My father, Fred Kopel, and older brother, Dan Kopel, both died by suicide, 21 years apart. Their deaths profoundly shaped the person I became. As any survivor of suicide can tell you, the grief, the loss, and the lingering questions — so many questions, big and small — are always with me.

My father was a 37-year-old assistant professor of pediatrics at Mount Sinai Medical School when he became severely depressed — for the first time, according to my mother — in the summer of 1971. He was seeing a psychiatrist, but at that time insights and treatments were limited while stigma and silence were the norm. He was applying for a large research grant. The day before the grant was due, he went to a lavatory on a high floor at Mount Sinai, opened the window, and jumped to his death.

I was four years old and my brother was seven when he died. I think my brother understood and absorbed more than I did at the time. I knew that I missed him. I felt uncomfortable and alone when I saw other boys with their fathers. Little League was rough as was synagogue and summer camp visiting days. To this day I wonder what life might have been like had my father lived. I missed having a mentor. I wanted someone to lead the way. I questioned whether he’d like who I was.  

My mom suffered. Her sadness leaked through. She was angry and felt cheated. Sometimes she’d speak disparagingly about my father. Years later she explained that she considered suicide herself after my father’s death.

My brother’s psychiatric and neuro-developmental conditions worsened as he grew older. My mother had no support and was ill equipped to work with his issues. I don’t know when his depression turned to suicidal ideation, but I’m inclined to think they occurred simultaneously. My father’s suicide was terrible for him in many ways but perhaps most significant was the introduction of suicide as an option. Dan tried every treatment option available to him, became suicidally depressed, and died by suicide at age 27.

I was devastated. Dan’s death broke the floodgates on my father’s even though they were completely different from one another. Whereas my brother had serious social, psychological, and developmental issues throughout his life, my father didn’t. I wondered if things might have turned out differently if my father had been there for Dan.

While I know why my brother took his life, I don’t really know why my father did. My brother suffered with mental illness from childhood, threatened suicide for years, made multiple attempts, and promised an expiration date if things didn’t improve. My father’s death was seemingly an impulsive act facilitated by availability and finalized by lethality. Among the infinite sea of what-if lies the basic question about what might have happened if Fred Kopel had been impeded in his effort by, say, a window guard or a barrier? We don’t know. Or maybe we do. His death, in that moment, could have been prevented. At a minimum his effort would be slowed, providing a chance for feelings to recede, for treatment to take hold, or for circumstances to improve. It turns out Mount Sinai was awarded the grant. 

And if Fred had lived, our lives would have been different and likely better in every respect. I’m not saying it would have been easy but we all would have felt more loved, more secure, and more normal. I’d have had a stronger foundation. Dan’s illness may have been less severe and accepted. Suicide would not have poisoned our minds and broken our family.

As an architect, I’ve always wondered why the highest code-prescribed railings are only 42”, roughly waist height. It was a passive sort of wondering until a few years ago, when I watched in horror the series of jumping deaths at the Vessel in Hudson Yards. It was these deaths — so preventable and so predictable to anyone reading the literature — that galvanized me to action. Raising rails is a simple, proven solution to a complex problem.

Means Safety saves lives.