Remembering Lizzie-Pie

heatherkopp

[Readers, this is the first time I’ve posted a blog in years. I wanted you to know I have a new Substack where I hope to keep writing in case you want to follow along. Here’s the link. ]

It’s suicide prevention month, and my heart tells me that it’s time to talk about Liz, a young woman I met through recovery back in 2012. I still remember the first time we met for coffee. I was taken by her apple green eyes. The wisdom beyond her years. Her quickness to be vulnerable with me. It didn’t take long for me to learn that in addition to alcoholism, she struggled with depression, anxiety, and Tourette’s (hers most often manifested by excessive throat clearing at inopportune times). 

A couple months later, I introduced Liz to my son Noah (a brief summary of his story is on my About page). When they began to date, the match made sense; Noah was also in recovery and had long struggled with depression and a complicated emotional life. The new couple often came by our house for dinner, and soon Liz came to feel like part of the family. 

We affectionately called her Lizzie-Pie. 

When after nine months Liz and Noah broke up, it was weirdly hard to tell. They continued right on walking their dogs together, visiting Costco on Saturdays, and coming by our house for dinner. A lot. Soon, Liz invited Noah to rent a room at her house. She used to say that she was so much more than Noah’s ex-girlfriend. They were each other’s “person.” 

On October 31, 2015, when Noah committed his unthinkable act and was killed by police, Liz was horrified and shattered. We all were. But in the months to come, she let it be known that she wanted the friendship with us to continue. And it wasn’t just about me; she adored Dave, who loved her like a daughter. 

Over the years, we remained close, and Liz and I talked and texted often. She came to stay a few days with us, first in New York City, and then in Portland. A couple times, the three of us met up at Liz’s family’s beach house in Manzanita, Oregon.  

Meanwhile, Liz’s life-long battle with depression seemed to intensify after Noah’s death. At one point, she sought inpatient help at a clinic in Arizona. Then last summer, she became so clinically depressed that she could hardly function. She told me she was running out of new medications to try. And while ECT therapy seemed to help, it caused severe jaw pain and scrambled her brain; after a treatment, she could hardly hold a conversation.  

When she began to sound hopeless, I became deeply concerned. More than once I cried to Dave, “I can’t lose Lizzy, too!”

I tried to keep in closer touch. When Liz was well enough to talk, she would warn me off of begging her to live or saying how much I needed her, which felt manipulative and guilt-inducing to her. So I tried to simply sit with her in her darkness, pain, and exhaustion. Sometimes, she wanted to hear stories about our dog, Mondo, as she was a huge dog lover. Always, she wanted to hear how I was. 

 When Liz’s aunt called me on August 29, 2023, to tell me that Lizzie had died of suicide, I was on our front porch sitting on our old chartreuse velvet couch. It was the same one I’d been sitting on when a friend delivered the news about Noah. Again, I let out a long, strange wail of protest. I kept picturing Liz during her last visit. She was standing on a chair in my kitchen, happily rearranging my cupboards (Liz had become a professional organizer), blonde ponytail bobbing. 

How could she be gone? 

She was only 35, with so much life ahead of her! 

At some point in my grief, I wondered what I might have done differently. What if I had shown up at her door in Texas and begged her to move to Portland? What if I had called her on that specific day?

By now, though, I knew better than to think I had that kind of power over Liz’s choices. In fact, it would be an insult to her memory to imagine that the fearsome foe she faced was actually such a small matter that some word or act from me could have saved her. 

Suicide is preventable, and many folks survive attempts and go on to lead rich lives. But it strikes me that some forms of mental illness are terminal in nature, and I think Liz’s was that kind. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her life. She absolutely loved life—right up to the moment her aching hands finally slipped from the monkey bars she’d been hanging from for so long. 

Last week marked the one-year-anniversary of her death. Dave I visited a beach near to where we used to go with Liz. As the ocean roared and my feet sunk in the sand, I kept thinking of all the obstacles Liz had faced in her brief life. I marveled at how brave she had been, including how she never went back to drinking, even at the end. 

I can only hope to have half of her courage.  

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Published by heatherkopp

29 thoughts on “Remembering Lizzie-Pie”

  1. Heather,

    I was glad to see your name come up in my notifications. I am grateful for your commitment to write about things so painful with such tenderness.

    Years ago your book opened a door for me and helped me to be brave enough to begin to write. It’s become an important part of my journey, the healing part.

    My heart goes out to you and your husband as you grieve the loss of Lizzie. How wonderful that you welcomed her into your family.

    Blessings and prayers,

    Jilliann

    I will follow you on Substack…

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    1. Jilliann, thanks so much for taking time to leave this sweet note. It’s so weird to put myself out there again, especially since I’m not sure how this trying-to-write-again thing will go. You reminded me why I used to love to blog. Meeting people who get it and want to connect. Best feeling. Let me know where to find your writing.

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  9. Heather,

    I don’t know if you remember me, but I knew Noah we were friends and was at our house often for fantasy football. I am so sad to read this story! I just read the story today about his girlfriend at the time I am sad to read this. I continue to pray for your family and pray for you all to have a beautiful life! I am reminded every year at Halloween time about Noah! I think of you and pray for ALL of you all of time.
    Be Blessed! ♥️

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    1. You came through as Anonymous so I’m not sure I’d know you by name but of course I remember how much Noah loved fantasy football and hanging with his friends. Thanks for your kind words, meant a lot.

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  10. Fuck.

    I met Liz a few times when I would come by the house to hang out with you and Dave. She was beautiful and kind, much like Noah.

    The more years I live, I’m reminded that mental health is no joke and suicide is dynamic and complicated. I don’t take it personally when it happens near me, and I have to remember that it’s not about me. As much as I want to “save” the friends that I know who struggle with lifelong depression, I know I can’t.

    It doesn’t make it any easier when it happens, but it reminds me why it’s important not to take those relationships for granted.

    I hope you can find some peace after these tragedies. I found peace on your porch, in the backyard, during family meals and walking Edmund. Peace that I won’t forget and am thankful to you for.

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    1. For some reason, it posted your comment under Anonymous and now I’m dying to know who left this comment. :)! Clearly, you were a good friend of mine back in the Springs. That porch was amazing and healing, wasn’t it? And now we have an enclosed healing porch in Portland, Oregon, too. Take care, friend.

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  11. This breaks my heart. I find myself breathing out deep, helpless sighs thousands of miles away. Feeling the loss of so many in my own life. But rather than feeling hopeless, it reminds me to keep fighting for those still near; to not give up on them. Thank you (I think). In the meantime, I pray peace and courage for you and Dave.

    Please tell Dave I said “Hello” and miss him in my life.

    Thank you for writing. For putting this out there.

    Jeff Lilley

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    1. Jeff, I understand what you mean by helpless sighs. Have breathed so many. I will definitely say hi to Dave from you. Thanks so much for taking time to say hi and for your encouragement.

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  12. I’m so sorry for the loss in your life and appreciate your openness in writing. Your book made ann impact on me years ago and I have often thought about you and prayed for you. I will follow your blog.

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  14. Im sorry to hear of this dear. Losing Noah was terrible for you and everyone else. Im glad she FELT peace bieng around you. You brought her comfort that she didt seek anywhere else . MAY THEY BOTH REST AMONG THE ANGELS. GOD BLESS!!!!!!

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