The Cincinnati Enquirer
Alan Huhn
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Summer break, 1999
Finneytown band director Brian Goslee broke the news to his 75 musicians in early August, after a practice.
He told them trumpet player Alan Huhn had a type of bone cancer called osteosarcoma. Alan was receiving chemotherapy at Children’s Hospital Medical Center.
Alan was a couple weeks shy of his 16th birthday. He was now the third Finneytown High School boy battling cancer, along with two other sophomores, Paul Thomas and Brian Weiss.
The news about Alan was especially difficult for the band. Saxophonist Megan Hopp’s father, one of the group’s biggest boosters, was also fighting cancer.
Alan Huhn (rear) shares a laugh with Nick Phile (seated) and Dann Barrett on a band trip to Cleveland in April 1999.
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It was tough, too, because band members knew Alan as a strong and fearless kid who seemed to defy gravity and fly through life — sometimes literally. A gymnast, he might on a whim do a standing back tuck; he sometimes hung upside down from the school breezeway while playing his trumpet.
The musicians made cards and photos for Alan, and they videotaped a practice, with a twist: A trumpet player held a camera while marching around the field in Alan’s spot.
Unlike Paul Thomas and Brian Weiss, who were relatively new to Finneytown High, Alan had grown up in the district. He had played trumpet in band since fifth grade. He had many friends, including junior Bryan Jones.
Bryan was a lanky boy with blond hair and a mouth full of braces. He played baritone saxophone. Alan had been urging him to get a soprano sax, which could produce a silky-smooth sound.
‘‘We could play duets,’’ Alan had said, ‘‘and you could play it in marching band and jazz band with me.’’
Bryan Jones practices his soprano saxophone - the one Alan Huhn had urged him to get.
(Glenn Hartong photo)
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Bryan was hoping to get the sax for Christmas.
Besides band, Bryan and Alan shared other interests, including chess club and theater. Alan worked behind the scenes with the theater tech crew. And Bryan and Alan were regulars at ‘‘Brian Fridays.’’
Brian Fridays began as a way for a handful of Finneytown High boys to get together with a neighborhood pal, Brian Lierl, who attended St. Xavier High. Typically, the boys gathered at the Lierl home to make spaghetti (it was cheaper than ordering pizza), made a late-night stop at the Finneytown United Dairy Farmers, then played video and computer games into the wee hours.
But because of his illness, Alan hadn’t been to ‘‘Brian Fridays’’ since early summer.
Fall term, 1999
When school resumed, Cathy Counts, the 9th and 10th grade counselor, visited sophomore English classes to tell students about Alan’s cancer.
She also talked about Paul’s fight against Ewing’s sarcoma, a type of bone cancer. Although quite sick, Paul came to school whenever he could.
Cathy Counts, counselor.
(Saed Hindash photo)
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Brian Weiss sat in class listening to the updates. His leukemia, diagnosed the previous October, was now in remission.
‘‘Brian, this is what I did last year when you were in the hospital,’’ Ms. Counts said. She believed the more students knew, the better they could deal with their friends’ cancer.
At the same time, the 37-year-old counselor had to cope with her own health problems.
Back in February, a small benign lump had been removed from her breast. Now, a Pap smear revealed ‘‘atypical cells,’’ a possible precursor to cervical cancer. It was probably due to stress, she told herself. Her doctor scheduled another test for December.
Cancer had killed her sister a year and a half earlier. Ms. Counts still drew strength from her dying sister’s words: It’s important for us to begin holding hands and forming circles.
Now, with Alan hospitalized, Ms. Counts formed support groups for 16 of his closest friends, including Bryan Jones. Meeting weekly during school in groups of eight, the boys made cards, wrote letters, reminisced, asked questions.
Feeling powerless, the boys wanted to do something like the Walk for Hope, which had been held the previous October for Paul and Brian. But Alan’s family had requested privacy, and Ms. Counts told the boys it was important to respect that.
Ms. Counts also formed a crisis team of Finneytown High teachers and guidance counselors. If either Paul or Alan died, she wanted students to deal with people they knew, rather than outside counselors.
As football season began, the marching band dedicated its halftime shows to Alan and to Megan Hopp’s father, Clayton ‘‘Skip’’ Hopp. On a Wednesday in October, Mr. Hopp died.
The next Friday was homecoming. Paul Thomas, though weak and frail, spent all day at school. He ate dinner with the football team. That night he watched them lose to Madeira, 35-8.
