In death of Western star Robert Carradine, this Kansas writer finds a lesson in compassion

Actor Robert Carradine and author Deb Goodrich pose for a picture together at the 2024 Wrangler Awards. (Photo submitted by Deb Goodrich)

I woke up at 6 a.m., made myself a cup of coffee, and began scrolling Facebook for the news of the world. Then came the sucker punch, the one that takes your breath and leaves you reeling.

Bobby Carradine was dead.

The family confirmed he had “taken his own life,” “battled bipolar,” and finally, they wanted people to know “there is no shame in that.”

Social media exploded with shock and heartbreak. I searched for a photo with him and found one I took of him and his brother, Keith, at the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Awards a couple of years ago. I was honored to share the table with them the night Keith was inducted into the Hall of Great Western Performers.

On either side of me were Rob Word and Jennifer Rogers Etcheverry (great-granddaughter of Will Rogers). Mark and Marilyn Bedor were there to receive a Wrangler for Mark’s TV Show, “Today’s Wild West.” Our table hosts were Wyatt and Lisa McCrea. Wyatt is the grandson of Joel and Frances Dee McCrea and the nicest man on earth.

It was a lovely evening.

I had met Bobby the day before in the hotel bar. I noticed his funny T-shirt, though I don’t recall what it was. I commented, and he laughed and smiled.

“Are you Bobby?” I asked.

He brightened, as if no one had ever recognized him before. I told him that we had some mutual friends, several actually. I mentioned Darby Hinton and how we had worked on a recent project together. Then we got down to brass tacks: “The Cowboys” and “Long Riders.”

He shared behind-the-scenes anecdotes from both films and interspersed throughout were comments about his brothers David and Keith. “Remember that line?” he asked. “That was David! It wasn’t in the script!”

He was so proud of his brothers, and I was so grateful to have spent these leisurely moments with a man so warm and talented, so easy, so down to earth. So kind.

Keith’s daughter, actor Martha Plimpton, commented on her uncle’s kindness and what it meant to her upon meeting her dad’s family. Bobby’s daughter, Ever, is also an actor and shared her dad’s devotion: “He was always there,” she said, “always.”

People closest to Bobby, people who had briefly met him, people who had been fans forever — all expressed how kind, warm, genuinely funny Bobby had been.

And yet …

For two decades, Bobby battled bipolar disease.

I curled up under my comforter, pulled it over my head and soon fell asleep, so deeply asleep that my dreams were vivid, complicated, detailed. We were planning an event in which Bobby and Keith would perform as musicians. As dreams go, the setting was indistinct with elements of familiar places morphed into one. There were so many people running here and there, consumed by the busy work of putting together a big event.

Somehow, word had come of Bobby’s suicide. In the time warp that is the dreamworld, his death had happened in California, in another time zone. In this strange state of consciousness, it had not yet happened in this time zone. So we had to somehow persuade Bobby not to follow through when he went back.

I looked for him, incredulous that no one else was talking about it. How can you all just go on like nothing has happened? There he was, leaning over a counter, having a Coke with a friend. I went to him and put my hand on his. I began describing my own struggles with mental illness, mood swings, depression. He looked into my eyes with such warmth and acceptance.

There was so much to say — “Please, don’t! People need you! We need you to overcome the darkness!” — but we were interrupted and he was called away.

There was so much to do. It was meaningless, I thought. Who cares about this concert if Bobby is going to die? Then it was time. I saw Keith walking up the aisle toward the stage carrying a guitar. I made my way between the theatre seats to catch him.

“I cannot tell you how grateful we are you are here,” I said as I held his hand.

He looked in my eyes and saw the pain. He began to pull away, as if unable to face it. We stepped into an alcove, and I hugged him. I felt him sob and I whispered, “Tell Bobby how much he is loved.” Then other people approached and he turned to them and smiled, the grief once again tucked away.

I knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop what was going to happen.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream but when I awoke, Bobby Carradine was still dead.

If you were to ask people to describe me, most would say, “talkative, outgoing, extroverted,” or something to that effect.

How about depression? Mood swings? Only those who have known me best or longest would mention it.

Hospitalization when suicidal? Oh, my, no way!

Ridiculously unreasonable behavior in those manic moments? Hmmm, not possible!

Days, weeks, months lost in the abyss? Not Deb.

I have been so blessed. I have children, grandchildren, family, friends, meaningful work, wonderful experiences. I am more fortunate than many people in so many ways.

There is no reason for me to be depressed.

Yet, every day, there it is. There were times I thought it was conquered, but it was just waiting, sighing patiently in the dark corners.

The upswings are not what they used to be. They are not as ridiculous, not as unmanageable, not as self-delusional. I think you grow too old and tired to be very outlandish. But the depression — its power never fades.

I was not a close friend of Bobby Carradine, but I have friends who were. I believe he was grateful for the blessings in his life and that he knew he was loved. But no one else, no one, can know the extent of another person’s struggles. No one else can know how desperate someone can be for peace. No one else can understand the depth of the weariness. No one can feel the weight of slogging through the minutes longing for them to end.

God bless the Carradines for their compassion to all those who struggle. By acknowledging Bobby’s death, they are also acknowledging that talent and success, love and attention, joy and humor — none of these guarantee freedom from mental illness just as they are no protection against physical ailments. Nor does the illness detract from the many gifts that Bobby had.

The takeaway, then, is this: Let us live as Bobby did — with kindness toward our fellow travelers in the world.

Deb Goodrich is the author of “From the Reservation to Washington: The Rise of Charles Curtis,” a 2025 Kansas Notable Book. Through its opinion section, Kansas Reflector works to amplify the voices of people who are affected by public policies or excluded from public debate. Find information, including how to submit your own commentary, here.