Touching the life of another

Donnie would've wanted the day to be the way it was. It was a gorgeous day in mid-October with the sun shining brightly and temperatures in the low 80s, uncommonly mild for this time of year. Cars lined the streets surrounding St. John the Baptist Church on Hickory Street, a testament to the many lives he touched over his 29 years.

I didn't know Donnie Wartenberg that well. He was a year older than me at Joliet Catholic Academy and ran with a different crowd. Everyone knew who he was, though, as his trusty respirator stood always by his side. Then I got to know him better through Trish Hickey and Mike James, and he became more than just "the kid with that machine." He was a fun-loving guy who lived life to the fullest, a life marred by a severe illness from birth.

But Donnie never let that stand in his way. He kept on keeping on just like you and I, against all odds and the opinions of would-be experts.

As I waited to bid a final farewell to Donnie at his wake that Sunday night, I couldn't help but think about my own mortality and its inevitable nature. How would I be remembered by those near and dear to me as well as those who knew me only for a short time? Would there be good memories and equally good stories to share? Would people have regrets about having met me? Or maybe not having known me at all?

Sometimes in death we find the need to more closely examine life. Our own life and the way in which we lived it yesterday, are living it today and will live it tomorrow. Too often life is appreciated when it's no longer there, when the person close to us is gone or on the verge of leaving.

Instead, life should be celebrated while we are still capable of doing so, not when it's too late.

In May 2002 I ran into Donnie's good friend Paul Hicks, also a friend of mine. I was buying some time before my best friend's wedding (the real thing, not the movie), grabbing a bite to eat at Hey! Hot Dog as was Paul.

We talked briefly, and I gave Paul some tickets to Zanies Comedy Club in Chicago where I was playing later that month.

"Come on up to the show," I said as I gave him six or so tickets. "It would be great to see you guys up there."

I wasn't sure if Paul and friends would make it to the show. Sometimes one thing leads to another and things fall through.

Paul was at Donnie's wake on Sunday night. I nodded his way as I made my way closer to saying goodbye to Donnie.

I expressed my sympathy to many of Donnie's family members, all of whom I had never met. I even thanked Donnie's mother for having brought him into this world and said that I enjoyed having known him.

When I got to Paul, more sympathies were extended.

"Yeah, we really enjoyed that show of yours last year," he said. "Four of us made it up there. Me, Colleen, Noel and Donnie. We had a great time and laughed all night."

I had no idea. No idea that they were there. No idea that I was able to bring the gift of laughter to them, including Donnie, someone who didn't always have much to laugh about.

I've grown to know Mike James over the years through Trish Hickey and even visited them in San Diego a few years back. I asked Paul where Mike was, knowing he was in town.

"He's with some friends," he said. "It's been a long day. He'll be back later."

I didn't know when later would be, so I asked Paul to express my condolences to Mike, and then I left.

On Monday, Oct. 20, when Donnie was laid to rest, I just happened to be across the street. I hadn't volunteered at the St. John's Food Pantry in months and thought Monday was an "it's about time" day. Once in the pantry, I realized that the funeral was for Donnie.

Some of the volunteers at the pantry attended the funeral, as they knew Mrs. Wartenberg very well.

"It was a beautiful service," they said.

I then made my way to the church hoping to find Mike.

He was standing just outside the front doors. We hugged, and I let him know my sorrow for his loss of a dear friend.

"I know he meant a lot to you," I said to Mike. "I wish you the best."

It wasn't anything profound, but he knew I was sincere. Donnie's suffering is done while his memory will live on in his family and friends, people I was glad to meet.

I'm also glad I was able to say goodbye to Donnie. And I'm especially glad to have made him laugh before he left.

 

Scott Deininger, who uses Scott Derenger for comedy work, is a stand-up comic living in Shorewood.

11/02/03