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.”