Thanks for Listening, I Haven’t Been Able to Tell Anyone Else

by Mark E. Arena

This is my buddy John J. (Jack) Davis. 1961-2024. Jack passed away on 6/18/24 after suffering a traumatic brain injury. He was laid to rest on 6/29.

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Jack was a brother to me. We worked side by side for a long time.

Jack served in US Navy 1980-1984. USS Coral Sea.

As a younger man he worked a busy urban EMS system as an EMT.

He later went to Nursing School and became an RN. He actually became an LPN before that and worked full time to pay for an RN program & gain floor experience.

Jack had a keen interest in underserved communities particularly mentally ill people.

In 2002 Jack began working for the U.S. Department of Justice in the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

An RN and Correctional Officer Jack worked in higher security section of the prison, the secured mental health units. These units secured some of the most violent and mentally ill men in the U.S..

Jack was a Crisis Negotiator and worked with a number of multi jurisdictions at all levels of government.

Jack was enmeshed in this life. He mentored so many people who had rising careers in law enforcement, military service and nursing, particularly mental health and forensic health care.

This left deep scars and dark holes in Jack. Jack had a a lot of friends but I’m not so sure he shared the darkness with everyone. He shared them with me. Maybe because we worked so closely. Maybe because we were close friends. Maybe because I understood. Maybe because my soul was deeply dark, he knew that, and somehow I made his darkness not so dark.

Our stories, his stories, are so fucking funny, so inappropriate, so good they would traumatize the muggles and even disturb those in the business. God, did we laugh!

Jack retired a year and a half ago. A widow maker heart attack, & a second heart attack from in stent stenosis couldn’t take him down.

Jack struggled to be grateful, loving, generous, kind, thankful and caring after he retired. He was all those things in small doses.

Jack was a husband, father, grandfather and friend. He loved his Rambler, classic rock, politics, the sea, his boat Iona.

Jack’s grew dim. He didn’t see the sense or feel he had a purpose anymore. His heart worked. He had both knees replaced. He was hitting the gym. But he missed being needed, critically needed.

We all know we’re replaceable in the blink of the eye in the GOV.

Jack had a part time gig as a bouncer and door man for some beachside clubs.

Jack would drive his Caddy to Florida and party with other retirees he knew. These things didn’t fill the emptiness. They weren’t purposeful. Jack grew darker.

We’d talk and he’d come home and settle back in.

The last time we talked over coffee. My dear friend and brother was still barrel chested with an upright posture, broad shouldered and burly bearded and seemed to take up so much space in a little coffee shop. He was angled in his chair with his back to the wall.

We hugged and shook hands. We called each other brother smiled, took each other in and sat down.

We talked about what was, what is, and what could be. He talked about things we didn’t talk about. We talked about how we felt misunderstood and alone.

We talked about ways to maybe mitigate all of that. Tears were shed. I always just ask the question. The big one. He said no. But like the story goes, if I don’t wake up tomorrow I’m okay with that.

So many tough men (& some women) don’t live long after they retire. They leave this consciousness in so many ways. Jack didn’t believe he would live much longer. He didn’t know why. It was a feeling.

We walked around town drinking coffee. We hung out by the docks and reminisced.

That following week he saw his physician for a routine check up. He told me his labs were good, his blood pressure was good. He needed to lose a few pounds and he was approaching type II diabetes. We talked about how to fix all that.

The last time we had coffee Jack asked me why people don’t get it. I knew what he meant and this wasn’t the first time we had this conversation. I told him we don’t tell them because they don’t need to know.

He kept the most dangerous men in the most secured building inside of a prison inside of walls and fences defended by patrolling armed Correctional Officers. He kept them away from the world and kept the community safe. It’s funny to spend decades there and you’re not surprised when someone says they didn’t even know we were there.

The last time I talked to Jack was the Friday before Father’s Day this year.

I was going to the market to buy some steak. Jack told me he was picking up a shift that night. I don’t know how we got on the topic but it was about how Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was such a little prick, aside from being the surviving terrorist of the Boston Marathon bombing attack.
He’s right. He was a little punk. Fucker.

We said our goodbyes and said we’d talk on Father’s Day. I told him to be careful. He said he would.

In the darkness of Saturday morning, his wife found him on the ground in the driveway next to his big pickup truck.

We don’t know the exact circumstances. Did Jack suffer a heart attack or a stroke? Did he fall or stumble and hit his head?

He was flown into Boston and was intubated and sedated in the ICU. His condition was grave. The damage to his brain was extensive.

On Tuesday his family made, likely, their hardest decision and stopped life support.

To me it’s still not real. I’ve texted him, by mistake, I think, “Jack’s gonna love this.” “Let me just text Jack.”

I miss him. I think he is still around. I talk to him. I miss him. I loved him so much.

Jack had so many friends. I never had so many friends. I have Jack Davis as my friend.

I didn’t cry until, as a pallbearer, The Sailors in attendance played taps. Once they stopped so did my tears.

I talk about him a lot. I’m in contact with his wife and son and one of his brothers.

Last night we talked about a celebration of life this fall. To get those who love him together, not at a wake or funeral.

Here I am today thinking, “fuck, I’ve got to tell Jack about this!”

Thanks for listening. I haven’t been able to tell anyone else.

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As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.