Today marks 5 years since we last heard from my sister, Laura.  I still think about her everyday, but I know I haven’t spoken about her to many people in the last year.  I wanted to write a few things here to share some thoughts I’ve had, and to give a very small sense of what it has been like for me to lose my sister Laura.

Laura died in a car crash on the morning of Sunday, October 17, 2004.  She was 17 years old, I was 19 at the time and my brother Tom was 13.  I was up at Yale and had been out the night before, so I was sleeping in.  When I woke up I noticed a missed call from a high school friend, and it seemed a bit unusual that he would call that early on a Sunday.  I called him back and he said he had called to ask how I was doing.  ”Well, fine I guess, why?” I said, and he immediately knew that I didn’t know what had happened that morning.  He told me to call my parents right away.

I tried, but they didn’t pick up.  Nor did my brother or sister.  I called my friend back and talked him into telling me what was going on, since I couldn’t get in touch with my family.  He then broke a bit of the news to me, that my sister had been in a car crash.  He didn’t know the extent of the damage, but said I should try my family again.  As you can imagine, I started to panic.  I tried all of the numbers I had for my family, but still couldn’t get anyone on the phone, so I just left messages with all of them.

Still panicking, I decided to start calling neighbors.  I finally got our neighbor from across the street and after talking to him for a minute, I knew he knew the full story.  He stalled, not wanting to be the one to tell me everything, but I begged him to.  I had to know what was going on.  And then he said it.

“Sean, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Laura just died.”

I still remember the gasp of I took right before.  And the long, loud scream I let out after.  I was sitting at my desk in my room, staring up and to the left onto the wall.  I think that image, and the sound of my voice screaming, are burned into my memory forever.

I got off the phone and started calling the hospital.  I said my sister’s name, and they weren’t able to find it in their system.  I then had to relay the point that she may have just arrived, and that she was already dead.  I don’t remember how I did that (thank goodness).  The nurse managed to find the room where she and my parents were.  I spoke to them, and most of the phrases exchanged were “Oh my God, what happened, how, I’m sorry” all through constant crying.

I told my parents that I had to get some friends over.  I was all alone in my room.  I called a couple of my close friends, who picked up as if any normal person would when their friend calls, cheerful.  I had to say that my sister had just died and that I needed them to come over right away.  I have no idea how that must have sounded to them.  They came over, and I brought them up to speed.  My mom (I didn’t hang up the line with the hospital) then insisted to tall to my friends.  I don’t know exactly what was said, because all I heard was “Yes, of course Mrs. Lynam” over and over.  I can’t thank them enough for doing that.

Then my friends and suitemates just started taking action.  One friend said he’d absolutely travel with me.  The other started packing a suitcase for me.  My roommate immediately bought train tickets.  A suitemate got our college’s master to come see me.

At this point I my emotions were all over the place.  I was going from hysterical crying, to absolute practical reality (yeah, you should probably pack my suit and nice shoes since I’ll be going to a funeral), to disbelief (no, maybe the doctors are just working on her and I can see her tonight), to absolutely crazy (well I’ll go home, go to the funeral, get some crying done, and be back at school in two weeks no problem).

It’s five years later and I’m still dealing with it.  Losing a sibling is not something you get over.  You just learn how to deal with the emotions, ever so slowly over time.

Every time I take the train home to Virginia, I’m always reminded of the image of when I went home on that day.  I walked into the station and saw my parents and brother walking to me, sad faces all around and dark clothing.  Gone was Laura’s bright, colorful wardrobe.  Since I was in college when she died, I haven’t really spent too much time at home since.  Every time I’m there, I still forget that she’s gone, even if just for a second.  Whenever my Mom would pick me up at the station, I’d ask her where Dad is, what Tom is up to… and then stop.  I’d actually have to tell myself “nope, that’s it.  there is nobody else to ask about.”

Reminding myself that my sister is dead.  That was one of the hardest things I had to do.  It doesn’t happen to much anymore though.

I guess I should take this time to say how Laura died.  She was riding in the passenger seat of a Cadillac Escalade, en route to a crew race at the Occoquan in Virginia.  I believe there were seven girls in the car, all Laura’s teammates.  The driver started to change lanes, but at the last second, noticed a car in her blind spot.  She swerved back, but then lost control of the SUV.  The car swerved side to side until in flipped over four times.  Laura was then killed.  Everyone else walked away.

