There is a distinctive sound to the ring of the telephone, chime of a doorbell or the knock at the door when the messenger is bringing bad news. It’s the sound of dread.

You know somewhere down deep in your gut that all is not well. It’s like that dead silence right before a horrific storm.

Then it happens. The wind swells, the thunder claps and the lighting rips through the sky. The storm hits as the dreaded news is about to be delivered, and you hear, “Knock, knock, knock.”

You peer through the window and see the words “coroner” across the messenger’s lapel. At the sight of the word, a bolt rips through your heart. Your world crumbles, because you know that this messenger has been given the duty to inform you that your child is gone.

It’s the news that no parent wants to hear. Did the child take ill Was there an accident “You must be mistaken — not my child!” Then the news gets even worse. There was no illness or accident. It was suicide.

Shock, yes — surprise, no. On some deep, intuitive level, a mother knows.

A mother knows that her child lived a life full of despair; though every effort was made to change it, this was the anticipated outcome for a tortured soul named Stephanie.

Her mother, Vera, is one of my dearest friends. I adore Vera, which means I also loved Stephanie. She was like an adopted niece to me. I would listen to her talk about her tough growing-up years and discuss her efforts to find herself as a young adult. I offered counsel as she navigated resumes, interviews and tyrannical bosses in a dog-eat-dog world. And while the conversations often ended on an upbeat note, I knew that she would soon be back into the despair that seemed to engulf her very spirit.

Her diagnosis was “manic-depression.” During her 35 years, Stephanie would have good days and bad days. It seemed the older she got, the more horrendous the consequences to the choices she made while depressed.

Each year seemed to bring forth a series of rescues and new beginnings and lots of prayer. Prayer that the period of time between the most recent “new beginning” and the next “need to rescue” would be longer than the last time.

But last week, after a very good week, Stephanie decided that she didn’t need to take her medication. She felt fine. She had a new place to live and new people in her circle of support. The six months in the treatment facility had served her well; the new year offered new hope — another new beginning.

Her mother took a deep breath and held out hope, but deep in her heart she knew. Her fears were validated just from the sound of the knock at the door — Stephanie was gone.

Why tell this story To serve as a reminder that depression is a real illness and not a “shortcoming.” Mental heath issues must be discussed, just as other medical challenges are talked about.

Therapy and medical science allowed Stephanie to have longer periods of “normal” but not a normal life.

For her death not to have been in vain, we must support medical research to more fully understand the chemical imbalances that make up our DNA, so that we can find new medicines that not only help but might one day cure depression and other mental challenges.

The stigma of suicide must not rest in the perceived failure of either the victim or the survivors. Suicide must be our call to action.