Superman

We lost Mike Van Valkenburg today, gone at age 62 because he couldn’t control the diabetes that had plagued him for years. He was exactly two weeks older than me and was about as close to a big brother as I ever had.

 We grew up together, our two families going to Cape Cod, celebrating Christmas, Thanksgiving, clam bakes, birthdays – all part of a boisterous gang of nine children in two families, born within about seven years.

Mike was the cool cousin who drove his father’s junk cars around the family land behind the house years before he was legally allowed to get behind a wheel. He once nearly convinced my friend Christine and me that he was secretly Superman, and ripped his shirt a little bit to create a cape effect.

 But as we grew older, Mike and I grew apart. I was all of five feet, a giggly cheerleader who played the flute, dated guys I knew my father would hate, and always knew I would go to college. He grew to be closer to six feet, large, with tattoos and a ratty beard, caring more about motorcycles and dirty jokes than the SAT. If I hadn’t known him, I would have crossed the street if I saw this Hells Angels type coming toward me.

 Our lives intersected once more when we were just out of our teens – when we both got in serious motorcycle accidents and were laid up for a bit. Mine happened because I was on the back of a boyfriend’s bike (see under Bad Boys) during Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale; Mike was on his own bike near where we grew up. Both of us broke our legs. I never got anywhere near a motorcycle after that, but Mike went on to open a motorcycle repair shop and land in several more serious accidents.

 His health had been declining for a long time. When his 89-year-old father died a few years ago, at the funeral I leaned in to give him a hug and smelled the fruity breath of diabetic ketoacidosis. His sisters and nieces took care of him when he was sent home from the hospital. Knowing that his dialysis had stopped, he had just a few days.

 Friends and family came by to see him. His sister Lisa made lasagna. As Lisa said, “he ate what he wanted, drank what he wanted.” He never lost his sense of humor, generosity, or grace, she said. He loved all the attention.

 I called him a few days ago, and his voice was strong and cheerful. He asked about my mother’s health. He was curious about our time in China. We chatted about our childhoods, too. I told him he was like a big brother.

 “I was always looking out for you,” he said, “even when you didn’t realize it.”

Notre Dame is burning

Maybe the lesson here is that if you have the urge to go to Notre Dame on Palm Sunday, go to Notre Dame on Palm Sunday.

We didn’t make it to the cathedral before it caught on fire, even though we were in Paris for a few days. I had actually, that Monday, said to Bob, “It feels strange to be in Paris and not see Notre Dame. Maybe we can walk by it after dinner.”

Instead we heard the news as we were going to dinner: Notre Dame is burning. As we were riding the Metro, my sister in New Hampshire sent me a text: “Oh no. Notre Dame is on fire. Where are you?” We came out of the Metro at Louvre-Rivoli. White smoke was billowing up into the sky, framing the setting sun.

The view from the Right Bank.

But our friend was celebrating his birthday at Chez Denise, one of those classic Parisian bistros you either love for its hearty daube de boeuf and escargot, or you hate because of its gruff waiters, cliched checkered napkins, and jam-packed tables filled with loud tourists. We loved it.

During dinner, I started receiving more texts: one high school friend, one cousin, another high school friend, the daughter of a cousin. Are you okay, are you near Notre Dame. Yes, and yes, I answered.

We walked out into dark streets after dinner. The smell of smoke was strong in the air, and we felt pulled toward Ile de la Cite. The crowds along the Seine were quiet, a bit subdued, and police cars roared by every few minutes. Off in the distance we could make out the orange glow, like a fireplace embers but higher in the air. The police had blocked off all the bridges leading to Notre Dame.

It was getting late so we grabbed a cab and headed back to our hotel. On the cab radio, Macron was speaking. We will rebuild, he said. The worst has been avoided.

The next day we took another cab to Charles de Gaulle, so we could fly home. This time on the radio we heard the voices of those who had been nearby: an Iranian woman who had lived in France a long time, another man who lived on Ile Saint-Louis just next to Notre Dame. And the voices of Parisiennes singing hymns. A light rain misted the cab windows, a small respite from the heavens on one of mankind’s ancient monuments to Mary.

A little explanation

There are times when I need to get my thoughts in words but not necessarily to find a “home” for them in an opinion section, and not to face the spirit-crushing experience of hearing editors passing judgment on what I have to say. This is that home instead, and I’m not always looking to reach the world each time. Sure, my email is on the website, and that level of public exposure has meant a new influx of pitches from publicists along the lines of “Lions Suffer because of Bureaucratic Uncertainty.” I haven’t read the email, but I’m kind of imagining a lone line of bored lions waiting to fill out their residency applications to Krueger National Park or something.

Or the pitch that recently explained, “We have some very exciting, sustainability-centric product launch news coming up and would love to share details on the fascinating R&D process. Possible to agree to hold the news until Thursday, April 18th at 9am EST?” I enjoyed the underlining, the marketing jargon, and the embargo — all clearly part of the publicist playbook. But nope, I don’t even know what this product is but I don’t want anyone to “share details” with me.

But for everyone else, you are welcome to read. As I did in China with my blog NotbyOccident, I sometimes just need a place to do some venting, some observations, and whatever else inspires me. I hope it does occasionally lead to other sorts of writing, but, like my cat lazing on our bed, it can also just be.

Here is the queen of Just Being.