They say that in all sets of twins there is a dominant twin and a passive twin.   The dominant twin tends to overpower the so-called passive twin, and I did. Being the dominant twin of the pair, I was also more aggressive and outgoing and made friends easily. Ashley, on the other hand, was the introvert.  She was shy and quiet, and always seemed to have her head in the clouds.  She was a dreamer, always deep in her own world, distant from everyone else’s.

Even as young children, I clearly remember worrying about my sister constantly, to an almost ridiculous extent.  I always felt that she couldn’t take care of herself, and so I made her my responsibility.  When she hopped on her hot pink bicycle with the white and pink basket in front, I followed right behind her on my matching one.  She might go with a stranger if I wasn’t there to protect her.

My mother and I strolled beside the park to Clement Avenue Elementary School as we had every weekday of that summer. The massive maples shaded us from the scorching summer sun as I skipped barefoot along the cool sidewalk.  I was 8 years old.  Each afternoon my mother and I met my sister when she got off the school bus from Humboldt Elementary, where she was attending summer school.  School came easily to me; I excelled in all that I tried and had no need for summer school.  Ashley, on the other hand, always struggled academically and needed extra help. 

As we neared the school, Ashley’s bus pulled up alongside us.  The sounds of children’s laughter and high-pitched screams poured out of every window as the bus screeched to a stop.  “Ashley’s not on the bus!” the children yelled out to my mother and me.  What they were saying didn’t register immediately.  Of course she was on the bus. Where else would she be? One by one the kids straggled off the school bus, skipping down the steps in the carefree way that kids do.  And then the bus pulled away from the curb. Ashley never got off.

My brain was a haze of worry and confusion. I couldn’t put together a complete thought, just random flashes. Would I ever see her again? My palms immediately moistened at the thought, and I could see my heart beating through my faded blue tank top.  The overwhelming feeling of absolute panic began to strangle me with its crushing grip. The air became thick like a humid blanket, and my lungs couldn’t seem to draw in enough breath to fill them.  My throat tightened, and it was difficult to swallow.  It felt as if a hot coal was smoldering in the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t exactly know what strangers did, but from what my mom said, once they took you, you never came back.

The next hour consisted of numerous frantic phone calls made by my mother as I sat in the kitchen listening.  My hands felt numb and my legs were trembling helplessly under the table.  After what seemed like a lifetime, but in reality was less than an hour, my sister was found.  She had mistakenly got on the wrong bus and was dropped off at a different school. Probably she was daydreaming as she cheerfully boarded the wrong bus.  I exhaled a deep sigh of relief and a feeling of calm swept over my quivering body. She wasn’t crying when we picked her up.  She was her normal lighthearted self.  It was then that I realized being the dominant twin did not make me stronger, it made me weaker.

      Hauling up the winding mountainside, I felt the Dodge shift into 4 wheel drive.  Several minutes passed since I’d seen anything but pine trees.  Within them pranced all the Bambi’s and Thumpers of the Big Mountain terrain.  After an elevation of about 4,000 feet, condos began to take space.  Extravagantly modeled log cabins and villas abandoned mid-construction for the winter season, all the workers gone home, all the skiers come to play.

      Our lodge, the Kandahar, sat beside a trail leading straight to the chairlift.  “Ski Out, Ski In” is truly the only accommodation needed for a fool-proof, no vacancy.  After checking in we chartered back down, down, down and around the mountain and into the valley of Whitefish, MT.  It was the holiday season, and it was as if the streets were in competition to be the model for a Christmas card.  Endless streams of garland bore gigantic bells and candy canes.  Illuminated storefronts welcomed back annual tourists, and the falling snow glistened under street lamps like fireflies.

      All through the first night the mountain called out to me.  Fortunately, jet lag won out over my insomnia before the morning.  The classic continental breakfast served itself at 7 a.m., so I suited up and headed downstairs.  First chair pulled out at 9 a.m.  I sat in the lobby, imagining my feet dangling as the ground pulled further from my ski tips.  Anxiety fed my appetite, and orange juice quenched my thirst.

      Clicking into my ski bindings, I raced from the lodge to the ticket window.  There was already a line at the lift, but even among these numbers everyone could pick a basin to carve all their own.  The noise of the small crowd became a soft droning as I gawked up to the mountain’s face, anticipating some sort of reply, any acknowledgement of my presence to its entity.  Waiting, I danced in my skis, kicking up last night’s fresh powder, stabbing my poles around wildly.  The lift engine roared and the chairs took motion.

      Gliding up to the “Please Wait Here” strip, I squatted down for the chair to come around the bend and scoop me up.  The lift operator steadied it and nodded a polite, “Have a good run.”  Tracks were not visible anywhere, not a single cross over the freshly groomed trails.  Even the riders before me would not reach the bottom for at least another 15 minutes.  Further the lift pulled, skimming the tops of snow ghosts and the pine trees they held captive.  Another five minutes passed before the first bowl came into sight.  Empty and vast, it cut into the mountain like an enormous ice cream scoop.  You could see the neighboring mountains, too, now.  Intimidating, they stood untouched and uncut, yet they shook with existence.