A few weeks later in the school’s Performing Arts Center, theater students performed Mr. Roberts. Without Alan Huhn in his usual spot with the tech crew.
Mr. Goslee hadn’t called Alan’s parents for an update for several weeks. He always felt uneasy about it.
On Monday, Nov. 22, Mr. Goslee’s home phone rang at 11:30 p.m. He saw the name Steve Huhn on the caller ID — Alan’s dad — and his heart sank.
Mr. Goslee called Becky Jones, the mother of Alan’s friend Bryan. She was coming to school the next day with pamphlets for a band fund-raiser.
‘‘Not tomorrow,’’ Mr. Goslee said.
Mrs. Jones didn’t wake Bryan until morning. Then she sat on his bed and told him his friend had died.
Bryan buried his head in his pillow and sobbed. Then mother and son hugged, and cried together.
‘‘You need to go to school,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re going to tell the kids. Your friends will be there. You need to be there.’’
Band Director Brian Goslee sits in the band room, which became a refuge for grieving students.
(Glenn Hartong photo)
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At 6 a.m., Ms. Counts, Mr. Goslee and other members of the crisis team gathered in the band room. Band was the first class of the day.
Mr. Goslee was glad to have other adults around; as 7:20 neared, he felt himself getting nervous. He wrote on the chalk board, ‘‘No instruments.’’ Soon, students were taking their seats.
He stood in front of his band. ‘‘Some of you may know this,’’ he began, then his voice cracked and he struggled to keep his composure, ‘‘but Alan Huhn passed away last night.’’
He told them counselors and teachers were available to talk. He told them any reaction was OK. Then his voice trailed off.
It was like the moment after a concert’s finale: Everyone knows the last song has been played, but there’s an awkward pause.
And silence.
Some students hung their heads. Some began to sob.
Tears in their eyes, sophomore twins Rosie and Lynette Gibson hugged. Then with their closest friends, they formed a circle, arms around each other.
Lynette, a trumpet player like Alan, couldn’t stop thinking of a speech he had given in fifth grade. He wanted to be an engineer, he had said, and have three kids.
Sophomore Ben Redman, a 16-year-old baritone player, would not allow himself to cry, even though he was surrounded by sobbing classmates. His mother had died of cancer 10 years ago. When he was younger, he feared going to sleep and not waking up. Crying scared him.
So Ben, Bryan Jones and several friends reminisced about fun times with Alan. Their stories made them laugh.
Bryan thought it strange. So many people felt the same thing, but they showed it so differently. Some students shared their grief in small groups. Others kept to themselves. Some got angry. Some busied themselves with homework. Some played hacky sack.
As the 8:05 first bell approached, more students arrived on campus, including sophomore Ange Koesters. It was her 17th birthday.
A friend, Stefanie Smith, brought balloons for her. But Stefanie was crying as she walked into school. And soon Ange heard her first-bell teacher read an announcement: ‘‘ . . . We were told that Alan was not in any pain when he passed away. . . . ’’
Administrators and teachers put out the word: The band room, staffed by the crisis team, was available to anyone who needed an escape; students who had tests could choose not to take them.
As many as 100 students gathered in the band room, including Ange Koesters. She no longer felt like she was in school. She felt like she was with family.
Emilou Checco, a senior, had worked with Alan on the theater tech crew. She retreated to the yearbook room, a small, windowless space, its concrete block walls decorated with student signatures.
She felt lost and confused. She needed to think. So many things, it seemed, had been left unfinished.
With a black marker she added a name to the wall: ‘‘Alan Huhn, 1983-1999.’’
Backstage at the Performing Arts Center, some students climbed a narrow, spiraling metal staircase to the catwalk. At the top they found a hand-lettered sign: ‘‘Welcome to Alan and Abby’s Ewok Village. You have just escalated 37 stairs!!!’’
This was where Alan and Abby King worked the stage lights for school plays.
Students took the sign down, laminated it, and returned it to the spot high above the auditorium stage.
Ms. Counts, like others on the crisis team, spent the day listening, offering support, giving hugs. But she couldn’t answer the question on everyone’s mind: Why did this happen?
Before the day ended, Ms. Counts and others put in motion a plan to bring everyone together: a memorial service at the school.
Three days after Alan died, Bryan Jones’ relatives gathered in his home for Thanksgiving.
After the evening meal, he put on a jacket and slipped out into a rainy night.
He walked to his friend’ house. He wanted to knock on the door, but thought he would be intruding.
So he stood outside, alone, his face awash in raindrops and tears, thinking about Alan.
