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Letter to the editor

Too many goodbyes, too soon

Ted Dahlem experienced a parent's worst nightmare in 2007. And then again. And then again.

By STEPHANIE HAYES, Times Staff Writer
Published January 6, 2008

Ted Dahlem has chronicled his family's life in scrapbooks for decades. Lately, he's also been chronicling their deaths. At right, the large photo on the wall is of his late son, police Officer Corey Dahlem, who was killed by a drunken driver in April.
	[Lara Cerri | Times]

ADVERTISEMENT [Lara Cerri | Times] Ted Dahlem, hugging his dog Daisy, has had to deal with the death of three of his children in the past nine months. [Dahlem family] Ted Dahlem's four children are seen here in this photo from a few years ago. From left: Zip, Heather, Shawn and Corey. In front is Shawn's daughter Raney. [Dahlem family] Ted and May Dahlem are seen in a photo taken at their lake home in Citrus County about eight years ago. May died in 2005. [Lara Cerri | Times] Ted Dahlem folds clothes next to a quilt made in his son Zip's honor. Dahlem's niece took pieces of cloth from Zip's clothes, making quilts for Ted and Zip's sisters, Shawn and Heather.

ST. PETERSBURG -- There's a plaque on the front door - Mr. and Mrs. James T. Dahlem. Inside it feels like a cozy sweater. Floral curtain valances, pink pillows. A family home.

Photographs of the children hang on the wall, slightly askew, like they've been pointed at and touched again and again. Corey, the pragmatic police officer. Zip, the free spirit. Shawn, the spunky ball of energy. Heather, the oldest and calmest.

They stare back at their dad.

There is a natural order to life: You're a baby. You find love and have babies of your own. You get old. You die. Your babies are there to say goodbye.

But sometimes, the order falls totally, inexplicably apart.

At 76, James "Ted" Dahlem knows this better than most. In March 2007, all four of his children were alive. By December, three had died. Dahlem settles into an aged leather sofa. He faces forward, fiddles with his fingers. When he talks, he looks into the distance at nothing in particular.

It's quiet, except for the wind outside.

- - -

Dahlem keeps a neat house. He's orderly in how he thinks and keeps track of life.

"I just like to report everything that happens," Dahlem says. "It helps me."

But the back bedroom - the one with all the memories - is slightly cluttered. There are rows of thick scrapbooks labeled by year. Inside, Dahlem has chronicled every family vacation to Lake Tsala Apopka in Citrus. Funny stories, thoughts, poems, photographs.

When he started this, he couldn't have scripted a more idyllic life.

Dahlem is friendly - firm grip, Cheshire smile. He's a retired English teacher from Northeast High who married his junior high sweetheart, May. They were sensible, and waited to have babies so he could finish college. Then, a whirl - two boys, two girls.

"Almost like we planned it," he says.

He was the provider. After teaching all day, he'd cashier at Derby Lane. In summer, he taught extra classes.

The Dahlem house was always buzzing.

On Christmas, the kids would wake at 4:30 a.m. and beg to "just look" at the tree. When their dad dressed as Carnac the Magnificent at parties, they'd watch from the staircase.

Their personalities were distinct. Zip, born on Halloween, stood in the crib and bucked back and forth. He talked fast and repeated himself. "Like I say ..."

He and Corey tussled, like brothers do. But when Corey grew taller than Zip, fighting gave way to friendship.

Corey was a model kid - didn't curse or drink, Dahlem says. Once, he wrecked his dad's Jeep. He paced around, then confessed when the guilt got too heavy.

Shawn, the youngest, was cheerful and couldn't tolerate when things were out of place. "She was always flitty and fast talking and funny," Dahlem says.

She had a special relationship with Heather, the mellow and even-tempered one. When they grew up, they talked on the phone every day, sharing silly things that sisters share.

- - -

Most days, before the sun is up, Ted Dahlem walks around Crescent Lake, works in the garage, types a bit in the books he's constantly writing.

He sleeps four hours a night. Years of working late have trained his body. But also, it's easier that way. In bed, he can't stay busy. Can't distract from the dark.

