extreme sensitivity to light kept Jared from leaving his room. Laura delivered food to him and blacked out his windows to keep the light out.

Eight days after his concussion, Jared said the kitchen light bulb was “bright like the sun.”

Eventually, Jared could move around the house if he had his sunglasses on. His doctor cleared him to return to school. Lacrosse was temporarily off the table, but Laura took him to practice so he could watch his team through sunglass lenses. She demanded his coaches not let him do anything physical. They obliged.

“No, mom. I’m fine.”

Two weeks after the concussion, Jared went back to the doctor. He went through a battery of tests on his memory, vision, and balance. During the balance test, Laura saw the normally sturdy Jared struggle to maintain his balance on one foot. Still, the physician said Jared passed the test.

“What do you mean? He looks shaky. He usually balances a lot better than that,” Laura said.

Jared’s doctor reassured Laura and Jared his balance was satisfactory. He was ready to seek full clearance from the athletic trainer who went ahead and cleared him to fully participate in practice. He was set to play in Brick Memorial’s next game.

Jared was back in action, but Laura didn’t stop checking on him. After every practice she asked if he was feeling alright and if he had a headache. Each time she received the same response.

“No, mom. I’m fine.”

In the next few games after returning to play, Laura noticed a change in his playing style.

Jared normally received the ball and made a beeline to the goal to take a shot. The trademark speed was still there but gone was his usual aggressiveness. Jared was routinely passing up wide open shots to send teammates the ball.

“I’m just playing relaxed, mom. I’m just having fun,” he assured her.

Laura noticed Jared was frequently picking at the left side of his bristly head of hair. She called him on it, but Jared brushed that off too. His hair was knotted. Laura’s questions were also beginning to receive an uncharacteristic shortness from Jared.

Jared got rides to school from friends. He was usually ready to go in the mornings and waiting on them to arrive. Now, Laura had to get Jared out of bed because his friends were waiting on him.

Jared with Joey Zalinski (left) and Anthony Albanese (right). Zalinski and Albanese later switched their soccer and football numbers, respectively, to Jared’s number 7.

That April, Laura found her antacid tablet container in Jared’s room. Jared said he overdid it at Buffalo Wild Wings.

Later that week, Laura had to pick Jared up from school because of his upset stomach. Again, he said the wings were the culprit.

The change in playing style, the attitude, the sleeping in, the hair picking, and the stomach issues were all peculiar for Jared but not peculiar for a typical teenager. Laura was slightly concerned about the changes, but they all had reasonable explanations. Teenagers get tired. Teenagers have attitude. Teenagers are about the only people who would eat the ghost pepper wings at Buffalo Wild Wings.

Normal teenage stuff, she thought.

On April 22, 2019, Jared came home and sat on the couch with a burrito in-hand.

He laid next to Laura to debrief about his day. He had completed his first Driver’s Ed drive with James Brite, who was also one of his lacrosse coaches. It went great. He was set to get his learner’s permit the next day. He talked with Coach Brite about next season. He sent texts to teammates about the pasta party Laura would be hosting next week before the big game against rival Brick Township.

He left for a party and returned home later that night to say goodnight to Laura and embrace her for the last time.

“I can still feel that hug,” she said.

On April 23, 2019, Laura woke up to find Jared wasn’t in his room. She called Jared’s best friend Anthony, who like all of Jared’s friends, called Laura “mom.”

“I don’t know where he is, mom.”

Laura jumped in her car and drove around town to look for Jared. He wasn’t at the gym. He wasn’t at the lacrosse fields. He wasn’t surfing.

Frantic, Laura drove home to try and collect herself. On her way, she saw a police car pulled over on the side of the street. She begged the officer to help her find Jared.

He told her to hold on a minute. Almost immediately detectives pulled up. Her heart sunk when the detectives approached her.

“Jared’s gone,” one of them said.

Jared Crippen took his own life. He left a note, written in his signature cursive handwriting. He was 16 years old.

Jared’s wake was on April 27, 2019. More than 1,500 people came to pay their respects.

Laura received a letter in the mail a week after Jared’s death from a mother of one of his classmates. She explained how her daughter suffered from anxiety and didn’t have many friends at school, but she sat next to Jared in a class. Whenever she walked into class, Jared took his headphones out, smiled, and spoke to her like few others at school would.

In the grief-filled weeks to come, friends and family came to console Laura and the rest of Jared’s family. More sympathy. More love for Jared. Still no answers.

“Jared? Not Jared. Why would he do something like that? He was so happy.”

But one night, a family member asked Laura: “Didn’t Jared have a concussion not too long ago?”
“Yeah. Why?” Laura replied.

“You better look into that. Because it could have something to do with what he did.”

So, Laura looked into it. Her research started a cascade of information-gathering. She learned more about concussion symptoms than she was ever told from any doctor or athletic trainer.

