The phone rang in the third floor flat I shared with four other guys. One of my roommates answered the phone. Remember this was 1984, the days of landline phones and no caller ID. My roommate covered the bottom of the phone with his hand and informed me the call was for me. That was not unusual. But this would not be just another phone call. This phone call changed many things for many people for many years. It was a call from Cole Hall, the dormitory where Tom lived that year. I lived in Cole Hall my freshman and sophomore year before moving off campus, first to a house east of the Capitol - i.e., way off campus - for my junior year then to the flat much closer to campus for my senior year. I cannot remember the details of that call. Strangely I wish I could. The caller, one of the other guys who lived on the third floor of Cole Hall where Tom shared a room with Bill Connolly, a long-time friend of his and mine from our hometown of Racine in southeastern Wisconsin along Lake Michigan, told me something had happened to Tom. He was unresponsive. The paramedics had been called. I needed to get to Cole Hall as fast as I could. I lived on Orchard Street, just down the block from Union South. One of my roommates had a car. I asked him for a ride. He was busy with something. I did not even wait for his complete answer. Somehow I knew I could not wait. I looked at Kim, said something about not waiting, grabbed a jacket (yes, a jacket in mid-May!), headed out the door, down the two flights to the front door, and out on to Orchard Street. We would walk, at least for the first part of the less than a mile between our flat and Cole Hall.
Kim and I started walking up the street toward Union South. I could quickly feel the uncertainty and urgency building in my body. Before too long, I was walking very fast. Before too much longer, I was running, jogging, running. As I got closer to the Lakeshore dorms where Cole Hall is, I ran.
As we got to the third floor, a paramedic greeted us and moved us into another room down the hall from Tom's and Bill's dorm room. He asked Kim and me several questions trying to gather any information that might help as they tried to revive Tom. Was there any family history they should be aware of? Had Tom been sick or injured? Did Tom use drugs? My answers were all no. I wanted to know what happened. They updated me. Sometime while we were still on the third floor of Cole Hall, Kim called my parents back in Racine to tell them what was going on. I had blocked this out of my mind for nearly four decades until she and I started piecing parts of the day together again just a few years ago.
Before too long, the police informed us that the paramedics would be transporting Tom to the University of Wisconsin hospital just a five-minute drive away. A police officer drove Kim and me over to the hospital in a squad car. It was the first - and only - time I have ever been in the back of a moving police car. When we got to the hospital, medical staff asked me the same questions I was asked back at Cole Hall. They told me they would keep me updated. I sat in a waiting area with Kim and some friends from college, several of whom had been high school friends as well. None of us knew Jesus so there was no one praying. As I recall, it was pretty quiet. We were all still stunned to be there. I do not know what was going on in my friend's minds at that point. I just know that I wanted it to not be real. I wanted to wake up from what already seemed like a nightmare. But it was way too real for that to happen.
The medical staff came out a couple times to ask questions. The third time they came out, I had that feeling. This time it was different. Things seemed to move in slow motion. The doctor said what no one wants to hear. Tom was dead. My nineteen year old brother with no concerning medical history wrapping up his sophomore year of college had died suddenly. The tall, athletic, intelligent, and funny kid with a wonderfully dry sense of humor was now forever silenced. The staff offered their condolences. I am sure my ears heard the words they said but I did not really hear the words. I wanted to run, to scream, to escape. I wanted to cry, but 22 year old young men about to graduate college do not cry. Especially an older brother who was supposed to watch out for his younger brother, an older brother whose only fights in his life had been in response to people going after his younger brother. Especially an older brother who now had a phone in front of him and faced a task no child should ever have to face. I had to call home and inform my parents their youngest child was dead.
I do not remember much of that call. I only remember dialing the phone - it was 1984 after all - listening to the phone ring back at my childhood home in Racine and my mom answering the phone. I simply said, "Mom, get Dad." There was no way I was informing my mom by herself that Tom was dead. Mom went and got Dad. He picked up another line as they often did when I called home on a weekend. But this was anything but a pleasant catch-up call on a college weekend. I do not remember how I informed them that Tom was dead. I am sure I have blocked the memory from my mind as a way of coping. I do remember my parents quickly shifting to worrying about how I was doing and how Kim was doing. That was such a caring action. Maybe it too was about shifting toward what could be done. I do not know. I do not want to ask my mom about it nearly four decades later. And I cannot ask my dad as he has been home with the Lord for nearly 25 years now, having come to know Jesus just a week before liver cancer ended his earthly sojourn.
The next thing I had to do is something I would not wish upon anyone. I had to identify the body of my younger brother, my long-time best friend. Weird as it may sound, it is a time I have thought about often. I went in one door. I was told I could take as much time by myself as I wanted or needed. But after just a few minutes, my group of friends walked in the side door of the room and what would have been my last individual time with Tom was over. I never got a word out. It would take me 37 years before I would say his name regularly. When I did talk about him and his death, I referred to him as "my brother." Of course, that is correct. But I realized while working with a Christian counselor in Champaign-Urbana, IL, in 2020 that I was not saying his name as a way of protecting myself from the pain. I now say Tom's name regularly. In that same time frame, I wrote a 7-page letter in my journal to Tom. While it was hard to write, it was cathartic. Only my counselor and my wife have heard that letter. Who knows? Maybe I will write more to Tom as the years go on.
Later that May 1984 Saturday, Bill's dad drove up from Racine to pick up Bill, Kim and me and drive us back to Racine. Over the next couple of days, the UW Dean of Students called me several times to see how he could help. In the end, the university chartered several Badger buses to allow as many students as wanted to come to be in Racine for Tom's funeral. I will never forget the site of three Badger buses parked on the street across from my parent's house as those students joined our family and friends in remembering and celebrating Tom. The Dean also helped arrange for me to not have to take finals for my classes that semester. We agreed I would take the grades I had going into my finals for all my classes. One week after Tom's death, my family plus Kim went back to Madison, first for an honors ceremony Saturday and a party at my cousin's apartment then for the graduation ceremony at Camp Randall Stadium Sunday followed by a celebration lunch. What a strange time it was as we all tried our best to make the most of it while knowing Tom was missing.
I would never step foot on the UW campus as an undergrad again. As I considered next steps for my career, my dad recommended I consider pursuing a masters degree immediately. I resisted. I now realize part of that resistance stemmed from wanting to get away from not just UW but any university setting as it would remind me of the biggest loss of my life. Within weeks, I would be invited to visit IBM's plant and lab in Rochester, MN, take a site visit, interview with four departments, and receive and accept a job offer. Just over six weeks after Tom's death, Kim and I packed up my new Chevrolet Cavalier, drove to Rochester and started our new life together. This was 1984. No one was talking about mental health. I told no one what I was attempting to deal with while starting a new job in a new city. I locked it all away and moved on with life.
I write today, because today marks 39 years since Tom died. I am not one of those people who thinks every day or even every week about family members and friends who have died. Instead, certain events, sites, or activities remind me of someone who is gone. I thought of Tom last week as we visited with family up in Wisconsin. What would he be doing?
May 12, 1984 really was the day everything changed. A huge part of my life was not just over. It was gone. It took me nearly four decades to start to unlock much of what was locked away that day and in the aftermath.
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