My husband and I “pulled a John” last week, smuggling our Subway sandwiches into a movie theater to take in the remake of “True Grit.” We were short on time to do a civilized dinner, so decided to do a quick take-out to make the 7 o’clock show. The fact that we did something that my brother John used to do on a regular basis made us both smile when we realized the connection.
This is the kind of connection that keeps us going when we lose a loved one. The out-of-the-blue rememberings remind us that as long as we remember them, they remain with us.
I’m bringing John around today, on the eve of the anniversary of his death. Naturally, he is in my thoughts as the date approaches, even though I have not consciously been trying to dwell on it. The fact is, I am enjoying remembering him as much as I miss him.
Like anyone else, I can rattle off a hundred descriptors about my brother John. Fun to be around. Possessing an absolute child-like joy with a passion for sports and movies. Compassionate, generous, and totally loving.
There are too many words and phrases I could mention, and they all have a place in the definition of John. To say he was one of my heroes would be an understatement. Was he perfect? Heck, no. Was he a one-of-a-kind human being who would support you and love you through thick and thin? You better believe it.
I have never in my life met a man who was so totally comfortable being himself, expressing his sheer enthusiasm for the things that he loved, and his deeply felt disappointment over the losses in his life. It was one of the things I admired about John, and marveled at, really. He had the ability to let it all hang out, no matter who was watching.
A few examples:
It could be something as simple as the offering of my leftovers from the Fortune Pavilion, brought home for him after a dinner out that he was not up to joining. Through an email message, John’s exuberance shouted through my old Dell computer. “I LOVE FANTAIL SHRIMP! I COULD EAT 99 OF THEM!!” was the essence of his message. (Except I think he used about 20 exclamation points after “fantail shrimp.”) That was the thing about John. He could get you smiling with the subject line of an email message all on its own.
Another thing he loved? Pretty women. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention it, because everyone knew that John had an eye for the ladies. Not in an inappropriate, disgusting sort of way, but in a playful, boyish manner that deep down was connected to his desire for a serious relationship that would one day lead to commitment, marriage, and a family full of kids.
Another example of John’s ability for unabashed emotional expression was the time he let his anger fly during a courtroom proceeding that brought our family’s worst nightmare to the public eye. This happened on the first day of the murder trial for the man accused of killing our sister, Joyce.
For nearly four years, our family had waited an unprecedented amount of time for the trial to begin. After legal tactics and other delays that repeatedly pushed the start date out of reach, we were finally sitting in a courtroom in Waterbury, Connecticut, to learn, at last, what happened to Joyce, and to look upon the man accused of this unimaginable crime.
But before the first witness was called to the stand, the defense successfully made a motion to have all of our immediate family members removed from the courtroom on the possibility that they may be called to offer testimony. Even though a few of us in the family already had been tapped as witnesses, the rest of us had planned to attend the trial to learn firsthand what the case against David J. Weinberg amounted to. We had a right to hear the evidence presented, and to stand up for Joyce when she could not do so herself.
The judge ruled in favor of the defense and ejected our family from the courtroom. While I was sequestered in a witness room near the courtroom when this happened, I heard about the commotion, described to me as John in particular exited the room. Kicking and banging the doors that led to the courtroom as he burst out of the room, John let out a verbal reproach for the system and a loud display of anger and frustration that were characteristic of his honest manner of expression.
John didn’t hold back. Perhaps this wasn’t always the safe or polite choice, or even the smartest. But it was John. “This above all else: to thine own self be true.” John lived those famous words of William Shakespeare. He was true to who he was.
John and I began talking frequently by email after he became more of a homebody, following a horrible car crash that robbed him of the use of his lower body. Wheelchair bound at the age of 29, John had to adjust to a sedentary lifestyle that rocked his world in an unbelievable fashion.
This athletic, energetic, vibrant young man who excelled in baseball and basketball, danced at every wedding he was invited to, and bounced his way through life with a smile on his face was reduced to seeing things from the seated position of his wheelchair. High school football games, playing in the snow with our nephew, even driving his car by using hand controls, were some of the ways he had to adapt.
He weathered it the best he could but the truth is, John missed his old life. He had to reinvent it, so he turned to fantasy sports leagues on line, became a masterful bidder on eBay for sports memorabilia, and stayed in touch with his closest friends by email pretty much every day.
Tomorrow marks nine years since John died, but I want to remember the way John lived. Happy go lucky. Kind and caring. Funny as hell.
I’m betting you can think of a memory that brings back a special someone. How does it work for you? What sort of things come back to you? Whatever the memory, cherish it, nurture it, keep it real. Because it is. As real as the loved ones who gave them to us.
Copyright 2011 by Marianne V. Heffernan
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