Mike’s Away

My big brother, Michael Ahearn, died at age 56.  My nieces, Shelby and Nicki, asked me if I would write his obituary.  This is the second time I have been asked to write the obituary of one of my siblings at the much too early age of 56.  My oldest sister, Lori, died at age 56 as well.  It wasn’t easy writing her obituary, but we weren’t as close as my brother and I.  Scribing the final footnote of my brother’s life is the single hardest thing I have ever had to write.

No matter how many times I have sat down to write, the words simply haven’t come.  I’ve tried to write something light and funny, which is how he would have preferred it.  I’ve tried to celebrate his life as a testament to a life well-lived.  The words never came.  Although my brother’s life oftentimes was light and funny and there were many aspects of his time on earth that were well-lived, the truth of the matter was—he was troubled.

When I was younger my brother was, in a word, my hero.  I looked up to him like no other male figure.  I wanted to be like him.  He was handsome, charming, and funny.  The girls loved him.  Life loved him.  If there was a party, he was there, front and center making sure the festivities never stopped.  I marveled at his capacity for fun and his ability to seemingly keep his life on track in the maelstrom of the endless parties.  I wanted to be like him, but deep down knew that I couldn’t.  I understood that I had to forge my own path in life and early on, most of the people around me doubted that I could escape the shadow of my brother—I certainly did.

I achieved a small level of success in my life in comedy and it simply wouldn’t have happened without my brother, Mike.  He believed in me and gave me a chance when no one else thought that I could ever make it as a comedian.  It was my brother who called me when I was living in Iowa, “floundering around” as my father put it, and he invited me to come to Texas to live with him and his wife, Lori, so that I could start pursuing my career in comedy.

“There are some open mic stand-up comedy clubs here in Dallas and you can move in with us and start going on stage,” he suggested to me in December of 1988.

I knew this was a chance that I couldn’t pass up.  With Mike’s help, I moved to Texas on January 9, 1989, and found the courage to get up on stage for my very first stand-up set on May 6, 1989.  Mike and Lori invited every friend they had that night to come and watch me in my first performance.  I remember standing in the back of the comedy club with my brother as my name was about to be called to perform.  He was there for me, like a rock, giving me support.

“You’re going to do great,” he said.

I was terrified.  I knew I wasn’t going to be great.  He knew that I wasn’t going to be great, but he stood by me nonetheless and said everything I needed to hear to give me the fortitude to go up and plow through my very first stand-up set.  I wasn’t great, but my brother led his friends in raucous laughter making it “feel” like I did great.  It was the single greatest gift he could have given me.  His support meant so much to me.  Even when I was failing at life; all the times when I was fucking around and not taking life seriously; he would give me a gentle nudge to get me back on track.  I depended on him in ways I could never express.

Without my brother, I wouldn’t be standing where I am today.  If I have achieved any level of success in life it is because of him.  It is because he believed in me and stood by me.  This is why it is so difficult to write this tribute to him; near the end of his life the brother that I loved and admired so much fell into a deep addiction.  One of the saddest and deepest failures of my life is that I couldn’t reach him to get him help.  No matter how many times I tried to have the conversation to get him help he would rebuff me and tell me that he could do it on his own without help.  He couldn’t.

The last time I pleaded with my brother to get help was when he called me in San Francisco.  I was working a gig that would have never been possible had my brother not supported me in my earlier, leaner years.  He knew he was in trouble with drugs and alcohol, and he said, “David, I need help.  I need your help now.  I need to go to treatment.”

The irony was not lost on me that it was now my turn to be there to support him.  I called my dear friend, Frank, and I said, “I need you to drive 4 hours to Houston to pick him up and bring him back to Dallas.  I get home on Monday, and we are going to get him into treatment.”

Without missing a beat, my beloved friend Frank made the drive and extended my brother’s life by a few years.  That following Monday I got up early to go to the hospital to check my big brother into treatment when I looked down and saw he was calling.  In a very short conversation, he told me he checked himself out of the hospital and wasn’t going to go into treatment.  48 hours of sobriety convinced him he could do it on his own.  He couldn’t.

In one of the hardest decisions that I ever had to make, I told my big brother that if he didn’t go into treatment I was going to cut off all communication with him and I couldn’t offer him anymore help.  I knew that this wasn’t going to end well and right before we ended the conversation I said as much to my brother.

“Mike, I love you, but if you don’t go into treatment the next time I see you will be in a casket.”

It was harsh, I know.  I was trying desperately to reach him.  In my heart, I hoped that hearing this from a brother that loved him so much would somehow shock him awake.  It didn’t.  He said he understood and hung up the phone.  I remember exactly where I was when I heard that click.  I knew I would never see him again and I didn’t.  I can’t even recall the last face-to-face meeting we had.  We spoke briefly by phone on a few occasions and on each of those I could tell he had been drinking.  It broke my heart knowing that there was nothing I could say that would get him to stop.

I came to understand that the party can’t go on forever and one day life comes knocking demanding payment for all the fun.  That day came on July 18, 19, or 20 in the surreal year of 2021.  The truth is we don’t know for sure when he passed away.  He was discovered alone, in his home, lying dead and shrouded in mystery.  We assume his body gave out after a lifetime of drinking and drugs.  Privately, none of the family was particularly surprised by his fate, however hard that fate may be.

I am numb as I write this.  I hoped that this tribute could be different, but deep in my heart I felt that I had to write my brother’s story as authentically as I could.  I loved him so much.  I am so grateful that I got to tell my brother how much his support meant to me throughout the years.  I got to tell him that whatever success I have is because of him.  He always shrugged off the compliment.

“I didn’t do anything,” he would say.

One of the proudest moments of my life was when my brother came to Four Day Weekend’s 20^th Anniversary Show at Bass Hall.  As I had the honor of performing for 1,500 people in this beautiful performance arena, there was my brother looking up at me, supporting me just like he did the very first time I went onstage.

“You’re going to do great,” he said that night once again.  This time, because of him, I did.

The last time we communicated was on my birthday, July 4.  He wrote, “Happy Birthday!!!”

I responded, “Thank you, brother.  I love you.”

“I love you too.”

These were the very last words we shared with each other.  I am grateful that our last exchange was simply—I love you.  Nothing more needed to be said.

My brother is at peace now; something I have hoped for him for a long time.  Once again, he has remembered that he is One with the Divine Source.  He is home as he joins my father and sister on the Universe’s Greatest Stage and as he steps foot on that Stage for the very first time, I am there for him, saying, “You’re going to do great!  I’ll be here cheering you on!”  I love you, brother.  I am eternally grateful for your guidance.  See you soon on the Other Side.