Phill Casaus: A shocking loss; a chance to create a conversation

Dec. 3—It's been about two weeks, but really, calendars and days and time have lost all meaning for Chris Eaton's family — his dad, Scott; brother, Michael; mother, Gail.

"Every day is different and every minute our emotions change," Scott says.

I'd try to describe his voice for you, except there really aren't words to sketch a father's heartache.

Chris Eaton, 35, died last month. It was stunning for me, for most people, because if there were ever a guy who seemed blessed with a pocketful of tomorrows, it was him.

I'd tripped over him through a news release he'd typed over the summer. Chris, a high school baseball coach and teacher in Albuquerque, was doing research on Doors lead singer Jim Morrison's brief time in Albuquerque as a kid, and was pitching a presentation he was planning to give on what he'd found through his investigation.

I was intrigued — in part because he seemed far too young to care about Doors music (Morrison died in 1971, 16 years before Chris was born) and also because he'd taken my high school alma mater, Albuquerque Sandia, to the Class 5A state final last spring.

Interesting mashup. I figured what the hell: I'll dial the number.

What followed was the reason I have always loved this job: Chris Eaton was absolutely unique; a wonder. We talked about Morrison and baseball, but a lot of other things, too. The guy was curious and knowledgeable; honest and humble; a guy who could tell a joke, but also got the joke. I didn't know this until Friday, but he once auditioned for and got a role in Better Call Saul.

In our conversations, it was clear he had a command of a variety of issues and topics, and he wanted to take you there, too.

Literally.

Michael Eaton, 30, recalls how his brother would reflexively extend a road trip with unplanned zigzags that were both maddening and soul-enhancing at the same time.

"He would take a detour and I would go, 'Chris, I'm too tired, man. Let's go home, please.' And he'd just say, 'We just gotta see one thing real quick.' And we'd drive over. There would be just some random address, whether it was a house, a plaque, a statue or some historical location. And then he'd launch into like, a five- to 10-minute background. It was like he was taking you to school. It was a lecture pretty much."

But at the same time Chris was delighting, coaching, teaching and caring for those around him, his family says he was waging a battle with mental illness. It's what led to his sudden, shocking death on Nov. 21. Beyond that, the details are too raw for the family to discuss.

But Scott, Michael and Gail Eaton hope that by speaking publicly about Chris' life they can encourage others to talk about mental illness as well — eager to put a dent in, if not an eraser to, the stigma that often comes with the subject.

"It's like you have this guy who's so loving and he's pouring himself into others outwardly," says Michael Eaton, who lives in Arizona. "But inside, there's so much torment. I think that in itself is pretty telling of who Chris was, and how much joy he brought to others. But we as a family saw the other side, and the people who are really close to him also saw that side.

"And so, it's really hard, just because ... if you really got to know him, he loved so many other people and his players — really more than he loved himself."

Chris' loved ones are dealing with the nightmare in slo-mo. Michael says the grieving has been exhausting. Scott, a retired lawyer and onetime newspaper editor in New Mexico, talks about wanting to put one foot in front of the other. But he also acknowledges: "If you think about things a certain way, it's overwhelming."

Both credit Gail Eaton with helping them deal with the emotions and pushing the idea of creating a foundation in Chris' name to help others deal with mental health issues. But right now, on Day Whatever after Chris' death, the details are still fuzzy.

"I've heard from a lot of people who are willing to contribute financially to whatever we can come up with," Scott Eaton says of the foundation idea. "But you know, I just don't know that you're gonna get much of an answer from us as to what that would look like."

The good news is there's time. It doesn't heal the grief — nothing heals the grief — but it does help to harden a sense of purpose: remembering a great life; finding help so other lives can be great, too.

"We've had a lot of people reach out and say, 'Hey, you know, I have a brother or I have an uncle or I have a family member, a close friend who's dealing with this, you know, mental illnesses and those issues," Michael Eaton says. "It's not like, you know, it's one [person] and whatever. I think it's very prevalent and it needs to be part of the conversation."

Yes, it does. I'm sure Chris Eaton would've had something smart, something prescient to say, too. I only wish he were around to say it.

Phill Casaus is editor of The New Mexican.