I
I’ve lost several friends along the way. Most, there was some lead time, time to fill the hole that would be left inside. When death comes suddenly to someone close to you, that work must be done afterwards.
Monday, Labor Day, Dean Brinkman’s friends knew that Dean was in a situation of some risk. By calls and texts, we knew he was having emergency surgery almost two months after open heart surgery. That July 12 surgery had gone well by all reports. Soon after that, Dean was his usual buoyant, joy-filled self.
I surely don’t understand medical matters. But something went terribly wrong. We ask a lot of that organ called the heart, wanting it to operate flawlessly for decades. We take it for granted. Till we don’t.
I was doing stuff outside, when I came into the house to see I’d missed a call from Dean’s cousin Brian. Brian has become a friend, but a call on a Monday afternoon was not normal. A sense of apprehension filled me. I made myself sit down at the kitchen table.
I called Brian and my anxiety proved accurate. Dean had passed from this life. The next moment was more sobbing than words between the two of us. No matter what you know about the biology of death or how you much embrace the hope of Heaven, that moment can best be described as if you’ve been hit by a truck.
My head turned quickly to thoughts of unimaginable pain of Dean’s family. Wife Sandy, kids Alex, Deonna, and Carter, brother Dan, parents Don and Donna came to mind. I know them all; they’re all favorites. Minutes later Dan called, and another call of more tears than talking.
Over the next days were calls among Dean’s friends. There are many. Dean made and kept friends and kept them close better than anyone I know. There were school friends, baseball friends, friends among his patients at Sleepy Eye Chiropractic, friends from everywhere he’d been.
Dean had a large personality, but not a loud one, if that makes sense. He didn’t need attention from a crowd, although I remember well Dean standing on a pitcher’s mound with all eyes on him, him filled with confidence. I’m thinking of the thousand small conversations I saw him have, and in each the other person had his full focus and respect. As boisterous and exuberant as Dean could be, he was a listener. Those qualities rarely match up.
Dean the chiropractor was the same person as the one I loved having a beer with. He could listen, empathize, and then offer advice where it fit. My mom loved Dean and my son loved Dean. My mom overlapped Don and Dean Brinkman as a patient. My son went to him with some hockey ailments. He made my 85-year-old mom smile and my junior high kid giggle.
Dean gathered friends almost like he collected baseball cards. Then he loved to share them. He enjoyed nothing more than to introduce Friend X to Friend Y and make sure everyone felt included. Some years ago, he created an early morning texting group from scattered places, knowing we would become friends. He expanded each of our worlds.
I was talking to a classmate of Dean’s and was a little surprised to find out he was voted class clown. Certainly, he could be the life of a gathering and had a great, full laugh. But I thought of conversations we had on serious matters. Making the world a better place, loving fully a family, matters of faith, he thought about these like he thought about baseball strategy. As much as he made me laugh, he made me think.
When you lose a friend, you lose the odd and sometimes goofy memories you shared. Certain phrases, glances, situations when you knew you were thinking the same thing: those are all broken in half, with a piece gone missing.
No more going over to Dean’s to see what was in the Fridge of Many Flavors. That’s what I dubbed his extra refrigerator with its collection of different beers. The Thursday before his death, I stopped over to have one out on his patio. As was usual, time was spent visiting with bikers and walkers passing by on the street which is also the bike trail right there. A friend often said, “Dean knows everybody.” It wasn’t far from the truth.
We talked about the planning for the Babe Ruth’s visit to Sleepy Eye centennial. We’re celebrating that with events on October 15th. You shouldn’t be surprised to know Dean was a lead force in organizing that, pulling from his many contacts. Some of us are going to have to pick up the pieces now. I have a feeling our Babe Ruth Day is going to double as a Dean Brinkman Tribute. Which seems perfect.
Dean filled in this space through the years covering columns when I was busy with farm work. We always enjoyed working on those. Once he came upon a story or idea he wanted to write, the words came tumbling out of him. It wasn’t unlike talking to him when he was excited about something. Your brain had to race to keep up. He would send me a draft, and I would have to whip it into publishing shape. I always had to remind him that we needed to slice his tome into paragraphs.
Dean was more emotive a writer than me and connected well with readers. He liked to wander back to his childhood in a way that lots of us could go back to our own. He would admit he was blessed with a good home and parents, and later wife and kids. He wrote in a way to make us all appreciate those parts of our lives.
When Dean’s obit was published, I texted to friends, “A big life, well lived.” I felt honored to know him. I’m not much for Heaven metaphors, but this came to me:
On the basepaths of life, I’m not sure where I am. At 66, if I’m lucky, I’m between second and third with some years ahead of me. So, I don’t know when. But Dean, I’ll see you at home.