It is a day that will be remain in my memory for as long as I live.

January 28, 2008.

It was a quiet afternoon, a typical Monday. I was keeping Jack Durham, the precious 3 year old that I have kept on and off for the last several years, that day. It's funny how distinctly I remember it, even before I was to get the news. I had a staff meeting after school, and then Jack and I went to lunch with his Mom, then to Hodgsons to get ice cream. I made the mistake of letting him get an ice cream cone to eat in my car, and we had a huge mess on our hands! It literally took about 20 minutes to get him cleaned up. We got in my bed and cuddled up to take a nap, and I drifted off into peaceful sleep. I awoke an hour later to several missed calls from my Dad, which was somewhat unusual. The second message said that he needed me to come to the house, which is when my heart sank. I called right away, and he repeated those same words, that he couldn't tell me over the phone but that he needed me to come over.

I remember asking several times, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? He said the same thing-just come to the house. I knew. Deep down, I knew. It was my gut reaction because it is what I have feared every second that my brother was deployed. Anyone that has a family member deployed will tell you that you live in constant fear for that phone call, for that government car in your driveway...

I called Jack's Mom, and told her I couldn't meet her at the office, I was in a panic, and crying at this point, and she would have to meet me somewhere on the way to my house. I don't even know how I got him to her without wrecking my car. I called my Aunt, and I told her I knew Evan had been killed, to which she told me to calm down and that it could be anything. Maybe he was injured? I kept hoping it wasn't the worst, praying it wasn't, not the big nightmare we all feared. I called two friends, Carrie and Robin, and told them to pray. That I didn't know anything yet, but I feared something horrible.

I pulled into the garage at my parents new house. I noticed my Mom's car wasn't there, which was odd for the time of day it was. Then I thought-has something happened to Mom? I proceeded in the back door and into my worst nightmare.

Dad was walking towards me with his arms extended to give me a hug. He was crying. I don't even think he said anything, I just knew. I gave him a hug, and as I did, I noticed two military officers standing behind him. I literally collapsed on the hardwood floor, and the only words that came out were, "I can't do this."

Evan, my 21 year old brother, my only sibling, had been killed in Iraq. Even now, typing those words, it's so unreal. I still can't believe it. A little over 4 months today, and I woke up this morning, and my first thought was, I cannot believe this has happened.

My mom wasn't home yet. She didn't know. I remember watching her car wind down the street heading towards our house, and--there are just no words for what she is about to walk into. This is the last moment of peace, of normalcy, that she will ever know. Yes, she will get used to it. She will grow accustomed to it eventually (and it is what people who have been through sudden loss tell us). But none of us will ever "get over it". Through it, because we have to, because, as Dad reminds me whenever I tell him I can't do it anymore, we don't have a choice.

Dad met her in the garage. I cannot describe to you her reaction. I have tried hard to block it out, but it is in my memory, forever.


There are no words. Nothing anyone can say, whoever they may be, to make anything one bit better. Oh how people tried-I could write a book on what not to say to someone who has gone through sudden loss. One of my friends encouraged me to write them down. And I concede fully to the fact that these people simply don't know what to say because they don't understand, and that's not their fault. I have been to countless visitations and funerals before this, and thought to myself, I just don't know what to say. God knows it's a club I never wanted to join. No one in it wants to be a member. Nevertheless, it is now a reality in my life that I am slowly working towards accepting.

Sibling loss is hard, because everyone seems to focus on the parents. Of course-I grieved not only for myself, but for my parents, because a parent should never have to bury a child. That is something I cannot understand, and pray that I never experience. Many times, though, friends will ask constantly, how are your parents? Are you taking care of them? Sometimes people don't even ask how I am doing. And I want to ask them, who is taking care of me? Because I sure can't take care of myself right now.

I want those people, those siblings, to know that if there is any comfort at all, maybe it is in the fact that we are not alone. We need not suffer alone.