She learned after concussion, an athlete should be slowly reintegrated into their sport rather than going from zero to full-participation like Jared did. She learned about Post-Concussion Syndrome (PCS) and the potential for concussion symptoms to last longer than two weeks. She learned about the depth of emotional symptoms, including depression and anxiety, that can accompany concussion.

Her research led her to connect Jared’s string of odd behavior in the last month of his life to his concussion. Her instinct about the wobble in the doctor’s office. The upset stomach. The short fuse. Even the hair-picking could have been an attempt to relieve pressure in his head.

And those were just the signs she knew about.

In the weeks following Jared’s death, his friends were mainstays at Laura’s house. They ate meals there and shared stories about Jared. They laughed, cried, and told Laura other ways Jared was struggling.

She learned Jared skipped a second period, but not to get into any trouble. He skipped class to sleep in a friend’s car.

She learned Jared started drinking at parties a couple of weeks before his death. Friends say he left multiple parties because he would get upset and start crying for no reason and want to leave. Once, he and his girlfriend were at a party for just 10 minutes before leaving because Jared’s head hurt so badly.

Jared was usually the life of the party. At the party the night before his death, he sat quietly with earbuds in. Friends saw him with tears in his eyes before he left.

According to a 2018 study published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, the rate of suicide is twice as high for individuals who have experienced a traumatic brain injury.

Suicide is a complex public health issue, involving many different factors. According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, suicide most often occurs when stressors exceed current coping abilities of someone suffering from a mental health condition. The hopeless tone of Jared’s note began to make more sense.

Laura believes Jared never fully healed from his concussion. When he took his life, Jared wasn’t the happy and carefree kid he had always been.

“These are all the things I found out after my son was gone,” Laura said. “If I would have known these things, my son would still here. I would have immediately gotten help.”

Laura sought community to cope with her loss. She soon found out she wasn’t alone.

She spoke with Graham and Cathy Thomas, whose son Zander took his life following a concussion in 2013. She learned about Austin Trenum, who died by suicide in 2010 at age 17.

“My 16-year-old son Jared took his life 5 weeks after a concussion. I don’t know how to put my story into words… yet I have so much to say,” Laura said in a message to CLF.

CLF connected her to Gil and Michele Trenum, Austin’s parents. Talks with the Thomas and Trenum families have given Laura comfort and support. They can empathize with the inescapable guilt Laura feels and they can also remind Laura about the role a concussion likely played in Jared’s story.

“There are people out there to help you get through this,” Laura said.

“I wouldn’t wish this on anyone else.”

In the face of tragedy, Laura hopes Jared’s story can affect change. She has simple messages for parents and athletes. Messages that could have saved Jared’s life.

For athletes: it’s never worth it to play through a concussion or shake off your symptoms. Don’t play with your health, and don’t risk your friends’ health either. If a teammate is acting out of character after a concussion, as Jared was, let an adult know.

“It’s not going to help you get back in the game. If you’re not feeling well, it’s going to make it worse. You’re not going to perform like you should,” Laura said. “Wait until you’re ready, until you’re okay to go back in, because this is your life.”

For parents, Laura learned three key lessons. The first is concussion needs to be taken seriously. The second is to seek out a concussion clinic to find a specialist for your child’s concussion management. And lastly, any abnormal behavior after a concussion should be taken seriously.

“I want my son here. I could care less about how long he was out from his sport,” Laura said. “He needed to get well. I know he wouldn’t be happy, but you know what? It’s his life. And I didn’t know it was his life. Now, I know it was his life.”

She hopes athletes, parents, teammates, coaches, teachers, and everyone around a young athlete knows the role they should play in concussion management.

“It takes a village. Everybody has to watch that kid.”

“Jared was out there with us today.”

In late June 2019, family and friends congregated to celebrate Jared’s life with a Paddle Out in Manasquan, New Jersey. Christian Surfers of Manasquan organized the Paddle Out, which is a high honor in surfing culture, reserved for respected members of the surfing community.

The wake in April was full of heartache and confusion. The Paddle Out was a celebration.

Rob Brown, a coach and teacher of Jared’s, spoke at the Paddle Out. So did Anthony Albanese, the friend Laura called the morning of Jared’s death. Anthony later switched his football number to Jared’s #7. People wrote notes about Jared on seashells before sending them into the water. The group of Jared’s friends and other surfers paddled out to the ocean with flowers on their boards. Riders formed a circle, they prayed, and some of Jared’s ashes were spread into the ocean.

“Jared loves everyone who is here today,” Laura said as she closed the day’s festivities. “I need you all to know that if you ever have a concussion or you’re feeling anxious or sad or anything, you have to go to a parent or a coach. They can get you the help you need.”

When riders paddled out that day with flowers and ashes, the Manasquan waters were flat. Then, almost right after Jared’s ashes were poured into the water, waves started crashing. One surfer approached Laura and said what everyone else was thinking.

“I just want you to know Jared was out there with us today.”

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.

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. Click here to support the CLF HelpLine.