Star Stuff

May 4, 2024

After mom died, Dad talked about getting a cat for a long time. Will and I encouraged him repeatedly, but an application from the humane society sat on Dad’s desk for a few months and the hemming and hawing only got worse. 

One August, Will told me: “We’re going to get Dad a cat when we’re home for his birthday.” They did. Today, the cat named Kallie is my dad’s best friend and daily companion. His life is so much richer with her. Will made it happen.

Five months later, EMTs packed my wife Mandy and me into an ambulance for an uncomfortable 8-hour drive from New York City to Ohio. There would be no more treatment for the cancer in her brain, and she’d do hospice surrounded by family in Zanesville. This was the right move, but moving a very ill patient that far was a problem for many reasons, including my comfort. The night before we left, Will drove four hours north to our apartment in Brooklyn. He packed up everything we’d need for Mandy’s final weeks — including our cats, Franklin and Eleanor. Will brought our lives with us. Without him, I could have only taken a backpack or two. Nobody asked Will to do that. He volunteered. He didn’t complain when I gave him bad parking advice and he got a $60 ticket that morning. 

That night, Mandy’s family met the ambulance when we arrived at Aunt Gladys’ house. Will was there too. I love my in-laws, but they were there to see Mandy. Will was there to see ME. He stood in the corner a bit awkwardly, knowing he was needed but not sure for what exactly. Of course, as you all already know, he didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to. Just the sight of him allowed me to relax for the first time in months. I’d never been in Aunt Gladys’ home before, but wherever Will was, that was home.

I don’t remember life without him, and until April 16 I truly never contemplated a life without him. He was a constant presence in my internal monologue since I remember having one.

Contrary to what Mandy used to say about both of us, Will and I did not emerge as cynical adults from an egg. We had a childhood. A great one. Will filled a notebook with original characters from an original comic he created called “Weebo.” We wore out our Nintendo. He was SO much better than me at video games. As a kid, he collected peanuts from baseball games, and sure enough over on the memory table there’s a peanut wrapped in a post-it note: Pirates 10, Reds 6, July 11, 1991. He asked for a personal computer for Christmas, and a world map and encyclopedias. I was so in awe of him that, when he sat the bench in little league baseball, it took me a couple years to realize it was because he was bad at sports – not because there was some aspect of the game I didn’t understand. 

Whenever I moved to a new neighborhood, I daydreamed about his visiting and hopefully approving of my life. I took French and tried to read about physics because he did. Hell, I did three years of band before I realized it wasn’t for me, just because Will loved band so that’s what I should do.  His take on a Steelers game was the correct one, and I quickly changed mine to match his. I had a hard time writing my best man’s toast at his wedding because I couldn’t think of anything stupid he’d done. 

But sad truth of it is, I took him for granted. He was so reliable, so solid, so… correct… that it just didn’t occur to me that he might have troubles of his own. He was so important to me and I didn’t tell him that enough, if ever. 

You might call Will a left brain type of guy. That’s not wrong. He sure knew his way around a spreadsheet, and certain aspects of human emotions or communications didn’t come to him easily. I hated, hated, hated how I had to guess what he was thinking so often. But “left brain” doesn’t begin to describe him. 

He was so thoughtful and compassionate. Sometimes I think his “left brain” — and I’m so sorry, Will, for using pseudo-science mumbo jumbo, he’d hate that — was so powerful it turned into a “right brain.” That is, even if he didn’t think he had great “emotional intelligence,” he was so observant, so analytical, so insightful, that he saw what people needed before they did, and provided it.

After Mom died, he took up the mantle of Christmas cookie baking, understanding that we all loved them, we missed Mom, and traditions take work to maintain. He went out of his way to keep up with extended family that I didn’t. He was miles better than me at helping older folks figure out new technology. 

He had a matter-of-factness about him that hid his doubt. The night before Anna was born, I asked him if he was ready. He noted it would happen regardless, and said “I don’t know what it would mean to not be ready.” He took it one step at a time, and over the years, became one hell of a dad. He wasn’t ready that night, but was OK with that. He learned as he went, and a lot of it was just paying close attention to what Anna needed as she grew up. 

I have regrets about how I related to Will, and really specific regrets I might have helped steer him in a different direction if I’d been more thoughtful. But that kind of thinking will ruin your life. So instead of regrets, I try to think about lessons learned. Will’s lesson to me, to all of us, is to check on the high performers in your life.

The ones who always seem to succeed, who always can be counted on, the one who you just assume will handle it? Don’t put them on a pedestal. Will was the smartest, most competent person I ever knew, but in another way, he was as fragile as any of God’s creations. We all need help, and I for some reason thought Will was an exception. There aren’t exceptions.

For the people in my life, I’ll try to take a lesson from Will and be more proactive about tending to other people’s needs, and not stand by just because they don’t ask. Once again, I guess, I just want to be more like my big brother.