Nine Years
My little sister was murdered by a drunk driver in October of 1997. It’s been nine years since her death, and I’ve missed her ever since. We didn’t always get along, but I had always looked forward to beating up the first guy that broke her heart, congratulating the first man that got her to settle down enough to get married, holding her children, and attending her graduation from high school. There were so many moments in her life that I was looking forward to, but they were all stolen from me by a series of foolish acts.
She was 17 at the time, and she was dating a 19 year old. They went to a party together, and were both drunk when they left. He got behind the wheel, and my little sister foolishly got in the SUV with him. On a curving road, he missed a turn and ran off the road. The SUV flipped, and my little sister was ejected from the vehicle because she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. Maybe if she was wearing a seat belt, she may have lived. Maybe not. There’s no way to know that for sure. After she was tossed from the SUV, it rolled over the top of her and caused some brain damage.
The doctors worked on her for two days to try to save her life, but the brain damage was too much. My mother had to drive from Texas to Alabama to say goodbye to her only daughter. In the end, it was my mother’s decision to turn off the machines that was keeping my little sister’s body alive. Her spirit had already left, so there was no reason to keep the bag of flesh that was once my little sister breathing. My mother decided to save other lives by donating my little sister’s organs to people that needed them. I don’t know how many other lives were saved by the selfless act of kindness, but I wish I could find out.
While my mother was in Alabama, my step father was doing the equally hard task of calling all relatives to tell them of the tragedy. I was one of the first people that he called, and I could tell from the anguish in his voice that something was wrong. He had the strength to tell me that my only little sister had been killed. I had the strength not to yell at him, or blame him for telling me the bad news. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to tell someone that a loved one has passed away. I’m sure that I’ll have to do it someday, and I can only hope that I have the same resolve and strength that my step father had on the night that he called me.
The next few days were a blur as I called my grandparents to ask for money to fly from Montana to Texas where the funeral was going to be at. They agreed to pay for my and Kiara’s tickets to Texas, but I had to fly into my hometown. After flying in there, we piled into my grandparent’s suburban and drove the 5 hours to San Antonio where the funeral was going to be. We arrived in the morning just in time for the funeral.
It was a solemn event because a life was stolen from us before it could really be lived. Because I felt the need for a shower before the funeral (I hadn’t bathed in almost a week,) we were a little late to the funeral. I was later told that there was a seat up front for me to sit in, but I stood in the back of the gathering in a stunned silence. I know that kind words were said. I know that a song was played, but I cannot remember any of the details of the event.
There was the usual line of well-wishers walking past my mother and step father, and I was told that I should have been there as well. Instead, I stepped up to the casket that my little sister was in. Fortunately, it was an open casket, so that I could say goodbye. I stood far enough away from the casket to allow people to walk by and say goodbye as well. I’m not sure how long I stood there staring at my dead little sister, but the next thing I know is that I was collapsing on the ground in tears. Kiara and my cousin, Scot, were there almost right away to pick me up. The comforted me in my time of pain, and I am eternally grateful for that.
After that I remember standing back and watching everyone leave. Withing a few minutes, my little sister was lowered into the ground and buried. I watched the whole thing. I can still vividly remember the details of the cement lid being placed over her coffin and the backhoe slowly scooping dirt into her grave. Isn’t it strange how some details are lost to time, but others will never leave you?
It was the first funeral that I had attended, but not the last. However, it is the one that evoked the most emotion in me because my little sister should have lived out a long life that was taken from her by a foolish 19 year old. Granted, my little sister bears some responsibility for her own death because she got into the car with a drunk driver, and she chose not to wear her seatbelt. I still blame the driver more than my little sister. In the end, it was his driving mistake that started the chain of events that killed my little sister.
This was a hard entry to write. I had to stop several times to wipe the tears from my eyes, so that I could see the screen. Even though my little sister died nine years ago, the pain of her death is still fresh.
