Thank goodness for May

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

And another year has passed.

Every April for the past 21 years now, I find myself falling in to a progressive funk. It begins on April Fool's day and builds until the 29th when I am slapped in the face by the memory of my brother's death. I write this now just just because I feel like it; I am thinking the thoughts and I am typing them out. I don't know who will read it, nor does it matter, I just need to reflect. I am not special, but he was and that is why I write-- maybe to share him with whoever may take the time to read; to keep him alive in some way. He would be 42 years old now; just two years younger than I. He would have been a father, an uncle, and most likely very prosperous and successful. I remember him telling me to buy Microsoft and Starbucks stock went they first went public--I wish I'd listened! At 19, he had a solid, outlined plan to open an upscale sporting goods' store specializing in golf, polo, archery and tennis and all the trendy 80's attire to go with them.

Derek was an athlete and a comic. He was generous, I knew, but truly found out only after he died. He took care of his friends in many ways. He never complained about anything and went like there was no tomorrow. Yeah. I remember him laying on the couch, exhausted because he'd worked all night, and his girlfriend called and wanted to see him. His truck was in disrepair so he road his bike about 15 miles and then up Cougar Mountain to her house. I remember telling him that he needed to get some sleep, that she could live with out him for one day. He wouldn't listen. What 20 year-old doesn't think he has forever?

One of the last memories I have of him is when he walked in to my folks' kitchen and gave me a hug. It was a bit out of character and I felt a little shy about it and passed him off after a short hug, to my mom. What I would give now for that hug. I recall that night I drove home to my parents' house at about 11:00pm: I saw a man in a suit that I knew was from my grandparents' church, getting in to his car. He looked at me as I drove past their house to mine (it had been a good, safe life in that neighborhood) and followed me up. When he parked and got out of his car, I had a horrible feeling. My heart raced when he said, "You don't know yet, do you"? I said, "what, what's wrong" and remember my nervous laughter. He told me to go in and talk to my parents. When I walked in, I saw my folks sitting on the couch. They both had bloodshot eyes and I thought it must be my grandpa who was had passed because he was getting up in age. I knew in my heart that it wasn't though. Both Derek and my sister had gone of on week-long trips and I knew it was one of them. My mom said, "Derek is dead". I have never felt such pain or shock and hope never to again. I remember feeling that heartache, where it actually does hurt in your chest, so much so that you think it will explode and you can't possibly handle another second. I remember bawling with such intensity that every muscle in my body hurt. I remember hearing my mom's quiet sobs while she showered, day after day. After these 20+ years, when I think of my brother, it hurts just as badly.

Derek's life-long best friend, John, had to call my mom and tell her that her son was dead. He'd been taken in to the LA county morgue as a 'John Doe'. John had called every hospital, jail, you name it, trying to find him as he knew that Derek didn't know anyone else in town. As a last resort, he was told that the morgue had a John Doe fitting Derek's description and he went to identify him. Poor kid. John named his first-born son Derek and has gone to be a very successful business man in San Francisco with a Master's degree. I know he must have felt compelled to do well in his life for Derek's sake.

When I say Derek was an athlete, I mean he was a locally ranked downhill ski racer; he would also run up the 4.5 mile trail on Mt Si. (that trail kicked my tail!) just for fun and exercise. He played soccer and was very good at it throughout his life. He biked, he ran 10k races, on and on. I was going to Eastern Washington to spend the weekend white-water rafting and camping and invited Derek to come with me. He was so tempted but promised his best friend, John, who had moved to the Godforsaken city of LA, that he would come visit; that's why he'd been working double shifts to get enough money. Perhaps if Derek had gone with me instead, he'd still be alive? I will never know. He went to LA and did many of the tourist things: he went to Universal Studios; he went to the beach; he went to see Joan River's show live; he went for a 20-mile bike ride; he went to an underage club off of Hollywood and Vine and that's where he ended. Derek loved to dance, and lost his buddy, John, on the dance-floor. The last words that he spoke, as far as we know were, "She's fat but she likes to dance". Typical Derek. Anyway, he'd had a heart-attack and the guys working in the club, instead of calling 911, threw him in the back alley. Someone stole his wallet as he lay dying for 45 minutes until the paramedics finally came. By then, he'd aspirated and his eyes were fixed. I can't bear it really and it nearly destroyed my parents and my then 16 year-old sister. I had to drive to Spokane from Seattle to tell her and pick her up as my folks made flight and funeral arrangements. Not something any parent should ever have to do. She'd been on a 'Vision Quest' out in the woods for 3 days solo. We hardly spoke on the 5 hour ride home. We were both lost in shock and agony.

It took 6 months to get back the autopsy saying that he's died of cardiomyopathy-- a virus that attacks the heart muscle. My poor dad took a trip to LA to find out why he was treated so badly by the club. The PI he'd hired told him that it was owned by the mob and to let it go. He talked to the LA county corner, amongst bodies lined up in the hall and has to live with that vision forever more.

I try to make sense of it all. It's a good plan, this life, until it goes wrong in your own family. I live in such fear now that something will happen to my son, because I KNOW that it can. I question why this kid who had everything going for him was taken and why not me, who has fumbled down the wrong roads time and again? But I got to see Derek one last time in a dream 3 days after he died. We met in a large, beautiful field--one that I did not recognize. We hugged intensely and I asked him how he could be there; wasn't he dead? He replied, "yes, but I am OK and I have things I need to do." He said he'd miss me and was sorry to leave but he just had to. He seemed to understand how badly I was hurting; I could see it in his eyes. It was incredibly real and I do not doubt at all that I will see him again. I miss him so much though.

I felt compelled to write this, to relive it, to cry my eyes out and feel the heart-crushing agony that comes with feeling too long. I suppose it is much like my trip to Auschwitz: wholly unbearable, but I owed it to them, and I most certainly do to Derek. It's been 21 years and it is April. My grandpa did die, on April 10th, one year ago at nearly 94 years old...as it should be. I'm thankful to have had 19 more years with him.

Funny, my bishop's secretary just called to ask if he could see me tonight, as is often the case when I most need it. Life is a treasure; an amazing gift... but it can sure be hard.