The song “Rocky” caught me quite unexpectedly. I remember all of us – and ‘all of us’ now consisted of Aunt Joyce, Uncle Jack, my cousins John and Jim, and my brother Dave – were on our way home from somewhere in the middle of the Fall of ’75. For this particular ride home I had luckily drawn a window seat. However, since it was dark out, I couldn’t read, which was how I normally spent my time in the car. I leaned my head against the cool glass listening to the radio.

The bouncy melody caught my ear and the lyrics caught my attention:

Alone until my eighteenth year
We met four springs ago
She was shy and had a fear
Of things she did not know
But we got it on together
In such a super way
We held each other close at night
And traded dreams each day

And she said, “Rocky, I’ve never been in love before
Don’t know if I can do it
But if you let me lean on you
Take my hand, I might get through it” (through it)
I said, “Baby, oh sweet baby
It’s love that sets us free
And God knows if the world should end
Your love is safe with me”

It was a love song. At the time I wasn’t aware of how cheesy the lyrics really were but I was interested in how they ‘got it on together in such a super way’ – well, after all, I was now in 7th grade:

We found an old gray house
And you would not believe the way
We worked at night to fix it up
Took classes in the day
Paintin’ walls and sippin’ wine
Sleepin’ on the floor
With so much love for just two
Soon we found there’d be one more

And she said, “Rocky, I’ve never had a baby before
Don’t know if I can do it
But if you let me lean on you
Take my hand, I might get through it” (through it)
I said, “Baby, oh sweet baby
it’s love that sets us free
And God knows if the world should end
Your love is safe with me”

At this point, this was sounding like a typical love song. The fact that they had a Gray House like Dave and I did was interesting but my attention was beginning to wane:

We had lots of problems then but
We had lots of fun
Like the crazy party
When our baby girl turned one
I was proud and satisfied
Life had so much to give
‘Till the day they told me
That she didn’t have long to live

She said, “Rocky, I’ve never had to die before
Don’t know if I can do it…”

That hit me. I had just been introduced to my first tragedy song. OK, not my first tragedy song – there was Terry Jack’s “Seasons In The Sun”  but this one caught me by surprise. I couldn’t cry because everyone was in the car, but a tear escaped anyways as the lyrics finished:

Now it’s back to two again
The little girl and I
Who looks so much like her sweet mother
Sometimes it makes me cry
I sleep alone at nights again
I walk alone each day
And sometimes when I’m about to give in
I hear her sweet voice say, to me

“Rocky, you know you’ve been alone before
You know that you can do it
But if you’d like to lean on me
Take my hand, I’ll help you through it” (through it)
I said, “Baby, oh sweet baby
It’s love that sets us free
And I told you when the world would end
Your love was safe with me”

She said, “Rocky, you know you’ve been alone before
You know that you can do it
But if you’d like to lean on me…

This story/this song – haunted me for days.  While I still remembered the tragic song ‘Seasons In The Sun’, now I was on the other side of my own tragedy. Everything hit so much closer to home. These characters were now much more believable than they would have been a year ago.

After moving in with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack, one part of the grieving process I would struggle with forgetting what had happened. There would be mornings I would wake up, realize I was in our new bedroom at Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack’s house. Dave’s bed would be three feet from mine. And that comprehension of being in a new bedroom would fade into that realization that my parents were dead. My grief would reset and the pain of this new reality would dig new footholds.

Prior to this, my only experience with death had been when Skipper, our family collie, had to be put down. Skipper was laid in the outside stairwell after he broke his leg. I remember spending the morning with him crying knowing my Dad would come home and take him away. And when Dad came home, he loaded Skipper into the station wagon. Dad left and came home without Skipper. Skipper was dead, I don’t remember burying him – he just wasn’t home anymore.

When my parents died, I realized I didn’t know how death worked. Mom and Dad were in heaven, right? That’s what everyone said. I would see them again when I went to heaven – when I died. We were to take comfort in that. Wait, that we all die? Everyone dies. No one lives forever. Someday – I would die. When would that be? How would I die? Would it hurt? I didn’t want it to hurt? How long did I have? My brothers and sisters could die. I did not know if I could go through the pain I had been going through these last 9 months again. I did not want to experience that pain again. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

Before my parents died I had been reading read ghost stories, and I still did. I ached to see my parents again, especially my mom – even as spirits. For months and years, I would lie in bed in the dark. Dave and I would spend some nights talking – until Aunt Joyce would open the door and tell us, “no more talking, it was time for bed”. It was in this dark quiet I would explore what death was to me.

