Kevin and Me

A few days ago, I found the below story on my computer which I wrote in 2006 and decided tho post it here today: 

Twenty-five years ago today, on August 15, 1981, my baby brother, Kevin Dean Faddis, died in a car wreck. He was 18 years old. He would now be 43 and I often wonder what kind of a man that kid would have grown to be had he survived the crash. Not surprisingly, I am in a funk today as I remember that tragic day long ago. I am writing this to help me deal with the blue mood I’m in. 

“Little Dog” as I called him was a funny, sometimes rowdy, often gentle young man. He called me “Big Dog.” The two of us, along with our middle brother, Jeff, (aka: Jethro Bodeen) did a lot of things together when we were kids. Bodeen has also died (February 2006 at age 46) and thinking about the loss of both my little brothers is hurting me a lot right now. 

Most of our adventures centered on hunting and fishing. Our mom often drove us down to the Tuolumne River and dropped us off to fish and would pick us up at dark to haul us home. We earned money by harvesting freshwater clams from a huge clam bed our dad had showed us on the river prior to his death in 1968. We would sell the clams to local bait stores. Mom also took us to our favorite dove and pheasant hunting spots, to the roller skating rink and the movies whenever we asked. 

Kevin killed his first and only deer when he was 13 or 14 years old. He was walking down an old logging road by himself when he spied a deer standing off the road about 50 feet. The buck was on the other side of a fallen tree, just looking at him. Little Dog made a perfect shot, hitting the deer in the neck. Kevin didn’t know what to do after that, so he took off his orange hunting vest, laid it and his gun on the dead deer and ran the three miles all the way back to camp. Two hunters encountered him when his yelling attracted their attention. They told him they would help him get his deer back to camp if he showed them where it was. He refused, accusing them of plotting to rob him of his kill. I heard Kevin yelling while he was still a mile away. “Stan, Grandpa, Jeff, I shot a deer! I shot a deer!”  I don’t think I ever saw my Grandpa smile as big as he did that day as we hauled that buck into our camp. He was so proud.  

Sometimes the three of us fought other boys who were as rowdy as we were. Sometimes we fought each other, but in spite of our feuding, we loved each other like only brothers can. We stood together in all things. When we were together, we were braver than when alone or with our friends, and it felt like nothing could keep us down. We were the sons of Gene Faddis, the toughest son-of-a-gun in Stanislaus County. We knew we were poor country boys and were proud of it. People called us “hillbillies”, “trailer trash” and “okies.” We didn’t care, but when someone called us those names, they had best be farther than an arm’s length away and faster than an angry Jethro Bodeen who could and did run down anyone who needed, as we called it, a “tune-up”.     

Both my brothers are dead now because they made a bad choice - they drove drunk. Kevin died instantly as a result of his single-car crash. Jeff lasted for two weeks after his solo car wreck, dying of a stroke in the intensive care unit. I thank God that their actions did not kill or injure anyone else.  

I sometimes ask myself, “Would Kevin and Jeff have made the decision to drive drunk, if they fully understood how much emotional pain they have caused to those who love them?” The ones they left behind.  The loss of my brothers at such early ages has hurt me beyond belief. We can no longer hunt, fish, and laugh together. It is because of those bad choices, I sometimes become angry with my little brothers. It was a stupid thing for them to do. I still love them and treasure the memories, but they have hurt me a lot by this. 

I don’t have a blog, and I started out writing this story for myself, but I have decided to email this to some friends who I will ask to send it to their friends in the hope that someone “out there” will make the right choice by not drinking and driving - ever. The possible consequences of the wrong choice will, without question, hurt those who are left behind. Believe me, I know. 

As stated, I wrote the above in 2006, long before I had this blog. I find it interesting that I asked the same questions about my son’s demise as I did regarding my brothers’ deaths. That is... had they pondered the ramifications of their choices prior to driving drunk or pulling the trigger, would they still have done it? 

Earlier today, I was talking to my friend, Darren when I remembered Kevin and another chapter in our lives. 

In 1979, Kevin was riding in the back of a pickup that had five of his friends in it. They were coming back from a hunting trip in the Sierras. The driver wrecked by going over a 300 foot embankment. Kevin was thrown clear and landed face down on a pile of rocks. He was taken to Doctor’s Hospital in Modesto where it was found he had a brain injury. He was comatose  and the doctors couldn’t guarantee taht we would ever wake up.

At the time this happened, I had just finished the season working in the cannery, so it was decided that I would spend as much time as possible with him in the hospital. Doctor Darroch, his neurosurgeon told me that I should talk to Kevin as if her were conscious. So, I talked to him a lot about what was going on at home, with his friends and about me memories of our times together. I even talked to him about what was playing on the TV in his room, which was mostly talk shows, game shows and soap operas. 

One day, I began to wonder if he could actually hear me. His right hand was resting on his chest and I tapped his forefinger and told him, “Kevin, if you can hear me, lift up this finger.” And he did! I told him to answer me by raising one finger for “yes” and two fingers for “no.” He did so as I asked him if he knew where he was (yes), if he remembered what happened (no), and if he could open his eyes (no). This method of communication only worked intermittently and the doctor said it was probably related to the swelling of his brain. But, the fact that he could hear us gave great hope that he might someday regain consciousness.

Three weeks after being admitted to the hospital, I was spending the day with him. As usual, I was chatting to him about something on the TV. I glanced at him just in time to see his eyes flutter open. He looked at me and said, “I want some ice cream.” I said, “You can have all the ice cream you want, buddy!” I hollered for the nurse who came rushing in, probably thinking something was wrong. She was astonished to see Kevin looking at her with fully opened eyes. 

Little Dog was in the hospital a total of 39 days. When he went home, he could not return to school immediately and needed 24 hour care for the first thirty days, so I volunteered. Our Mom needed to go to work to keep the insurance active. Kevin was very popular in high school so, everyday, I drove him up and down Whitmore Avenue (the cruise) twice a day, at noon and after school. He was able to stay in touch with his friends this way and they appreciated what I was doing for him. I was five or more years older than these kids and at first I felt like an intruder into my little brother’s life. But they all liked me and thought I was cool. I even took him to some parties and to the Ceres Drive-In to  hang out with his buddies. 

The memories of this time in our lives 32 years ago are precious to me.  Less than two years later, Kevin passed away. His memorial service was attended by over 400 people. This was a great tribute to what a good kid he was and I am blessed to have had him for my little brother.