      To the south lay Whitefish Lake, just a puddle now between a crack of mountain and valley.  There was a clear line of sight across the valley into Kalispell, where the land began to jut toward the sky once again.  Sixty-five miles north lay the Canadian Rockies.  A clear sky brought their peaks into perfect focus, diminishing into the horizon.  To the west, Rocky Mountains.  East, Rockies.  For a moment it seemed an optical illusion, everything so familiar below blending into a mosaic landscape.  What I saw to be a snow covered peak now birthed chutes, cliffs, and pistes at every descent.  Leveling out onto the peak, the chair handed me to the mountain top.

Inspiration can come from the oddest places. On one seemingly average day in the spring of 2002, the course of my life was altered forever. 

At 19 years of age, I was a behemoth of a man, tipping the scales at a staggering 500 pounds. The buttons on all my pants would hang on for dear life every time I wore them because of my ever-expanding waistline. When I did laundry, my shirts resembled flags more than clothing. When I left the house it was usually to go out to eat at which time a simple restaurant booth became my arch-nemesis.

 It was a picture perfect day, and I was spending my time indoors as I did every other day.  Regardless of what the weather was like I never felt the need to be outside. I avoided physical activity like the plague, so following my normal schedule I plopped myself on the couch.  Not knowing that the next hour would be unlike every hour before it I unassumingly turned on MTV. There was a reality show airing called “True Life.” This particular episode was about real people getting plastic surgery. I had always thought that surgery was interesting, so I decided to watch. Over the course of the program I was introduced to three people: a man who wanted calf implants, a woman who wanted breast implants, and a woman who wanted something called a gastric bypass.

The woman who wanted gastric bypass surgery was in her late 20’s and weighed 360 pounds. She ended up getting the surgery and a few months later she had lost a substantial amount of weight. I was 19 and weighed 500 pounds and all of the sudden a light bulb went on in my head, and I said to myself, “What the hell, I’m bigger than she is!”

When the show was over I decided to do some research on gastric bypass surgery.

As it turns out, in gastric bypass surgery a surgeon removes 90% of your stomach and then reattaches your small intestine to the remaining 10% of your stomach. It is the last resort of doctors trying to save people who are morbidly obese and at risk of various medical maladies such as heart attack, stroke, or diabetes. It is also an incredibly dangerous surgery: one out of every 200 people die on the operating table or from a post operative infection.

Despite knowing how dangerous the surgery was, I decided to pursue it. At the time I was covered by my dad’s insurance, so I called the insurance company to find out how to get the process started. I felt that it was worth the risk of dying to make my life better.  It was either that or wait until my heart exploded. 

After I’d seen all kinds of doctors from gastroenterologists to psychologists, it was agreed

that I was a good candidate for the surgery. The insurance company spent months trying to block it because it was very expensive–about 75,000 dollars. I talked to customer service reps, and they would try to send me to another doctor or tell me that my paperwork got lost and it would have to be faxed again by my doctor.

”This is bullshit! My son needs this surgery and he’s gonna get it!” my father told his union leader after I had been given the runaround for months. Two days later I received a phone call telling me that I was approved for surgery.  I knew that I had no one to blame but myself for my size.                                                                 

After years of being unhappy from being so massive I expected that my premature death was a foregone conclusion. I would think about what would be said at my funeral. My eulogy consisting of someone saying, “Here lies Jake Brown. Fat and plump he lived like a chump until his fat heart couldn’t pump.” But after watching that show on M.T.V., I decided that I still had a chance.

I wanted to live!    

December 11^th, surgery day had come! I woke up extremely nervous because the enormity of what was about to happen hit me. That morning my mom would be accompanying me and during the 25 minute car ride to the hospital I was a wreck. I finally realized that this could be my last day. There was so much I hadn’t done, and so much I still wanted to do. To try to calm my nerves I played some music. The song was “Like A Rock” by Bob Seger. Time after time I replayed the song as music boomed out of the silver Dodge Caravan. It helped a little, but I still couldn’t shake my nervousness.

My grandma also came to show her support and shortly after we arrived at West Allis Memorial, I was prepped and all ready for surgery. As I was being wheeled away to surgery my mom said, “I love you” and I blurted out, “shut up.” I wasn’t trying to be mean but when she said that I immediately thought that those words could be the last words she ever said to me, and it made me even more nervous.

When the surgery was over I woke up in excruciating pain but happy to be alive. I spent the next 5 days in the intensive care unit recovering before I was allowed to go home.     For a month after the surgery, the only time I left my house was to go see my surgeon for post op care. As time passed, the incision healed and my life started to get back to something resembling a normal life. The more time that passed the more weight I lost and the happier I became.

It’s been about 7 years since the surgery now, and it’s still not easy. I am still down more than 100 pounds, but, like many people’s, my weight goes up and down but I am still much smaller than I was. My happiness and how much I appreciate just being alive is something that doesn’t fluctuate.  When you have a moment when you realize that life isn’t guaranteed, it changes your whole perspective. I now take pleasure in the simple things that many people take for granted—things like spending time with my family or enjoying a beautiful day.

