One year ago tomorrow, my mom drove down to Chicago to babysit Mia while I was supposed to go on a couple of job interviews. They were to be my first job interviews since I lost my job in 2001. As I was preparing to leave, the phone rang and my sister-in-law told me the devastating news: my brother had fallen into a coma after suffering a severe allergic reaction. Within three days he was dead. These last couple of weeks have been very difficult. I know how to do a great many things: I can change the oil in a car; hook up a VCR; and soothe Mia's tears. But I don't know how to deal with the anniversary of my brother's death.
In the Jewish religion, you light a candle. You remember the person. But tomorrow, and Saturday, isn't any different than today or yesterday. I think about Ross everyday. I miss him everyday. How do you act differently on the day?
I was at a little party in Milwaukee over the holidays and a woman asked me, "Did you know that guy who died?" "It depends," I said. "On which guy you mean." Cause you know, my brother wasn't "that guy." He was Ross Kurzer and he was a great guy who didn't deserve to die so young. He was big and full of life and humor and happiness and he brought a lot of joy to a lot of people.
In high school, Ross was a merry prankster. He often orchestrated erroneous school closings for sport. On a teacher's challenge, he arranged for famed psychologist B.F. Skinner to speak at our high school, fooling the old codger into believing that he was talking to grad students. He starred in every musical production. He hosted his own radio show on college radio and sold a recording of Ronald Reagan's "I Will Begin the Bombing" speech to the Talking Head's Jerry Harrison for a dance mix.
In college he dabbled in university politics, worked in college radio and was pretty much a cool cool guy. That was when I was finally cool enough to see him as the amazingly brilliant and inspired man he was and felt lucky and proud that he was my brother. When he met his soulmate Margit, his demeanor changed. He felt truly blessed and was extraordinarily devoted. Though we both felt that our family had its foibles, he embraced our eccentricities and both he and his wife went out of their way to make my parents feel young and included, warm and loved.
Shock, devastation and enormous sadness have torn their way through our hearts this year, but our calloused souls have endured. And so we are treading lightly on this year's anniversary, letting it inch on by, not understanding it completely but realizing that it is about the passage of time ... a precious commodity that for some reason we are afforded. Tick tock.