Lost, Found, and Remembered

The afternoon of February 3rd, 2017, my cousin John Vincent Sciaba went for a winter hike on his own land, an eleven-acre expanse of dense Maine forest. He told his longtime girlfriend and soulmate Jen that he needed to clear his head. He packed a bag with some provisions, threw on a few light layers and sturdy boots, and headed out.

That was the last time anyone saw him alive.

John Vincent, thirty-four years old, had long preferred the woods to the town; animals to people; the outdoors to indoors, weather be damned. Even as a kid, he would camp out in my aunt and uncle’s backyard in the snow. Long and difficult hikes and epic winter adventures were normal. Cold didn’t bother him. He had skills and experience. He knew what he was doing, and he’d done it before.

Jen was not alarmed when he went out into the woods. This was why they lived where they lived, after all. For John, the land was a long-sought refuge from the pain and difficulty that he’d experienced as a young adult. He’d been an unusually creative child, mechanically gifted, incredibly resourceful. He was famous for resurrecting broken appliances. He would build toys: from an old CD player, an automatic spinning top. His brightness and energy were noticed and commented; everyone wanted to see what new and amazing contraption he’d invented.

As a schoolchild, he made his own go-cart, a real one that ran on gasoline, using a repurposed old lawn mower engine. He took it out for a spin on a main road, and was pulled over by a friendly local cop who was more impressed than anything else.

And music, he always loved to make music, using a combination of his drums and synthesizer and sampling to make elegant electronica- inspired songs. He sent a song of his own composition to my husband and I as a wedding present. He has always been so sweet and considerate of family, and especially our grandmother.

As he went through high school, we had no doubts that John Vincent would end up at MIT or another top engineering school. It was clear that the intelligence, curiosity, creativity, and even genius were all there.

But then the hallucinations started. There was a psychotic break, followed by more intense psychosis, and then this promising young man’s twenties were consumed by great instability, on and off meds, in and out of hospitals.

The last years of his life were John’s best, since he found a stabilizing force in Jen, who somehow could connect and communicate and calm him, even when he wasn’t fully in reality. Their small, wood-stove-heated home set on the raw forested expanse was a safe zone. They shared a strong love of the wilderness and wildlife. On one visit, the kids and I found a baby squirrel that had fallen out of its nest. It was John and Jen who gently fed it sugar water, and drove over an hour to drop the creature at a wild animal veterinarian and sanctuary.

There were summer days when John Vincent joined us on family trips to Maine beaches, especially bonding with Babyboy. They would dig in the sand for hours, examining shells and sea creatures.

But he hated the medications that kept him grounded, because they also made him sedated, numb, clouded, slow; everything that was NOT him. So he would sometimes just sort of drift off of the meds. He would gain back some of the old spark, creativity, awareness… and then also hear things, get confused, and frustrated.

It was in that state of mind he left the house, to clear his head. Yes, he had great skills, experience, and comfort with the wilderness. But it got colder. And then there was an ice storm.  He’d been wearing fleece.

We’re close with my aunt and uncle, such good, loving people who have looked upon our kids as their grandkids, and spoiled them as such. We visit and vacation together. We couldn’t even imagine what they were going through with John missing, and it broke our hearts.

The Newfield sheriff’s team and everyone in the community were wonderful. They held a massive search with K-9 units, even a heat-seeking drone. But as the days went on, and with several more storms, the teams gently, kindly, moved from rescue to recovery mode.

My aunt offered the best hope when she explained how at times, many times, she had a deep, real sense that John Vincent was near, trying to tell them that he was OK, he didn’t suffer, and he was happy. Once, early on, she felt that he was sitting right next to her on the living room couch. So intensely natural was the feeling that she had to turn her head and look, speak, say Hi, honey. She was a little shy to share that story, because she was worried what some people might think, but truly, her experience was also comforting to us. Those times, she had believed he was at peace, which gave us all peace, as well.

We began to think: Maybe he was nearby, a light and loving soul reaching out to comfort the living. Maybe it’s true that he was always meant to be in the spirit realm, not earth-tied-and-bound, and he was finally free.

In the early days of the search, family and authorities had combed through John’s contacts, calling any friends and colleagues, desperately seeking any tidbit of information, any lead. One contact was an old friend of his who claimed that she had psychic abilities. She offered to use her abilities to help. She asked my aunt: Are you sure you want to know where he really is? My aunt said yes.

The friend called back the next day. She described that she had communicated with John, and that he had passed, but he was, truly, at peace. He had gotten cold, confused, lost. He’d been overcome with fatigue. He had laid down under a tree, and curled up to sleep. That was all. He’d passed on. He didn’t suffer, she had reassured my aunt.

On March 10th, 2017, my aunt got a call from the sheriff’s office: John’s body had been found. She was surprised at her own reaction to the news: she had thought that she had prepared herself, steeled herself, to hear those words. But in the moment, she felt like she completely fell apart, and she realized how much hope she’d still had.

We all did. You had to. You couldn’t help thinking, maybe he’d gone to stay with a friend no one else know, or heck, maybe he’d hitchhiked across the country, people have done stranger things. The search effort had been monumental, with dogs and heat-seeking drones… Where could he be? Maybe… he was somewhere else entirely?

It was a man out hiking with his dog who came upon him, and called the police. The sheriff described: it appeared that John had curled up to sleep under a tree. He was in an area where coyotes and other animals abound, but his body was completely untouched. Not a mark on him.

April 27, 2017 would have been John Vincent’s 35th birthday. In honor of this, a small group of close family, including our ninety-year-old grandmother in a wheelchair, gathered at the Rachel Carson Wildlife Refuge in Biddeford, Maine and walked out to one of John’s favorite spots: Timber Point, a quiet protected island with nice flat trails, where the forest meets the ocean. There, from a rocky jetty, we scattered ashes and forsythia petals to the waves.

My aunt and uncle are amazingly strong, and in a showing of New England coastal fortitude, plus a healthy dose of Italian hospitality, they hosted us all for an informal lunch afterwards. After all, no memorial service is complete without a feast, featuring multiple children running around the woods/ yard/ house and wreaking havoc, a fair amount of political discourse, and (of course!) a comforting soak in the hot tub. My aunt made packets of sunflower seeds, John’s favorite flower, and handed them out, with a note to plant them in his memory.

Most everyone who was present roundly agreed: THIS is how I’d like to be celebrated, after I pass.

And now here we are. Yesterday, April 27, 2024 would have been John Vincent’s 42nd birthday. Our family gathered once again, to celebrate John’s life alongside my nephew’s First Communion. After the mass, we had an outdoor meal, and as we gave thanks, we remembered John and wished him a Happy Birthday. Then the kids ran around the yard and the house wreaking havoc, the adults talked sports and told stories, and everyone ate and drank very well. It was a glorious afternoon.

Parts of this post were previously published on February 19, 2017 , March 12 2017, and May 3 2017.