Thank you, M.T.V., for changing my life!

                Everyone remembers exactly where they were on this day and what they were doing the moment they realized that the United States was under attack.  For most people, they watched like I did from their living rooms as everything unfolded like a nightmare.  Only this one, you could not wake up from.  This was happening whether you wanted to wish it away or not.

                At the time I was Aircraft Maintenance Controller for United Airlines at Chicago O’Hare.  I happened to be off that day because my wife and I had planned a trip to Washington D.C. that week.   She had never been there, and I had told her all about my experiences there as a child.  I told her how captivated I was with the sites of the city.  We planned to visit the White House and the Capital when we arrived.   The trip never happened as my wife had emergency surgery for gallstones only three days earlier, and she was in no shape to fly.

                About eight in the morning I had just come out of the shower and as usual, I turned on the news to see what was going on that morning.   The first thing I saw was a very tall building on fire which appeared to be from New York with the Breaking News icon on the bottom of the screen.  The news anchors were making commentary but I had the volume down to low to hear.   To me it looked like a typical room and contents fire that spread and now was wildly out of control.  It reminded me of the movie Towering Inferno with Steve McQueen and Paul Newman.

                My wife had just stepped out of the shower and I called back to her to tell her about the fire.   As I did my peripheral vision caught an object move onto the TV screen and smash into the building next to the one that was on fire.   I watched in utter disbelief at what I had seen.   A massive fireball erupted from the side of the building followed by thick black smoke.  I knew immediately what I had just witnessed.   I screamed to my wife to get in the living room right away.   When she arrived they had begun to replay what had just happened.   She nearly screamed when she saw the replay.   I said, “We are at war.” 

                A short while later we watched in horror as reports came in of the Pentagon being hit.  This felt so surreal.  This wasn’t supposed to happen I thought.   I ran through in my mind about who could have been orchestrated this.  I asked the same question most Americans were asking themselves, how could this have happened? 

As we watched further on the local stations, a Chicago station was reporting that a hijacked aircraft was inbound to the Chicago area.   “Your Dad,” Shouted my wife, reminding that my father was probably working that day in Illinois at Great Lakes Naval Base.   I was concerned if he might be sealed inside the base for the duration so I called him to make sure he was alright.   Thankfully, he was off work that day and he was home safe with my mother.  A wave of relief came over me when I talked to him.  

I was also a paid-on-call firefighter at that time, and I received a phone call from my Fire Chief wanting to know if I was ok.   He knew I worked for United and that I worked at O’Hare.  I told him that I was fine and off today but I asked him what the situation was at the firehouse.  He informed me that he was ordered by the village administrator to lock the firehouse down and close all window shades and that the police were going to escort us on every run today.   He placed me on standby because he nor did anyone else in America know what might be coming next.

As the day went on we found ourselves glued to the television and noticed how quiet it was outside.  There was hardly any traffic on the roads and it was quiet above the apartment.  Living in Kenosha, you are accustomed to hearing all the jest from Chicago fly over.  Today, everything was quiet.  I thought about calling into the Control office at O’Hare to see what was up, but I thought better of that.   The last thing they needed was me calling in and tying up a badly needed line.   I would be back in a few days anyway and we get the full story then.  It could wait.

We both witnessed the towers collapse, and my heart sank.  I knew that people had died, and were dying.  It was only later that it really tore at my gut when I found out three hundred and forty three fellow firefighters died in the towers.  To this day that still haunts me.   

When I returned to work a few days ago, I pieced together two more chilling events from September 11^th.   The first was that if not for my wife’s gallbladder surgery, we would have been in Washington D.C. that morning waiting in line to go into the White house at 8:30 A.M. and then to the Capitol at 9:30 A.M.   If the fourth hijacked plane had made it through to Washington, it probably would have hit the White House or the Capital  and perhaps us with it. 

The second was that before I was a maintenance controller at O’Hare, I was a jet mechanic in Indianapolis where United had a major aircraft overhaul dock.   I worked on Boeing 767’s when I was there.    When I first worked there I kept a log of the aircraft numbers that had come in for overhaul.  I did it just to know which aircraft I had worked on.   When I was informed of the aircraft number that hit the second tower, I went white as a ghost.   That aircraft was the second aircraft I had ever worked on while at United.   My thoughts went to a picture that was taken of me sitting in one of the engine intakes of that aircraft.   That picture hangs on a wall in my father’s house.  Once that airplane had completed its overhaul, I flew back with it on a maintenance reposition flight.   I sat in the jump seat on the flight deck the entire way to Boston’s Logan airport.   This is where some years later that this plane began its flight toward the second tower.

When I tell this story, I cannot help but think to myself that this is all made up.  This could not have happened to any one person.  There are too many coincidences to be real.   I wish it were so.    

I still have trouble watching a lot of shows about that day, but it gets better as more years pass.   I just hope we never go through that again.