Uncle Ken

Me and my brother, Ken 1974

(UPDATE: See the bottom of this post)

I have hosted this blog for ten months now, and I usually try to keep my topics fairly upbeat and lighthearted. But I can't deny what is in my heart right now, and I want this blog to be honest. Anyone who knows me also knows the one topic I rarely discuss but that always shapes my perspective on life. Friends send me cards around this time of year -- those real, true friends who never forget no matter how hectic their lives are. And it is so important to me that they still remember. Especially since this event happened exactly twenty years ago on Halloween.

I was one of those girls who needed a boyfriend or I questioned my self-worth. So silly to think of now, but I am being honest. In seventh grade, I met a boy named Blaine* who I thought was the equivalent of heaven on earth. And in a shocking twist, despite my total insecurity, he became my first boyfriend in eighth grade. I was smitten with him as only a young teenage girl can be, and this first love lasted well into my high school years. Only it didn't last that long for him. We had a strange on-again, off-again sort of relationship. But during one of our on-again moments, I came back from a short vacation to my grandparents to the phone ringing. It was my friend, Hannah.* She called to tell me that I should brace myself because something happened while I was away. Blaine was now off the market. His girlfriend? None other than Hannah herself, gleeful to tell me of her apparent victory.

* Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

I hit the lowest point I can remember in high school. I had known many of my friends since nursery school, and I couldn't believe that a "friend" or a boyfriend who I thought was so amazing could be so completely disloyal. And the best part was that I got to watch them hand in hand, smooching, and Hannah deliberately eyeing me while she pulled Blaine closer. I felt like I was starring in a really bad remake of a John Hughes film. And while I can make fun of myself at how much I allowed my self-esteem suffer over a ridiculous high school romance, it really felt like the end of the world to me. I started to think terrible thoughts, and those thoughts consumed me.

Ken and me, 1984

What pulled me out of my rock bottom existence? Well, I had friends that didn't give up on me, despite how miserable I was. But my brother and a few of his football friends really helped the most. My brother, Ken, and I didn't usually discuss the nitty-gritty details of our respective boyfriends or girlfriends, but one day, Ken sat down and asked what was going on with Blaine. We were receiving endless hang-up phone calls night after night, and it was driving all of my family members crazy (remember, it was pre-Caller ID). I told Ken that I thought it was Hannah, and then explained the chain of events. In his big brother way, he was furious that a) Blaine would break my heart -- again, and b) that my "friend" made me question so many of my values. To get even, Ken -- a towering 6'3," 200-pound football player whose build was so muscular that the arms on his shirts didn't fit -- walked me down the hallway to one of my classes every day. When Blaine crossed our path, Ken and his football friends would make snide remarks or step in his way. I know; it wasn't very nice, but I appreciated them sticking up for me and my fallen self-respect so much. And speaking of respect, Ken was extremely well-respected by both his peers and his teachers, not only for his athletic talents, but for his unbelievable SAT scores and his famously witty (albeit goofy) sense of humor. He was honor society president and graduated at the top of his class with a scholarship to an extremely competitive college. In my mind, he personified success. He had everything, and even when we had our typical sibling squabbles, I was so proud he was my brother.

Fast forward a few years to Halloween night of my first semester in college, many hours from home. I came back from choir and band rehearsals to my phone ringing as I opened the door. I didn't make it inside in time to answer, but I listed to my answering machine and had several messages from campus security. OH NO! I thought. I knew what had happened. During one of their routine freshman room checks, they had found my toaster. We had been warned that such items were strictly off-limits and that they would be confiscated and the owners would receive appropriate punishment. I was certain I would have to beg them to allow me to stay in college and not expel me. What would my parents think??? Just then, a friend came by as the phone rang again. It was security again, and they needed me to report to their office immediately. I convinced my friend to accompany me for moral support.

When I got there, I met two security guards who escorted me in another room where my resident advisor (whom I had talked to about twice) was sitting. I was handed the phone.

I still wish it was the toaster.

On the other end of the phone was my mom. I was very confused. I don't remember the conversation. I only remember the news.

My big brother had committed suicide.

I still can't say that -- or write that -- without tears. My world was shattered. Twenty years later, my feelings are not much different. My childhood hero and my only sibling is gone. How could he have helped me through my own depression, yet never told anyone about his own? My family and I have been deprived of so many moments we should have shared. Every milestone is difficult to achieve without him: my college graduation, my first teaching job, my marriage, and, of course, my children. My husband would have bonded with him over Monty Python, horror films, and 80s heavy metal. And my boys would have loved their Uncle Ken, his silly jokes, his made-up songs, and his infectious laugh more than I can imagine.

After every store puts away their back-to-school merchandise, I dread the constant reminders of the day that is looming. And turning the calendar over to October year after year has never gotten any easier. I often wonder if it would be less ominous if Ken's death had not occurred on Halloween. The anniversary of anyone's death is difficult, yet every year, when the leaves begin to turn, I am met with an increasing supply of ghosts, skeletons, and dead creatures seemingly reminding me of the day that is quickly approaching. But this year is even harder. Ken took his life when he was twenty. This year marks the twentieth anniversary of his death. That means that after this Halloween, with each day that passes, the amount of time Ken has been gone will outweigh the days Ken spent here on earth. I have difficulty writing that, too.

If you saw my last post, there is evidence that I have come a long way. Before having children, I would have never even considered donning my doorstep with pumpkins or any festive decorations -- most certainly not a ghost. But my needs take a backseat to my little boys' needs, and I understand the childhood excitement and anticipation of Halloween. But my Halloween will never be a "happy" one. It will always be a reminder of the loss of all that once was and all that could have been.

And Big Brother, you would have made a terrific Uncle Ken.

And I still love you more than words can tell.

To read more about my brother, Ken, you are invited to visit his memory blog here.

UPDATE: You can also read my anniversary post on Ken's memory blog here, which includes the story of the original song I wrote about him when I was eighteen, which you can listen to here.