He's Gone - The Loss of a Hero

I was in the 7th grade when my hero passed away.  I remember sitting in my history class that year, 2001, and watching the Twin Towers collapse before my very eyes.  I remember thinking how horrific it must've been to be a part of that, but even more so, how heart-wrenching it would be to lose a loved one so suddenly.  With no warning or preparation.  Just a simple one minute they're there, and the next, they're gone forever.

Little did I know, that heart-wrenching feeling was one I'd come to know all too soon.  On September 30, 2001, my hero breathed his last breath.  There was no warning and no preparation.  Frenchy (the only name by which I ever knew my uncle Jean-Marc Plante) was out playing street hockey with his friends, and he had a heart attack.  He was 30 years old.  Much too young to die.  Much too young to be gone from this earth.

I remember the moment I heard the news.  My grandma told me two simple words: "He's gone."  At first those two words didn't make sense to me.  Gone?  Where did he go?  Did he get to leave the hospital?  Then, it hit me.  Those two simple words were not so simple.  They were the two of the most loaded words I would ever hear in my life.  And with those words, my whole world, everything I'd ever known, collapsed.  In my 7th grade mind, I feared that I, too, might be dying of a heart attack.  I remember trying to swallow back the knots that kept forming in my throat and trying not to cry because I wanted to be strong for everyone else.

Frenchy was more than an uncle to me.  He was my friend.  My big brother.  My favorite person to hang out with.  He was always taking me somewhere fun - rollerblading around the neighborhood, ice skating, out to lunch, the list goes on.  Frenchy had even promised me that he would take me rollerblading on Halloween because then we could get double the candy.  Though we never got to do that, I know that Frenchy's impact on my life did not stop at his death.

Frenchy's death set off a chain reaction in my life that ultimately led me into becoming the person I am today.  When Frenchy died, two things happened.  One, I realized that Frenchy was the kind of person I wanted to be - someone who walked about this life always making others smile and always making others feel loved.  Two, I realized that writing was more than a hobby for me.  Writing was something that was as crucial to my life as breathing, and whatever it was about writing that was so important to me, I would make it my life's ambition to find and tell that story.

At age 12, I set out to write my first book.  I called it Seventeen in honor of my uncle's hockey number.  In the book, I planned to tell my life's story (more so for my ability to overcome tragedies and hardships than to actually share my story with others).  I worked on the book for years.  Each year, I added a new chapter with new life events - the good ones, the bad ones, the ugly ones.  By college, I had reached seventeen chapters, and I'd found myself at a stopping point.

My best friend in college, Caroline, stumbled across my writing one day.  We were probably supposed to be doing homework, but you know how college kids are, as unproductive in terms of homework as they come.  But, Caroline read my story about Frenchy, and she said this to me: "If I die, will you write something about me?"  I didn't realize it at the time, but those words would become as loaded as the two words: "He's gone."

For today, though, with it being the 14th anniversary of his death, my focus is on Frenchy so I will stop my story here - the place where my story all began.