The 600-seat Performing Arts Center filled quickly for Alan’s memorial service.
The lights dimmed. Then Margaret Desmond, interim associate pastor of Northminster Presbyterian Church, stood at a lectern on stage.
‘‘For some of you, Alan was the first person you ever knew who died,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s scary that first time to think about death and dying, and it will be scary the second time, too . . .
‘‘Before you leave here tonight, talk to someone about your fears, and you’ll find you’re not alone.’’
In the eight days since Alan’s death, his classmates planned a memorial service that would celebrate his life. And so the Boy Scouts had a role. And the band. And the theater tech crew. And the guys from ‘‘Brian Fridays.’’
When it was Bryan Jones’ turn to talk, he reached underneath the lectern for a glass of water. He sipped. Took a deep breath. Exhaled. Crossed his arms. Finally, he managed a ‘‘Hi.’’
‘‘I’ll start off by telling you this is going to be a bit tough,’’ he said, his voice shaky. ‘‘But if you stick with me, I’d be very grateful.’’
He reached for a handkerchief.
He told stories about Brian Fridays. About how the boys wore strange hats and masks to UDF. The audience chuckled.
He told how Alan always gave his all, always did the work, never wanted credit.
‘‘I never saw Alan in a bad mood,’’ he said. ‘‘Even when he went through the surgery. Even when he found out after the surgery the doctors had left some growth behind. Even after the pain. Even though he had to go to the hospital. Even though, when he talked to us, it hurt him inside not to be with the guys.’’
His voice trembled now.
‘‘I never saw him cry. You see, Alan never wanted pity. Alan never wanted people to feel sorry for the condition he was in. Maybe that’s why he told his mother not to tell people he had cancer. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want us visiting in the hospital. I don’t know.
‘‘He loved us,’’ he said, softly. ‘‘His family and his friends, he loved us.
‘‘I believe that Alan will live on forever in every single one of you. Because he’s positively touched you in some way. You know how I know that? Because you’re here with me now.
‘‘There’s just one thing I’d like to ask of each of you. That we can all strive to be a little more like my friend, Alan Huhn.’’
Then he heard applause. But he didn’t want it for himself. He wanted it for Alan.
Midway through the program, Mr. Goslee called the marching band onto the stage. They sat behind the curtain, hidden from the audience, while Alan’s cousin sang a song.
As they waited, tears started. Moments before they were to perform, the band was falling apart.
Mr. Goslee wanted to bawl with them. But he knew if his musicians saw tears streaming down his face, no one would be able to play.
He had been teaching band at Finneytown for six years. He sometimes wondered if it was time to move on, do something else.
But he had always returned to the notion that band was not simply about learning notes and playing songs. The shared experiences of band brought people together and taught lessons that math and English and other classroom subjects never could.
He looked at his kids, consoling each other. ‘‘There you go,’’ he thought. ‘‘There’s the reason we’re all here.’’
The curtain rose. Mr. Goslee walked on stage. The first notes of ‘‘Let the Spirit Soar’’ — a piece written for teens who died in a car accident in northwest Ohio — filled the auditorium.
In the flute section, Rosie Gibson played her notes on cue, but cried during the rests.
In the trumpet section, Lynette Gibson looked down the row and saw Alan’s empty chair. She stayed focused by helping calm the girl next to her.
In the saxophone section, Bryan Jones made his soprano sax sing. An early Christmas present, it had arrived the day Alan died.
Midway through the song, the melody dissolved. Stage lights draped the band in dark blue. The only sound was a timpani — boom, boom, boom, like a heartbeat.
Then the melody returned, first with a single French horn, and then woodwinds, then brass. With each group of instruments, the music grew louder and higher in pitch. The stage brightened — first red, then yellow, and finally a brilliant white, just as the music soared to a triumphant finish.
A couple of weeks later, Lynette Gibson had a dream.
She was in band, talking to friends. She turned to look over her shoulder, and saw a student in his normal spot. But when she turned around a moment later, Alan Huhn was there. Very quietly, he said, ‘‘Lynette, I’m OK.’’
She didn’t tell anyone right away, afraid they might not believe her. She kept telling herself: It’s only a dream.
And yet, she clung to this: a belief that God speaks to people through dreams.
Counselor Cathy Counts also was withholding something. In the wake of Alan’s death, she had tried to shield students as long as possible, but now they had to know.
Paul Thomas’ cancer had spread to his lungs.
Part 1: A school confronts cancer
Part 2: Death casts its shadow
Part 3: Finding the strength to go forward
