In an era when death seems to be on the mind a bit more than usual because of the pandemic, I find myself remembering those who once graced my life, but who have since departed in the most permanent of ways. And among those many I have lost, I think of the first death that affected me in the Dylan Thomas sense that “After the first death, there is no other.”*
I met Joe Debich when my town reorganized school wards, sending me from my beloved Fourth Ward School to the Sixth Ward. We were classmates for only a year, and we were just fifth-graders. Then my family moved into a new home on the opposite side of town and into the Eighth Ward School. It wasn’t until I went into seventh grade in the common junior high that I renewed a friendship with Joe.
During the summer before ninth grade, my mother told me without details that Joe Debich was very sick. So, taking some of my money I had earned as a paperboy, I bought some comic books and went to visit my bedridden friend. At that time, I had no knowledge of leukemia. I visited Joe, who was in good spirits but who told me that at night the pain in his legs was very bad. Since we used to play basketball together, I said that as soon as he was better we would again resume our games. Then I left to do whatever a 14-year-old does with the rest of his summer vacation, in my case, carrying papers, playing baseball, and spending time as time passes.
When I walked into school that fall, I didn’t see Joe. Then, some classmates approached to say, “Did you hear? Joe Debich died.” My immature brain didn’t really comprehend other than to say, “But I just saw him a month ago.”
That night, a friend of mine and I went to the funeral home, where a number of my classmates had gathered to pay respects. Now, consider that during my visit with Joe, I had no idea that his disease was terminal (I guess my mother was protecting me from that fact), and he seemed to be the same Joe I had known.
What I saw in the open casket wasn’t Joe. He had gone from over 100 pounds to less than 60. Within seconds, I experienced that “after the first death, there is no other” feeling. I immediately, in front of classmates and adults broke into tears and fled the room, the hallway, and the funeral home, pushing through the crowd of teens with my friend following me. The walk home was over a mile, and I cried beyond attempted consoling by my friend. And I cried when I went into my house. And I went for another walk and cried, probably for a couple of hours. Yes, for at least a couple of hours. And not just tears, uncontrollable sobbing.
Since that time, I have gone into many funeral homes to honor deceased relatives, friends, and acquaintances. Often, the experience has made me tearful, but no visit subsequent to that funeral home visit to see Joe ever affected me to such an extent. Lingering tearful sadness for all, yes. But it’s as though all deaths had been foreshadowed by Joe’s death. I had mourned all those subsequent deaths in that one funeral home experience. And it was during that visit that my oft-repeated expression, “This is not your practice life” took root. Later in life I said in various versions: “This is not your practice college”—to students; “This is not your practice game”—to athletes; “This is not your practice practice”—to anyone striving toward a goal like mastering a sport or a musical instrument or, by extension, any skill.
If that expression has influenced others, they unknowingly owe Joe Debich a debt. As much as the volumes of philosophy, theology, science, and literature I have read, Joe’s brief life serves as a foundation for this website.
*”A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London”: The poem ends with “After the first death, there is no other,” but in the previous stanza, Thomas writes, “I shall not murder/The mankind of her going with a grave truth/Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath/With any further/Elegy of innocence and youth.”
I met Joe Debich when my town reorganized school wards, sending me from my beloved Fourth Ward School to the Sixth Ward. We were classmates for only a year, and we were just fifth-graders. Then my family moved into a new home on the opposite side of town and into the Eighth Ward School. It wasn’t until I went into seventh grade in the common junior high that I renewed a friendship with Joe.
During the summer before ninth grade, my mother told me without details that Joe Debich was very sick. So, taking some of my money I had earned as a paperboy, I bought some comic books and went to visit my bedridden friend. At that time, I had no knowledge of leukemia. I visited Joe, who was in good spirits but who told me that at night the pain in his legs was very bad. Since we used to play basketball together, I said that as soon as he was better we would again resume our games. Then I left to do whatever a 14-year-old does with the rest of his summer vacation, in my case, carrying papers, playing baseball, and spending time as time passes.
When I walked into school that fall, I didn’t see Joe. Then, some classmates approached to say, “Did you hear? Joe Debich died.” My immature brain didn’t really comprehend other than to say, “But I just saw him a month ago.”
That night, a friend of mine and I went to the funeral home, where a number of my classmates had gathered to pay respects. Now, consider that during my visit with Joe, I had no idea that his disease was terminal (I guess my mother was protecting me from that fact), and he seemed to be the same Joe I had known.
What I saw in the open casket wasn’t Joe. He had gone from over 100 pounds to less than 60. Within seconds, I experienced that “after the first death, there is no other” feeling. I immediately, in front of classmates and adults broke into tears and fled the room, the hallway, and the funeral home, pushing through the crowd of teens with my friend following me. The walk home was over a mile, and I cried beyond attempted consoling by my friend. And I cried when I went into my house. And I went for another walk and cried, probably for a couple of hours. Yes, for at least a couple of hours. And not just tears, uncontrollable sobbing.
Since that time, I have gone into many funeral homes to honor deceased relatives, friends, and acquaintances. Often, the experience has made me tearful, but no visit subsequent to that funeral home visit to see Joe ever affected me to such an extent. Lingering tearful sadness for all, yes. But it’s as though all deaths had been foreshadowed by Joe’s death. I had mourned all those subsequent deaths in that one funeral home experience. And it was during that visit that my oft-repeated expression, “This is not your practice life” took root. Later in life I said in various versions: “This is not your practice college”—to students; “This is not your practice game”—to athletes; “This is not your practice practice”—to anyone striving toward a goal like mastering a sport or a musical instrument or, by extension, any skill.
If that expression has influenced others, they unknowingly owe Joe Debich a debt. As much as the volumes of philosophy, theology, science, and literature I have read, Joe’s brief life serves as a foundation for this website.
*”A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London”: The poem ends with “After the first death, there is no other,” but in the previous stanza, Thomas writes, “I shall not murder/The mankind of her going with a grave truth/Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath/With any further/Elegy of innocence and youth.”
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