Thirty-Eight Years Later

Thirty-eight years ago today my brother died.  For the most part this isn't a day I care to remember.  I prefer to celebrate Bunk's life on his birthday instead.  When I reflect back on this day so many years ago it almost seems like a dream.  I can still hear the blood curling scream that woke me up that dreadful day.  I have never heard a scream like that before or after, but the eight year old me sure knew what it meant long before my Dad told me.

Bunk's death was completely unexpected.  The doctor's had predicted his life expectancy to be closer to 30, so losing him at 13 was a complete shocker.  Having a tragedy occur so early in my life changed how I prepare for the unexpected.  I am more guarded than most of the people I know.  I read cues in others tones and scan their faces for unexpected bad news.  There were several times in my childhood after Bunk died that the phone rang and I just knew - first my Grandpa Musser and then my Dad's boss.

For the longest time I didn't really talk much about my brother or his death.  We moved to Syracuse from Nappanee, so none of my friends even knew I had a sibling.  I found that to be easier until I got in high school.  It was then that I shared more of my thoughts and feelings, but only with those I knew very well.  When I had my own children I found it easier to tell my story - not because it hurt less, but because I realized that there were many in the world who had suffered at tragedy in their youth and just wanted to have a person to relate to.  The Mom who asked me how her daughter would cope when she was older knowing that most of their time and energy had been poured into her older brother who was dying of leukemia.  No worries I told her.  She will be stronger, more independent, empathetic, and sensitive than the rest of her peers, but she will cherish the memories she made with him.

My Dad always said that life is a story.  Over time I can see exactly what he means.  Life is a story that we share with others.  I wouldn't have picked my story to tell revolve around a tragic day almost 4 decades ago, but it is one that I know well.  Thus, when a student shows up in my room at lunch to say, "Mrs. Heinisch, I hate that my sister/brother/cousin/Dad/Mom died.  Can I show you a picture?"  I can drop everything I am doing and say, "Let's see what you got."