Traci (Tinkerbellybutton)

Growing up in rural Maine, I probably had the closest thing to a perfect family as ever existed. My parents not only loved each other dearly but also respected each other. They not only loved us children but talked to us and listened as well. They honored our opinion. My father having grown up in an abusive home, vowed that we would grow up with nothing but pure love to teach us right from wrong. My mother, having grown up with an identical twin sister, knew the closeness that cold be achieved between siblings and strove to ensure that kind of closeness with us children. They succeeded. My brother, who was five years older than me turned out to be the best friend I could ever hope for. My sister, who was ten years my senior, was my roommate, and my confidante. Unfortunately, I learned at a rather young age that nothing lasts forever. The summer before I was to turn nine, my brother failed to show up for dinner one evening. This was a day before cell phones and GPS. It was so unlike him to not be there when he said he would so everyone instantly knew something was wrong. My parents called the parents of a friend of mine who lived just down the road and asked if they could watch me while a search was conducted. They of course said that any way they could help, they would be happy to do so. So off I went to the neighbors to play with Karen. Her mom distracted us all evening until finally the phone ringing startled all of us. Her mother got up to answer the phone and after hearing something, she turned and I could not hear what she was saying. She asked Karen's dad to hang up the phone when she picked up the extension in the other room. After what seemed like an eternity she came back to the family room and said that there was going to be a sleepover and that she was going to get my things from my house. I didn't think of it then, being eight, but I should have seen something was wrong by the tears in her eyes that she was trying not to shed. That night we had sundaes and games and I was blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had struck my perfect little family. The next morning, rather early, my father came to pick me up. I had never seen the look that he had in his eyes and hope to never see that kind of devastation in anyone's eyes again. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me that my brother was gone. I, of course, had no idea what he meant. He said that he had gone to live with God. Being eight and not exactly a geographical genius, I asked when we could go see his new home. My father then had the torturous task of saying words that no parent ever wants to have to say out loud. He told me he was dead. My grandmother had died the year before but I still wasn't quite sure how this thing called death worked. I had a lot of questions, but after just a few I could see that each question cut more than the last, so I simply stopped asking. Now, no matter how perfect my parents were, they certainly weren't equipped to deal with the death of a child, or the questions posed by me as an after effect. So, at that point, silence seemed to be my best friend. I remember laying on the sofa, listening to the arguments about almost everything. My entire family was there, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and even the police. The police were having a dispute with the medical examiner about cause of death, my grandparents were telling my parents what they should be doing about the arrangements, and everyone else just had an opinion of what should be done, by whom and when. I just took it all in. I saw how horrid my parents felt, and even though I was curious and devastated myself, I kept quiet. I promised myself that I would not fall apart, that I would be strong for them. The only problem with an eight year old who just lost the best friend they had in the world keeping quiet? Everyone thinks you're "dealing well" and "doing fine" I was not dealing well, and I certainly was not doing fine. For the first couple of days I would sneak into his room in the middle of the night. I would think I saw him from the corner of my eye but when I turned he'd be gone. I was totally lost, and without my best friend to lead me through, I wasn't getting anywhere. About three days after my brothers funeral we came home from the store, to find my grandparents cleaning out my brothers room. My mother went absolutely crazy and kicked everyone but us out. She sat in that room for the rest of the day, just holding onto things that my brother had cherished. Slowly, my parents cleaned out the room on their own terms, but I stood by and watched as things that my brother and I had shared were thrown away, donated or given to other family members. Just once I wish I could have gotten the courage to face the grief in their eyes to speak up and ask for something of his that meant the world to me. At that age, that would have gone a long way toward healing. There were questions that I truly wish I had dared to ask earlier. Shortly before my brothers death we had gotten into an argument, like any other siblings. Now, he was an incredible person and most of the time if his friends wouldn't let him include me, then he wouldn't play with them. This one day, he wanted a break from the tag-along, but I was angry. I told him I wished he would die. For way too long I carried the guilt of that sentence. I truly thought that I had caused this. As anyone who has lost a family member knows, guilt is large and overwhelming. If I had only asked sooner if I was responsible, or if they had only asked me anything. I don't blame them, there is no handbook for the loss of a child, but looking back, if they had asked me even one question, the flood gates would have opened and all of the horrible guilt would have been lessened. The reason I am writing this is to let others know that even though a child who has had a great loss seems to be "dealing" most likely they are not. Having been through what I did as a child has definitely helped me raise my kids. With the loss of a close grandparent, and even when I was diagnosed with a chronic, debilitating illness, I made sure if I couldn't help them, that someone who knew what they were doing could. Therapy has been a great Godsend for both myself and my children. Quite often a young child is not necessarily ignored, but not always watched for signs of depression after a great loss. The grief that the parents feel is so consuming that they have no idea how to help someone else out of theirs. It would be my wish that nobody would ever need this advice, but know in my heart that someday, someone will. If just one child has the help that they need, this little story has done it's job.