My thoughts would chase me into the darkest corners of my mind. These nights I would reach out to Mom – mentally, or maybe it spiritually – it was all just in my head. I would lie in bed and think – thinking, stretching with my mind, reaching out – for some kind of sensation, anything, something – trying for some response that wasn’t my own making. I would concentrate harder and harder until my head would ache; reaching further and further. Screaming in my head – “Mom!” My tears would stream down the corners of my eyes onto my pillow as I waited for a response, something — anything. And as my overtures drifted away unanswered into those dark corners, I would fill in what I wanted to hear…

“I will always be with you, Johnny.”

But even as I invoked those words I knew it was a lie I used to fill in the void, the lack of response. I would lie to myself because I could no longer stand the emptiness. I didn’t understand. Why didn’t she respond? What stronger bond was there than a mother and her child? But she didn’t answer. Was there no spiritual world? Did she really no longer exist – even on the spiritual level? Was I really never going to see her again? The questions would start there, run to the empty edges of my mind, spilling into my emptiness. I questioned everything. The world I thought I knew was now gone. I was now testing the spiritual world I was trying to understand and realizing I knew even less about that. After these nights, the next day I would go through life  – day by day – as a kid growing up. But in the darkness of my room, where I could hide my tears, where I would continue to ‘reach out’ I would find nothing – only isolation in a vast void – as my brother slept 3 feet away. As this void gained substance I realized it would hold the weight of my questions. I realized I was not going to hear from Mom, or Dad, and further questions would drift unanswered. And I stopped reaching out.

From this void, this blankness, I built a foundation. I separated life from living. Over time I found that I was going through Life. And in going through Life, I was, in fact, living but Life had lost a lot of its warmth. Grief’s oldest cliche’s turned out to be true – ‘Time heals all wounds’ and ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’.

By the time I had gotten to High School, I had again caught up to my peers – focused on normal things teenagers focused on – girls, music, cars and work. But I knew what most adults didn’t get It, that is – Life, but I also included my peers. It seemed no one understood that Life was a facade. That there was nothing lied beyond what we saw – we are alive and then we died. Heaven was a story you told children and scared adults to ease the pain of those who were left behind. But now I knew, there was nothing after you died.

My questioning of everything allowed me to stand on this void with what I believed was ‘true knowledge’. While my peers who fought the status quo of living, I thought had unlocked what Life really was. I would live in the moment. I removed my future expectations. The problem was if you ran this thought process to the logical conclusion, life had no meaning – you lived and you died. Death was final, no spirit, no afterlife – just the void. One thing that was true was the pain, it was very real. So if the pain was so much then the answer was to end the charade of living. The longing for my brothers and sisters was still very strong. But in that same conclusion, I could never knowingly cause them much pain. And I know too well how much pain death could cause. My suicidal thoughts would echo for years. But slowly they would get trampled to murmurs by the constant stepping through of Life and relearning how to live in this new world.

And while this new enlightenment seemed bleak, there was comfort in understanding. I had matured well beyond my years. This knowledge gave me confidence. In this understanding, I saw things differently, better than most adults – again, so I thought. And while these questions built me up, I shriveled from death and its ultimate coming. I knew how far death could change one’s life without actually ending it. I understood it was just the beginning of a long and possibly overwhelming process. Death would forever have my respect and, unfortunately, my heart.

In this new “living” I learned to ‘play the game’. I did not cause problems. I would not be a burden to others. Knowing there was nothing while others believed there was something (void vs. heaven) allowed me to patience with others. And in this patience I allowed my grief to subside, and I would learn to be comfortable with my new being. But despite going to church, and even starting confirmation classes at Zion Lutheran Church, it would be many years before I understood how Faith worked despite John and I would take confirmation classes together at their church – I mean our church.

When Dave and I moved in with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack, it was natural that Dave and I paired off with John and Jim since we each had a cousin that was the same age. However, while John and I went to the same confirmation class, I was signed up to attend Wilmot Jr. High that Fall while John was going to Deer Path Middle School in Lake Forest. John had trouble with reading and math and Deer Path could help him get the classes that Wilmot Jr. High did not provide. So we went to separate schools. Dave and Jim, however, went to Woodland Elementary just a few blocks away.

