Chapter Text
Remembering Michael Wheeler
by Nancy Wheeler, The Boston Herald, November 16th 1997
Last week, the world was shaken as author Michael Wheeler’s sudden disappearance was ruled a death by suicide. Naturally, as the only journalist who has known him since his birth, I was asked to write his obituary.
You never want to write your baby brother’s obituary, but I agreed.
Michael Wheeler, called Mike by those who knew him, was born on April 7th, 1971 to Mr. and Mrs. Karen and Ted Wheeler. He had one older sister, Nancy, who reportedly called him “her baby” upon meeting him.
Mike was a spirited and deeply intellectual child. He loved Superman and X-Men comic books, and watching Scooby-Doo on Saturday mornings. He walked up to the loners and outcasts of his school, and turned them into a band of brothers.
In middle school, Mike explored the secrets of the universe in his audio-visual club. He could never stop probing the questions that troubled the mind and soul, which got him into repeated trouble through the years (with family and law enforcement alike). His experiences in Mr. Scott Clarke’s science classroom would stick with him into his adult years, informing his in-depth science fiction novels. Any fans of the Stranger Things series have this man to thank.
It was at this time, around age 11 or 12, that Mike began writing Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, filled with the monsters and magic that informed such works as Estelle’s Adventures in Nightmareland and, once again, Stranger Things.
Really, it was due to Dungeons and Dragons that my brother Mike became Michael Wheeler, the author of a Pulitzer Prize finalist. Without Dungeons and Dragons, Mike wouldn’t have been a storyteller, but a doctor or computer scientist (try as I might to hope his journalist older sister was the root of it all.) One year, he asked me to dress up like an elf for the campaign. I did it, but even still I wish I’d been more enthusiastic.
These were the years, as well, where troubles began in our town of Hawkins, Indiana. Mike’s best friend, Will, went missing and was presumed dead. My friend Barb died because of a government cover-up, leading to Mike’s lifelong feud with the US government.
Mike was just 14 when the Great Earthquake of Hawkins, Indiana, took out his mentor Eddie. He was only 16 when his girlfriend Jane chose to end her own life.
I suppose it’s no wonder, then, that my brother was troubled.
But I’m forgetting to mourn Michael Wheeler—Pulitzer Prize finalist author— alongside Mike.
Michael Wheeler was one of the best writers of our generation. His Stranger Things books took the best parts of childhood— the whimsy, adventure, and wonder— and seamlessly combined it with the danger of The Shining and Poltergeist. Estelle’s Adventures in Nightmareland, his debut novella, proved that books intended for children don’t have to talk down to their audience to garner widespread affection.
In terms of poetry, his 1995 collection Evangeline contained the most romantic verses I have yet to read, and his offshoot work “Jane” recently got put to music by a member of the Boston Philharmonic.
My personal favorite Michael Wheeler book is Blood, White, and Blue, though I’m biased, as Mike did write it “for me.” Its critique of the military industrial complex, though controversial, is a wake up call for many young changemakers.
And of course, we can’t discuss Michael Wheeler without bringing up Papa, the novel that became a Pulitzer Prize finalist for its “raw and guttural depiction of recovering from childhood trauma.” It’s a masterhouse of how to use prose like a knife, twisting it into the reader’s tear duct.
Wheeler’s works have created serious change in general audiences over the issues he was most passionate about: child abuse, mental health, and personal freedoms. He was bold in his activism for gay rights. He wanted the world to be a better place.
It refused to be.
We become transfixed, as audience members, by the beautiful and talented, especially when they die young. We sensationalize it. “Why?” we ask. “Michael Wheeler was at the peak of his career. Why did he throw it all away?”
Well, I can’t fully answer that question. If I could, my brother would be sitting here eating breakfast with me, putting maple syrup on his scrambled eggs like a lunatic. But I can tell you what I know.
I can tell you that there’s nothing like living one dream to the fullest to make you realize the ones that will never be. Mike didn’t want to be an author as much as he wanted to be a husband. A father.
In his most recent short story, “Orpheus”, he wrote, “Cherubs lurk in the corners of my dreams; not divine, but ghostly, with my curls and her eyes and tiny fingers that wrap around mine.” For the speaker of “Orpheus” this image was enough to drive him to suicide. I imagine it wasn’t much different for Mike.
I don’t think I should say too much about Mike’s mental state beyond that— I don’t think he’d want me to, really.
There’s no feeling like watching your baby brother turn from a child with stars in his eyes to a man who leaves weddings and baby showers early to cry in his car.
It’s strange, realizing that the infant who I boldly proclaimed my own is no longer alive. I will not see him at Christmas dinner. He won’t chip in to buy gifts for mom and dad. He won’t tease me about my dating life, or threaten our sister’s boyfriend.
As children, we were brought up in the same performative Protestantism that you see all the time on TV, so neither of us have a strong idea of what happens when we die. But I like to think Mike got a second shot. A second shot at having a wife, a baby, the whole white picket fence deal. I just wish I got a second chance at being his sister.
This is probably the point where I need to write the typical obituary stuff, which feels almost too final. We were all children, just yesterday, remember? We were all children, stupid and reckless, and I wish I’d done more to appreciate my brother while I could.
But nevertheless.
Michael Wheeler is preceded in death by mentor Eddie and girlfriend Jane. He is remembered by his parents, Karen and Ted; his sisters, Nancy and Holly; countless friends, including Will, Lucas, Max, and Dustin; godchildren Jane Harrington and Peter Sinclair; and each and every reader touched by his work. In absence of a body, a cenotaph has been placed at Roane Cemetery in Hawkins, Indiana, where well-wishers may choose to send flowers. A memorial will be held at Hawkins Presbyterian.