Today, October 1st, marks 34 years since my brother Steve died from a drug overdose. October 1, 1992. I was 24. He was 33. Just two days ago was the 43rd anniversary of my brother David’s death. Nine years and two days apart. It’s strange how time heals these wounds. Every year, those two dates come back to back, and as the years have passed, the anguish and pain have lessened. Some years the days pass by and I don’t even remember. Other years like this year, it doesn’t leave my mind as the dates approach.
Steve was my oldest brother. He and I shared our mother; he had a different father. I wish I could tell you sweet stories about growing up with him, but I don’t really have good memories of my childhood. Today I was thinking about life and about Steve. I can’t say that I really knew him at all. I do have a few good memories– he loved his dogs and hunting. We weren’t close as far as siblings go.
The last time I saw Steve was in the early summer of 1992 in Redding, California. We went to Shasta Lake. It’s one of the few good memories of him I can recall. That summer, Steve was living with my parents. I had come back from Officer Basic and was looking in earnest for my first job out of college. I flew to California for a few weeks. Looking back, I am glad that I did. I did not know then that it would be the last time I would see him.
Two weeks before he died, my mom and I got into a fight. I told her he was using them and that he was still on drugs. She told me he wasn’t doing drugs, that he had a hurt back and was on pain meds, and that was it. She got angry with me and didn’t speak to me for two weeks.
Steve found a job in a town a few hours south. My parents gave him $600 in cash for a hotel. He bought crank with it. The rest is history.
I was at work, a social worker in Beaumont, Texas, when my parents called the office. Steve had been in the hospital for 24 to 36 hours before he died. They didn’t call me until after he passed. I believe it’s because they knew I had been right about the drugs. In my family, telling the truth could get you shut out. I believe that speaking the truth cost me the chance to say goodbye to my brother.
I flew to California for the funeral and stayed for a week. My brother Mike wasn’t there because he was locked up in prison. It still seems surreal to me: three brothers, three tragic life stories. Things like that change a person. I honestly believe all three of my brothers were searching. They were lost souls, searching for what, I don’t know. The meaning of life? Maybe that’s part of why I try to live life to the fullest. I don’t want to waste a single day of the life I’ve been given. My brain often goes into overdrive and won’t shut off. Getting outdoors, whether I’m hiking, kayaking, or camping, calms my brain like nothing else!
Here’s the part I want you to hear about this tragic day. Never give a drug addict cash. I know that sounds harsh, but I watched love that looked the other way. I saw the lies that covered for him, they helped to kill my brother. Denial doesn’t protect anyone! The truth is hard, and sometimes it costs you, but it’s the only thing that gives someone a real chance. Speak truth in all that you do.
I was 24, still just a baby in Christ, but I knew enough to know that God would use this terrible event for His glory and for the good of those of us left behind. Having faith that terrible moments won’t last forever gave me strength then, and it still does. If you love someone who is using, please don’t stay quiet to keep the peace. Say the hard thing. Do the hard things. I often wonder how things might have been different for Steve, David and Mike if I had been an adult — if I had been the older sister instead of the youngest. Would things have turned out any differently if I had been older and wiser? I will never know.
There is a VERY bright spot in this story. Steve had two sons. They were just small boys when their dad died. I hadn’t seen them in over 30 years. Last December, on a trip to Oregon, I made the drive up to visit my oldest Nephew. I got to meet his girlfriend and his son- my great nephew. Sitting across from that grown man, I could see his dad in him. Steve’s story ended far too soon, but his family’s story didn’t. God really does bring beauty from ashes. For that, I am thankful.
Rest in peace, Steve.
Never stop exploring and never give up hope. Life is good.
