Mike's Birthday

Today is my little brother’s birthday. He is 37. My dad sent me an email just now, reminding me of this. I also realized that today is Mike’s first birthday without a living mother.

During the time that our mom was dying, I felt very protective of Mike. It just seemed wrong that he should lose his mother at such an early age. It wasn’t right that he would feel the loneliness of not having a mom in this world. I didn’t want him to suffer through the memories of all the good things he was losing. Looking at my own son made me cry sometimes, because Frankie looked just like the funny little boy that my brother used to be.

When we were kids, Mike and my mom were very close. He had a way of charming her, making her laugh and making her happy. He knew how to work it, and she loved that about him. I never even tried to compete with him on that, because I knew I wasn’t even in the ballgame. Mike reminded my mom of herself, with his hot temper and lovable (to her!) loud voice. He knew if he was in trouble he could just do his W.C. Fields impression: tip his hat (the round green pillow from the couch) and bow and say “Hello, my dear!” Then take her arm and kiss her, from her hand all the way up to her shoulder.

Here is a memory of my mom, my brother and I that has been popping into my mind lately:

My mom is driving us around Des Moines, running errands. Walgreen’s to pick up prescriptions. Goodwill drop box to leave clothes that are too small for us. "Git 'n' Go" drive thru convenience store for milk and bread and cigarettes. My mom has to work a 3-11, so this is how we spend our morning. I'm sitting in the front seat of the white Ford Fairlane, no seat belt. It’s the early 70s, and who wore seat belts then anyway? Not us! Mike is standing up on the backseat, singing along with the radio: "Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, Baddest man in the whole DAMN town". He was only 3, but he knew if he sang the word "damn" in a song my mom would just laugh and he could get away with it.

One minute we are driving along, and the next minute we aren't. It all occurs so fast; I don't really know what is happening. My mom yells "Jesus Christ!” then "Katy, stay with your brother in the car!" She bolts out of the driver's seat, quick as lightening. Until the end, my mom always moved so fast in life. So much faster than me. I follow my mom's instructions, then notice that there are little chunks of glass sparkling on the car seat beside me. I consider touching one, but decide that my mom would not want me to. I cannot see where she is when I look out the car window, but I'm not really worried because I can I hear her. She's yelling angrily at someone, and I’m glad it's not me!

After a few minutes she's back in the car, breathless. Asking if we are okay, checking us for cuts and scrapes. I know that we are fine, and don't understand what she’s upset about. I learn later that a pair of pre-teen boys were throwing rocks at cars, and one of them hit our windshield. My mom believed that one of the boys actually peed in his pants when she grabbed the back of his shirt. He’d been foolishly trying to out run her. After she examines us thoroughly for signs of physical trauma or internal bleeding, my mom lights a cigarette and drives us home to make lunch before the babysitter arrives.