Yes, that’s right.  All of the other girls in the car walked away.  I don’t mean to say that as if “why did if have to be my sister,” but rather “just her and everyone else is fine?  why couldn’t they all have just gotten a broken leg?”.  If any of these thoughts upset you, believe me you haven’t gone through what I have in the past five years.

Those girls were all at our house that night, along with neighbors, family and friends.  All kinds of people.  We talked about what happened, but what could be done?  Nothing.

Everyone went home.  Tom went to bed.  I wasn’t crying at this point, because I think I was still in shock and I had been crying all day.  My parents were laying on the couch together.  They were crying.  I’ve never seen or heard the things I did in those moments before, nor since.  Two parents weeping for their deceased child.  Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around.  ”Where’s our baby girl?” they said.

A part of me wanted to be there with them, but it was too intense.  I went up to bed, still not crying, still in shock.  I remember lying there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what Monday, October 18, 2004 was going to be like.  What was it going to feel like, waking up and being without my sister?

For me, it’s terrible.  Losing a loved one is the greatest pain I have ever experienced, and I cannot imagine anything worse.  It never heals.  It never gets better.  You just learn to deal with your emotions, because there is nothing else to do.

So that is basically how I went through that day five years ago.  Since then I’ve noticed many things that changed in me, some themes and “big picture” thoughts that I frequently ponder, as well as coping mechanisms that help me get through periods of time that hurt more than usual:

- On Laura’s birthday, September 24, as well as every October 17, I like to take some time to myself and think about her.  I usually play “Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World, because the lyrics make me think of her so, so much

- Having FUN.  I’ve learned–the hard way–that life is short.  Live it up and have fun.  Simple as that.

- Appreciate the simple things, don’t sweat the small stuff and things you can’t control.  I also learned that there are things I can’t change.  I want Laura back more than you can imagine.  But, there is nothing I can do.  Once I dealt with that fact, it translated to other things in life, and actually helped me deal with stress better.

- Memory.  I don’t remember how Laura looked in her casket.  I know she didn’t look like the sister I knew and love, and seeing that person there in that wooden box, who used to be full of life and would be your best friend for life no matter what, was very scary.  I think my brain has pushed that image out of my mind, because it was too hard to deal with.  Since then, I’ve noticed that I can almost forget things that I don’t want to think about.  Then I get a bit deep and philosophical and ask myself, “if I don’t remember it, then to me, did it happen?” (clearly Momento is one of my favorite movies).

- Sister figures.  Believe it or not, I think Madonna said it best at the 2009 MTV VMAs during her speech about Michael Jackson:

“I never had a mother, but he never had a childhood. And when you never get to have something, you become obsessed by it. I spent my childhood searching for my mother figures…”

I feel as if I’ve searched–NOT for a replacement–but rather just someone of the opposite gender to pal around with.  I’ve had a few experiences in finding those feelings over the past five years, but of course they’re never as good as the real thing.

Five years have gone by, but my family and I are still here.  I have my dream job, and there is no doubt that Laura would be asking me about it all the time.  Tom is so smart, attending Yale, and even rowing.  He’s going to have a great four years there.  My Mom owns her own show in Old Town, and my Dad is still a successful lawyer in DC.  Both of my parents have worked very hard to support my family, as well as me and my brother in the past five years.

We’ve also had a great deal of help from our family and friends.  I remember hearing how my Dad’s friends from childhood dropped everything to be at our house as soon as possible, and I’ve admired that a great deal.  I’ve had several friends be there for me through my deepest, most depressing days.  Without their support I know I would not be the person I am today.  I can’t thank them enough.

In the week after Laura’s death, through the wake, funeral, and special ceremony at the high school, I remember thinking what it would be like in five years, 10 years, and when Tom and I are getting together at during the holidays with our wives and children.  I remember dreading those thoughts, because that’s not how I had grown up thinking about them.  Laura was supposed to be there, but now she won’t.

However, time–just about the one thing that makes any of this less difficult–marches on.  Tom is now older than Laura ever was.  10 years will come, as will 20, as will numerous of Laura’s missed birthdays, October 17ths, Christmases…

And I’ll never stop thinking about you, missing you, and loving you, Laura.