Yesterday, I had one of those heart-wrenching phone calls you never want to get. My niece Chris called. I knew by the tremor in her voice that it could only be bad news, and it was. Her youngest brother, Dennis – my nephew – had died earlier that morning. Peacefully but unexpectedly. He was 58 years old.

Losing a younger sibling or any of our younger loved ones always seems odd and unfair, if you ask me. They’re supposed to take their turn in the queue. Dennis, what were you thinking, child?  I, myself, for instance, as your elderly aunt, was way ahead of you in the line you just muscled in on.

Part of the pain of learning of his death is my failure to be in contact with Dennis after his mom – my sister Joan – recently died. It was something “I always intended to do”, but I didn’t. Like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And deep regret.

I knew how important my sister was to him. On my last visit to her at the independent living home she lived in, Dennis visited her every single day – that week and every other day of every other week previous.

Dennis was part of a set. When he and his twin sister Denise were born, my brother Richard learned that the family had started calling Denise – Dee-Dee. The “legend” has it that he feared that if Denise was known as Dee-Dee, Dennis would become known as “Doo-Doo”. So instead, he thereafter referred to the pair as “De-Niece” and “De-Nephew”. 

I have no idea why that pair of twins wasn’t kidnapped, shortly after birth. It wasn’t just their adorability, those urchins also had the market on showing genuine affection to anybody with a lap to sit on, and the experience was downright irresistible. Same with all the Fitzpatrick brood, in fact. When you were there, you didn’t want to leave.

As Dennis grew up, he acquired the goof-ball comedy we’ll all remember him for, but under all that slapstick was a kind of sensitivity and thoughtfulness that I’ll always remember.

I can only imagine what Denise feels today. My heart aches for her, and for her other siblings, Chris, Tim, Jeff, and René, and for Dennis’s wife, Teresa, daughter. Hannah and granddaughter Chelsie. 

The last time I saw Dennis was at that visit with my sister. Because I was going to be gone from home for a week, I figured I’d be “playing hooky” from going to Mass since I had no way to get to a church. But one day, Dennis said, “Aunt Patty, do you want to come with me when I go to Mass on Saturday?” 

I was flabbergasted. Not many his age seem to go to church much anymore, and it was certainly an unexpected offer I couldn’t refuse. I figured he was doing it just as a kindness, but when we got there and I eye-balled his obviously comfortable associations with other parishioners, I understood. This was where he went to find strength and it was his way of sharing it with me. Among other things, I’ll always remember that and his kindness to me.

Requiescat in pace, Dennis.