January 22

I hate this date.  Like, I cringe when I see it written down somewhere.  Whenever I see it I immediately go back to the evening of January 22, 1992.  On that day my life as I knew it changed forever. 

Around 6:30-7:00 pm I walked into my house where I lived with my mom and my sister to find it dark.  There were no lights on at all.  My sister's truck was parked in the driveway, so I knew she had to be there.  I had seen her earlier in the day in between school and work.  She looked horrible and I told her so.  She was sick.  She had stayed home from work which she vary rarely did.  I began turning on the lights and calling her name. There was no answer.  I finally made it to the back of the house to my room and switched on the light.  There she was, on my bed, and I knew.  I knew.  My life would never be the same.  She looked like she had kind of fallen on the bed.  Her body was on and her head was on the pillow, but her feet were off.  Her legs were straight, too straight, but her feet were off the edge of the bed.  Her eyes were neither open or shut.  They were stuck somewhere in between.  Her color was grey.  I knew by the color of her skin that she was gone.  When you see death you know it.

I did dial 911, but I knew it was too late.  I told them I needed help.  I told them my sister was dead on my bed.  They asked me if she was breathing, but I couldn't touch her.  They said they would send help, but I knew there was nobody that could help.  I remember walking around the house asking out loud, "What do I do?"  I remember calling my dad at work in Waco and telling him, "Jamie is dead."  I didn't sugar coat it.  I didn't think to break the news gently.  I didn't think about guarding his feelings.  I just said it.  I said it, but it couldn't possibly be true.My big sister who was just 13 months older than me, who I looked up to, fought with, confided in, took money from, stole clothes from, loved and hated at the same time was gone and would never come back.

I remember thinking about my mom and what she would do when she got home.  I will never forget the look on her face when she walked in to find paramedics everywhere and me crying about Jamie being dead.  I remember that was the first time she hugged me in years.  After that, I can just remember flashes of things.  Little snippets of people coming into our house and trying to help.  Packing a bag to go stay at my aunt and uncle's house.  Being questioned by the police about how I found her and what I was doing before and after I found her.  Where I had been and the last time I had spoken to her.  So many questions and nothing made sense.

Fast forward.  An autopsy was performed and it was determined that she died from pneumonia which caused cardiac arrest.  She had been diagnosed with the flu the day before and apparently it had developed into pneumonia very quickly.

There was a funeral three days later.  People were there.  Friends from high school came to pay their respects and I'm sure to find out if the unthinkable really happened.  I don't remember much about that day.  I don't remember who was there.  I was there and I shouldn't have had to be.  That's all that mattered at that moment.  I was there and I was robbed of the big sister I grew up with and who had protected me every time we had to change schools and start over.  The sister who gave me money when I didn't have any for lunch or who gave me a ride when I didn't have one.  She was gone and I was left to continue living.

I went back to school and to work.  My mom and I continued to live with each other although we had nothing to say to each other.  We existed. I slept in her room for a year because I couldn't sleep in my room where Jamie had died.  We slept in the same bed, but we didn't talk.  She was never the same and neither was I.  How could we be? 

I always wonder what good has come out of my sister dying.  Aren't all things suppose to work together for good?  Did she have to die so things would work out in my life or my mom's life.  Did she have to die so my life would continue on the right course.  Were we suppose to learn something from her death or grow in some way.  Did God allow this to happen?  Orchestrate it?  Why did this happen?

I know my mom asked herself these same questions over the years.  I know it isn't our place to know why things happen.  Sometimes we may see something good that comes from a bad situation, but oftentimes we don't.  My mom has since died and I have asked myself the same questions about her death.  Why are the two people I grew up with and who knew me best gone? 

I don't feel sorry for myself (most of the time) any more.  I now have a husband and three kids who love me more than I ever imagined I could be loved.  I often wonder what life would be like if they were still here.  I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate them like they should be appreciated.  I'm sure I would take them for granted.  I'm sure we would argue and bicker about insignificant things.  I'm sure I would love them.

Each year I dread this date.  It has now been 21 years since that horrific night.  I was 20 and she was 21.  She has been dead as long as she was here and still I think of her.  My big sister.