To fall asleep, he prays, talks to the kids, thanks them for the time they gave him. He tells them funny stories. He talks to his wife.

In 2005, May Dahlem succumbed to lung cancer at age 71. Looking back, Dahlem is grateful she died before April 3, 2007.

She was spared.

Early that morning, Lt. Corey Dahlem, a 22-year veteran Gainesville police officer, cleared the streets after the University of Florida national basketball championship.

A man with a blood alcohol level more than three times the legal limit drove a pickup truck into the closed road, hitting Corey, authorities said.

He was rushed to the hospital, but died the next afternoon - one day before his 46th birthday. Last month, the 22-year-old driver, Austin J. Wright, was sentenced to 10 years in prison.

Thousands came to Corey's funeral. Many shared sad words, but Dahlem resolved not to. Instead, he talked about the smashed Jeep. How Corey scared him before he was even born - May had started bleeding late in pregnancy.

When Dahlem saw the blood, he passed out in the bathtub. He had seen a lot of blood in the Korean War, he says. But when it's one of your own, it's different.

Corey left behind a wife and two children.

And three siblings.

- - -

Dahlem couldn't sleep. He hadn't been able to reach Zip.

A hard worker, Zip had a knack for electronics. For years, he worked as an engineer on circuit boards. He'd volunteer to stay late and help train employees.

He was creative and outgoing.

"He had so much talent in drawing," Dahlem says. "Cartoon characters, facial expressions. He liked to draw for the heck of it."

He preferred the company of his parents. He'd offer to cut their front lawn. He'd cook elaborate lunches and deliver them on his bicycle.

But along the way Zip developed a drinking problem. His family helped him enter treatment programs, and he bounced back and forth between the walls of sobriety. Corey's death fueled the demons. Zip got tattooed with a huge portrait of his brother's face.

"He just went to pieces," Dahlem says.

On Sept. 22, Dahlem went to Zip's apartment. At the door, there were newspapers from the past two days. Right away, Dahlem knew. The drinking had taken its toll. He lost his other boy.

Zip was 47. He left behind two sisters.

- - -

In the Dahlem family, it was tradition for the kids to decorate the Christmas tree. Their parents watched from the couch and "supervised."

This year, Heather and Shawn came over. Dahlem watched them put up a big scotch pine. He smiled on.

It was important. Through everything, there were still some constants. Some comforts. He still had his girls.

Shawn seemed fine then, Dahlem says. She was always thin, but overall, healthy. Every so often, she'd get a cough.

For 22 years, she worked as a pharmacy tech at All Children's Hospital. She loved her family and raced home to be with them. She kept the books, wrote the checks. She was the backbone.

The bronchial pneumonia and infection came on suddenly, acted quickly. Shawn's blood pressure was low, Dahlem says, but doctors attempted dialysis as a last effort. Because maybe - maybe - there was an outside chance she could beat her own odds.

Shawn Billings died Dec. 22. She was 44.

She left behind a husband and two children.

And one sister.

- - -

Heather Brady is 49. She is the first born, and the last living.

She has her dad's long smile, his firm handshake, his gentle manner. Her faith in God gets her through, but she has questions. Why is she the one left?

"Sometimes, it's a little scary," she says. "You just have to hope that the big picture might be made more obvious one day. What else can you do?"

She hasn't had any close calls in life. She can't let worry eat at her. She just does her job.

For 22 years, she has been a St. Petersburg firefighter.

- - -

Dahlem couldn't have known that his scrapbooks would hold chapters on loss. On funerals.

He couldn't have known he'd get so acquainted with death, and that he'd feel a bit more numb each time.

He couldn't have known he'd have so many questions.

"It just doesn't seem fair," he says. "Why couldn't God take me? I'm 76 years old. I've had a great life."

He looks forward to reuniting with his family one day, somewhere else. But Dahlem is healthy - he has never had health problems except a knee that needs an occasional painkiller.

For now, he dotes on his grandchildren. He makes fishing nets, smokes seafood and volunteers at a historical museum. He visits friends. He writes.

He puts things in order.

Stephanie Hayes can be reached at shayes@sptimes.com or 727 893-8857.

[Last modified January 5, 2008, 22:23:16]