Remembering Eddie (Edwin Charles)

June 3, 1953 marks the day my younger brother, Edwin Charles Etgen, was born. He was the third of Edwin and Winnie Etgen’s children; he was named after our father, Edwin, and his father’s favorite uncle, Charlie Etgen. Eddie was a precocious little brother, full of mischief and unpredictability. When he was in kindergarten and learning to write, he wrote everything backyards—a mystery that baffled his teacher and my mother; but mother soon discovered that if she held Eddie’s writing up to a mirror and looked at the reflection that she could read perfectly what Eddie had written. I guess he had a form of dyslexia. But during the 50’s dyslexia was not diagnosed in public schools; my mother, desperate, to help Eddie read and write and succeed academically, spent countless hours helping him to see the world in the manner in which everyone else around him did. Despite Eddie’s dyslexia, mother nurtured him, and he learned to function well in school.

 
And Eddie was special in other ways, too. He was left-handed, and I teased him unmercifully for being a “lefty.” Eddie had other physical “abnormalities”—he was born with an inverted sternum, and his heart was on the right side of his chest. Despite its location, Eddie’s heart was loving, and he had a mischievous spirit that, honestly, often annoyed me. And he was as stubborn, like every other Etgen I knew, and determined to be a drummer extraordinaire.

But (as mother would confess in her later years) Eddie was an “accident.” She and my father hadn’t planned on a third child. But birth control was limited in the early 50s. So Eddie was conceived, and my grandmother occasionally chastised mother for having a third child; my grandmother often mentioned to me, “I told your mother not to have a third child; a woman can only take care of two babies; three’s TOO many. Your dad shouldn’t have the pressure of supporting another child.” She hinted that perhaps my parents should have placed Eddie up for adoption. But that was not my parents’ nature; to them I’m sure adoption seemed irresponsible and unthinkable. It was the 50s after all.

Anyway, I suppose my grandmother‘s feelings ate away at my mother and drove her to continually prove to my grandmother, other family members, and friends that, although Eddie was an accident, he was not a mistake and that he was special. But I believe my dear mother felt a certain level of shame and perhaps guilt that she shrouded through her overzealous attempts to bring out Eddie’s special gifts. And Eddie was gifted—he had a love for art and music; so my mother nurtured Eddie’s creativity blinded by his rebelliousness and poor choices as a teenager and young adult. It was the 60s and 70s after all.

I think, though, mother’s veil of guilt was ever present, and Eddie sensed something indefinable that engulfed him at times. I know I did. As we are learning more about epigenetics, the way a parent “feels” about pregnancy and the child impacts the child’s DNA and even his psyche. So despite Eddie’s creativity and intellect, he struggled with claiming his “specialness” and finding his place in the world. Even after attending college and majoring in music, he just didn’t “get” how to use his gift. At times he seemed to acknowledge his gift; yet, oddly, he felt guilty about having them. He struggled with drugs, unsatisfactory relationships, and more poor choices; it was the 80s after all.

 
So music and art became minor avocations in Eddie’s adult life; and much to Mother’s chagrin and frustration, he drifted from job to job—always dissatisfied and searching for something elusive and just beyond his reach. To compound matters, the job market changed and demanded a skill set that Eddie didn’t posses. It was the 90s after all.

Then the world transitioned into another century—a century that seemed distant and foreign to Eddie. Music and art required an understanding of technology and forward thinking. Now Eddie was a stranger in a strange land.

Regardless of the decade and circumstances, Eddie always seemed “guilty” of something invisible and legitimately seemed afraid to succeed, to embrace something new, and move forward.

Yet despite his personal struggles, Eddie “stepped up to the plate” so to speak and cared for our aging and ailing parents. I, for one, was unaware of how fragile my brother truly was and how ill-equipped he was to handle the stress of being a full-time caregiver. And I think the toll was too much for him to bear.

Sadly, under unclear and questionable circumstances, Eddie passed away all alone, never really knowing just how special he was. It was January 8, 2010.

I so often think of my younger brother, Eddie. He brought light and joy into the Etgen home on Third Street. And I am grateful that we were close in age and grew up together. I’m grateful that he cared for my parents and wish I’d told him so. And I regret not sharing that burden with him.

I also wish Eddie had known and understood that he was indeed a special man who was given a unique set of talents and an even more unique perspective on the world. So, Eddie, I honor you today, on what would have been your 66th birthday. I’d like to think that you’re living in a parallel universe somewhere and you’ve found yourself and are content and at peace.