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Remembering Domenic
Page 3 of 3
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In April 1997, my sister Karen died of melanoma at age 38. For a year, I shuffled numbly through grief; even my closest confidants had no idea what to say. Nic did. He told me it must be horrible that people avoided mentioning Karen, that I must want to talk about her because that would keep her alive, at least in spirit. He was right. When he spoke of Karen, I sobbed every time, but I was so grateful.
We established a scholarship fund in my sister's memory. My friends gave generously, but only Nic, who was often broke, continued to make a donation every year on the anniversary of Karen's death. In the 1990s, Nic moved to New York with a new person in his life, Dale Luker. They'd met in New Orleans on Bourbon Street, a place pulsating with possibilities. Like us, Dale was drawn to Nic's infectious laugh. The two of them enjoyed tennis, cooking, good wine, and a fine joke. Nic and Dale were married in July 2010. We held a small celebration at the Plum Island Grille in Newbury, Mass., with a full UNH contingent: Kathy, Karen Bolton '80, Gaby Haroules Fecteau '81, Doug Fecteau '80, and Michael and me. Our old friend had never looked so happy. Nic and Dale bought a place in Jersey City (with a roof deck, of course), which Nic expertly decorated with discarded items—a manhole cover, a drafting table, an antique street marker. This March, sitting at the counter in his Jersey City apartment, I invited Nic to visit our lake house in Ossipee, N.H. "We'll stop by UNH on the way,'' I said. He hadn't been to either place in years. We settled on August. Another "Let's go!" adventure was on tap. We discussed it again on Easter when I was in New York to cover the Knicks-Celtics game for ESPN. Nic, Dale, and I brunched at a rooftop restaurant, where we ate too much and laughed too loud. As we departed, I snapped the last photograph ever taken of the two of them. April 20 found me on the train to New York once again, and as we pulled into Penn Station, I shot Nic a text. No answer. Nic loved to sleep in, so I thought nothing of it.
Nic. Heart attack. Gone. He was 54. We never made it back to Ossipee or to UNH, where years ago he cushioned one of my many falls. Instead, on a rainy night in May, Kathy, Karen, Gaby, and I returned to the Plum Island Grille. We clinked glasses in memory of the friend who never ceased to make us laugh, who reminded us to live each day as he did—surprised, delighted, and curious, all at the same time. ~
Jackie MacMullan '82 is an ESPN analyst and columnist who has also written for Sports Illustrated and The Boston Globe. She got her start working for The New Hampshire from 1979 to 1982. |
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