Dying alone, without anyone knowing or seemingly caring, is a primal fear for most of us. For others, it confirms their existential dread in a meaningless world.
I was reminded of these whispered confessions by dozens of readers who felt compelled to contact me after reading my column on the lonely deaths of Jon Manos, who was 66, and his younger brother Mark Manos, who was 41.
The brothers died 15 years apart, though in a similarly sorrowful fashion – alone, without a soul around.
“That is one of my greatest fears; that I might die alone and in poverty, with no one to miss me or even care that I’m gone,” said Dan Petreikis, of Michigan City.
Petreikis echoed the sentiments of many readers from across the country who sent me emails, left me voice mails, and messaged me on social media after reading about two men they never knew existed.
“I never knew Mark and Jon Manos. But it’s so kind of you to see that they did not leave this world entirely anonymously,” wrote David Hagerty, who lives in the Detroit area.
“If not for my husband and dwindling circle of friends, I might slip into such anonymity myself. There but for the grace of God go I,” Hagerty noted. “Here I am, a complete stranger, now aware of these two guys and a glimpse of their lives.”
“For what it’s worth… you have moved me and thousands of others, I’m sure,” he added. “Rest in peace, Mark and Jon.”
One of Mark’s closest friends from adolescence, Donn Taylor, wondered the same thought I had after my column ran.
“I’m not sure how Mark would feel about all this public attention, and his photo being on the front page,” Taylor said.
This is true. I can only hope that any anticipated surprise or disappointment would be diluted by all the strangers who now know him. And who are mourning for him.
“Jerry, your story about Jon and Mark Manos moved me to tears,” wrote Pam Hay, of Valparaiso. “It seems as though both brothers fought demons their entire lives. How very sad that not only one, but two brothers died alone in squalor.”
The Manos brothers didn’t pass away surrounded by grieving family members, health professionals or hospice volunteers. No, the brothers were surrounded only by hoarded remnants of their loner lives – assorted car parts, mounds of garbage, piles of old magazines, and an eclectic collection of what they once deemed valuable in life.
Somewhere in their small, uninhabitable home in the Aetna section of Miller, where Jon’s decomposed body was found by firefighters last month, is a plain box containing Mark’s ashes. Police found his decomposed body April 10, 2003, in his Chicago apartment.
Mark’s former girlfriend contacted me after reading my column on Jon’s death, asking about Mark’s ashes. She said Jon once told her that he lost the ashes somewhere in his home. The photo of his home that accompanies this column should help you understand how Mark’s ashes were lost or forgotten amid all the debris.
This gloomy image may somehow reflect our deepest fear – dying and getting lost or forgotten amid life’s debris.
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“I think it’s connected to the desire to feel that our lives matter, that we may somehow live on, even after we are gone,” Petreikis said.
“Thanks for bringing this to our attention,” said Debbie Pastor of Miller. “I think this has prompted many of us to check on long lost friends and even family members.”
Mark, my best friend for nearly 20 years, lived in society’s shadows. He preferred this lifestyle. Even his longtime job, cleaning parking lots for businesses, was done in the middle of the night when he seemed to come to life.
We always enjoyed our most meaningful talks at night, when the “embers” of the day, as he described it, still had a warm afterglow. My son, Josh, still has glowing memories of Mark and me chatting the night away, sometimes until dawn.
“Like listening to you guys talk about obscure bands from the old MTV show “120 minutes,” Josh recalled.
He also remembers Mark’s trademark green Army jacket that he wore even in the summer. And Mark’s apartment in Chicago, which resembled a museum of esoterica, where Josh played with his wrestling toys.
“And Mark putting away two-liters of soda like a bottle of water,” Josh said. “And my old friend Hank and I throwing wet napkins at Mark from the car while he followed behind on your motorcycle that he borrowed for the day.”
Josh and my daughter, Ashley, still recall the same unforgettable memory every time they hear an ambulance zoom past with sirens blaring.
“Another dead body for Mark,” they would say as kids.
It was just another macabre inside joke that Mark shared with my kids.
“It’s definitely the most morbid of my Mark memories, but somehow it’s also the most lasting, especially when reading your column,” Josh said.
Funny how some memories stick out more than others about lost loved ones, despite how eerie or haunting they may be.
“If you are haunted by the languished death of your friendship… with this poignant article I think you have exorcised that ghost,” Hagerty told me.
Mark Kurowski, a priest from Munster, contacted me offering to preside over a funeral service or memorial mass for Jon Manos, if one takes place. I thought this was a kind gesture for a stranger.
Mark Manos never got a funeral or a memorial service after his death 15 years ago. Maybe this column can somehow serve as the eulogy he never received.
He may have died alone. He may have died amid refuse from his troubled life. But he didn’t die without anyone caring, or hurting, or grieving. The same can surely be said of his brother, Jon.
Pam Hay echoed hundreds of other readers by noting, “I hope they now rest in peace, together again.”
Twitter@jdavich
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