Frano Nosic (at left) attempted suicide twice after being separated from his family in Sarajevo during the Balkans war in the mid-90s. Had he succeeded, he would have never met his youngest son or come to America to be reunited with his family.

Photo by Mark Davis

In 1995, the streets of Sarajevo were a dangerous place to be. The war between Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina raged for years and residents took risks, like sending their students to school and walking their dogs, despite knowing it could be a fatal mistake.

Photo by Mark Davis

In 1995, the streets of Sarajevo were a dangerous place to be. The war between Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina raged for years and residents took risks, like sending their students to school and walking their dogs, despite knowing it could be a fatal mistake.

Photo by Mark Davis

Mark Davis

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Frano Nosic had reached the end of his rope. His pregnant wife, Merima, and two children had fled their home in war-torn Sarajevo, later to be interned at a “refugee” camp on the Serbian side of the border. There she was constantly attacked because her last name is of Muslim heritage. Nobody cared that she was a Yugoslavian basketball star before the war that killed more than 13,000 people in the Balkans.

Frano couldn’t accompany his family; men weren’t allowed to cross the border during the war that raged for four years in the 90s. Exhausted from fighting in the infantry during the deadly battle for the Olympic city and convinced he’d never see his family again, Frano decided to take his own life.

He jumped from his third floor apartment, but failed in his attempt at suicide. He tried again in the hospital, using his bandages in an attempt to hang himself. Once again he failed.

He was then sent home, having been told “hospitals are for heroes.” His home was on the front lines of the war near Sarajevo International Airport and offered little relief from his emotional trauma. That’s when I met Frano for the first time.

Before I headed to the Balkans with a reporter familiar with the region, Merima and the couple’s three boys had been rescued from the camp by a Christian organization and moved to Indiana — not far from my home. I agreed to travel to the war zone to see if Frano could be located, giving the organization an opportunity to bring him to America and reuniting him with his family.

It was a tough trip, starving most days while we ran a gauntlet of burned out buildings and debris, dodging known areas open to snipers in the hills surrounding the city. When we finally located Frano, he was barely able to walk and didn’t speak English. But as he exited the plane after his eventual rescue and saw his family waiting near the gate at the Ft. Wayne International Airport. He dropped his crutches, went to his wife and met his youngest son for the first time.

As he held his family near, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd of folks who came to welcome him to his new home. I could barely see through my viewfinder as fat tears of joy rolled down my face. Frano composed himself, stood in front of the crowd and cameras and recited a speech in near-perfect English that he must have been practicing every day since we found him.

I have not seen the family since, but I never forgot. However, this column is not about my travels through the war torn Balkans. I hope to live long enough to finish that story in a book I’ve been working on called “Never Wear White Underwear to a War Zone.” This is the story of what I learned after returning as I look back at the somewhat misguided trip.

Making it back in one piece was just dumb luck. Finding Frano was nothing short of a miracle. But it was all worth it in the end. Remembering the day he was reunited with his family, after thinking all hope was lost, still makes me misty. But what repeatedly comes to mind, even now nearly three decades later, is what Frano would’ve lost had his attempts at suicide been successful.

In my darkest days, many of which came immediately after my trip to Bosnia, I have been influenced by the hypothetical question. The thought of returning to the U.S. with sad news of his death by suicide would have crushed his family. Just the thought of him not being found alive and not meeting his youngest son or holding his wife and family after escaping Sarajevo breaks my heart. Yet, knowing that even in your darkest hours there’s always a silver lining somewhere out there keeps me searching.

I have kept the lessons from that trip in 1995 mostly to myself, despite knowing how the family’s story helped me personally. I’m sure most people have known someone who attempted or completed suicide. Since returning from Bosnia, two of my friends have ended their own lives.

Like Frano, they had lost all hope.

I wish I could have told each of my friends my long-in-the-tooth version of this story, hoping to convince them that by ending their lives could result in missing out on their best days. I wish I would have done something… anything.

Listening might have been enough. Doing nothing has led to regret-filled, sleepless nights.

Wyoming has attempted to do something about the Cowboy state’s dismal record. Suicide is a significant problem; the state has the most suicides per capita of any state most years.

According to data from the Wyoming Department of Health, since the “988” Suicide and Crisis Lifeline went into effect last year, Wyoming crisis workers have taken more than 4,200 calls in Wyoming. Of those calls, 99.8% did not require law enforcement or EMS intervention. In the year prior to 988, there were about 1,800 calls answered. Officials attribute the recent increase to increased awareness through publicity, as well as the simplified, easier-to-remember number.

“These statistics are very encouraging,” Gov. Mark Gordon said. “The fact we are receiving more calls reflects the importance of this service — and the fact that the vast majority are handled without having to rely on law enforcement or EMS underscores the effectiveness and value of the lifeline. Wyoming is taking some positive steps in addressing the issue of suicide, but there is more work to be done.”

I wish I would have had the courage to speak up sooner.

If you need someone to listen, call the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988. The staff is available 24/365 and have English and Spanish speaking representatives.

Gordon will host the first in a series of mental health town halls on Oct. 25 in Powell and Worland. The discussions are open to the public and aimed at fostering open conversations with community members and partners about efforts underway to increase awareness of available resources and improve access to care. Representatives of the executive, legislative and judicial branches are expected to attend, as well as local elected officials.

The Powell meeting is scheduled for 10 a.m. at Northwest College’s Fagerberg Building, Room 70.