Until Mark ended up in the hospital two months ago, I didn’t really know him all that well. I had memories from childhood, of course, but I used to joke with most of you that he had a kind of secret life. He was difficult to reach by phone. He seldom answered when I called him. Sometimes he replied to my texts. I saw him once or twice a year at family gatherings, if I was lucky. And most of those memories centered around playing board games, like Trivial Pursuit. He seldom talked about his private life. I didn’t even have his address, only a post office box. I’d never been to his apartment. And I suspected he always blamed me for that time, years ago, when mommy died and he had a kind of collapse, and we gathered the family together and he committed himself for a month to a hospital. It was the one and only time I really interfered with his life because I was afraid he would hurt himself.
Everything changed, though, when he was admitted to the hospital for his heart surgery. These past few months have been a kind of gift to me. I got to know our brother. I had wonderful conversations with him. I saw his apartment and spent hours in there with him. I visited him in the hospital. I took him food shopping. We went to the bank, the post office. I took him to buy his famous scratch offs. I took him to the Dollar Store, back to the hospital, to his doctor appointments, for bloodwork, and to the pharmacy for medication. Finally, I got a glimpse into his life—the life he’d been leading for the past 30 years or so.
At first I felt incredibly guilty. I felt sorry for him. Here I’d lived in a big house. I’d travelled the world. I’d published a book. I had a good career. And here was our brother—living in a one-bedroom apartment, never making more than $20.00 an hour. Why hadn’t I done more? Why hadn’t I just barreled into his life and forced him to live a life that looked more like mine?
But I was wrong to feel that way. Because Mark would have never wanted my pity. Until he got sick in October, he’d never asked me for anything. Because he was happy in his life. He’d somehow managed to carve out a life for himself on his own terms. He loved his apartment and was proud of his decorating--his new towels that he just bought. And his new lamps. He made his home safe, and he felt safe in it. He’d carved out a routine for himself. He’d go to work, stop at one of two Walmarts and do his food shopping. He didn’t use credit cards but gift cards because they were safer. He read the daily newspaper. We watched his Mets on TV. He fed the homeless cats that congregated near his doorstep. Once a cat walked right into his apartment and he semi-adopted her for a while. He had a carved wooded bird that was motion-sensored and chirped every time he came home. He had friends. He was well-respected at work. He told me several stories where he was the “hero,” helping out his fellow workers solve various problems, usually mathematically related. He loved his nieces and nephews and never forgot their birthdays.
Mark lived a small life. But it was quite a remarkable one. He somehow managed to support himself and find happiness. He stayed as connected to us, his family, as he could, and he was never a burden.
Your visits, phone calls, get well cards, and all the things you did to help him during these last two difficult months let him know how much you loved him.
Sam wrote a beautiful tribute to her Uncle Mark on Facebook that I wanted to acknowledge here. She really captured the Emergency Room while she was waiting for her mother—our sister Karen--who despite a no visitors policy with the covid restrictions managed to push her way in and was with Mark in the emergency room and in the ICU. Karen was there with Mark at the end of his life. I will always be eternally grateful that our brother didn’t die alone. Karen was amazingly brave. From the bottom of my heart I thank you for being there with him.
Cheryl wrote a beautiful tribute to Mark and something she said stuck with me. She wrote: We were always the eight Koep kids. And she was right. We were always the eight Koep kids. And we always will be. Seven just won’t do.
We will gather together, hopefully in the summer when it will be safer, to celebrate Mark—his life, his generous heart. And tell our stories about Mark. Paul mentioned to me about creating a family private website for Mark to post photos and memories. Great idea!
The day after he died, on Christmas Day, I opened up a present from him that he’d left in his apartment for me with a card with a cat on it. He’d signed the card simply Love, Mark. I’m blown away by his generous heart—thinking of me—even at the end when he wasn’t feeling well. In those last few weeks we told each other that we loved each other more times than we had during out entire life. I’m comforted now that we were able to bury Mark with Mommy and Daddy. His name will be inscribed on their crypt in the spring.
Sometimes it’s difficult to talk in public, but I’d like to give an opportunity to anyone who would like to share a memory of Mark.
(shared by Kate Lutter, his sister)