As in any family siblings fight. As Dave and I were integrated into the Beckman family we did more things together. It was great when we played tag or ‘Ghost in the Graveyard. John and Jim taught us ‘Kick the Can’, or we would fish down by the lake, or ride our bikes around the neighborhood. But like any other family, there would be times we did not get along.

One of my first fights with John turned into a real fight with punching and wrestling – just like Dave and I used to do. Strangely, but understandably, Dave and I no longer fought anymore. We no longer had our big punching and wrestling fights anymore as we did before. Regarding this particular fight with John, I don’t remember how it got started or what it was about. I do know it started inside the house and continued as I chased him out to the front yard.

I knew John and Jim had fought because I had seen them. I chased John through the front door and pushed him down as he gained speed across the yard. I had learned from my fights with Dave that if I didn’t get them down early I would never be able to catch them because of my weight. Down he went and I was on top of him punching him in the arms. As with Dave it never seemed right to punch someone in the face.

John was a lot stronger than Dave so he was able to throw me off at first. And in the midst of our tears and punches, John yelled at me, “You’re lucky you have somewhere to live.”

Which I responded with “Yea? well, at least I go to a normal school.”

We had both shocked each other in what we had said. Later that afternoon Aunt Joyce reprimanded me for calling John out on for going to a different school. I complained he started it – which I knew was typically not a good response since adults don’t really care who starts a fight.  I had apparently undone a lot of work Aunt Joyce and Uncle Jack had done to get John the help he needed in school. By pointing out the stigma that came with going to a different school from the other kids in the neighborhood I had undermined their efforts.

The bottom line was – it was a crappy thing I did. Yes, so was what he had said. Yes – two wrongs don’t make a right – and you can’t take back what is said. Two years later it was a moot point as John and I both going to Deerfield High School together. But what really happened that day was John and I became brothers. We learned our boundaries and what we were each capable of and how we could hurt each other. Were we inseparable? no. But we both enjoyed going to the Chicago Plant Show as a family in the spring, going to the Botanical Gardens together or that new cactus shop that had opened up in the Commons in downtown Deerfield that next summer. And we always had, and still have, fishing.

We – Dave, Jim, John and I – became ‘The Boys’. While we were introduced as individuals but we were collectively referred to as ‘The Boys’.  John and I tended to be more interested in plants and animals. And John was more into animals, while I more into plants. Dave and Jim tended to be more on the mechanical side with cars and snowmobiles. And we all shared stamp collecting, beer can (or pop can) collecting, swimming, family vacations and watching our favorite TV shows, or listening to our favorite 45’s.

We did a lot of living together. And while I would lie in the dark contemplating Life with its dark edges and its various drop-offs – I was still living. Each day, despite my dark thoughts, I was living a little more. And as I continued to try figure out what this Life – my life – meant,  the Past was being put into the void. Never being forgotten but supporting the weight of my being – and my understanding who I was.

Later I realized this was a good thing. I was beginning to forget; so I guess that’s also a bad thing. Life was moving on. The tidal waves that had swept away my previous life were now just memories; strong and life-changing but becoming only memories. My dead parents were being left to the darkness of my late night thoughts and wet pillows. All the lives touched by that tidal February night had changed. The Zilligen children tumbled behind in it’s wake. Sometimes we couldn’t breathe. Sometimes we were dead weight. But we learned to keep up with the lives that surrounded us.

We fought the weight of pain that pushed us underneath a life we used to know, threating to bury us with grief. I did lose part of a brother and some of my sisters. But within one of my efforts back to the surface of the living, I would find four more sets of arms pulling me along. Only in looking back would I learn that I had gained two more brothers and new parents. The tidal waves of life are always destructive. Up close death was way more devastating than anything I could have imagined. But I learned it was not insurmountable. Only time could calculate the loss and the lessons learned. ‘Rocky’ pushed me down the real path of death, not the flowery archangels of death, but its cold reality. Now I understood “Now it’s back to two again.” Dave and I against this new life. Thank God we had to a Life to live through. The pain did subside. And when we awoke, it was in the arms of a new family.