Always His Baby

When I was born, my brother David was already in junior high: a 12-year-old boy with glasses, gap teeth, and a sort-of-shag haircut, except not as cool. It was 1973, and his geekiness belied what a heartbreaker he would soon become — after contacts and braces and athletics (plus a better haircut). He already loved nature and science and travel, but back then, we had no idea how far that would take him.

By college, he got so handsome and smart and charming, I can only imagine that he was having to (sweetly) bat away all the energy coming at him. I think he switched to pre-med when he realized the life of a botanist might not be lucrative. He got into running and biking (in addition to hunting, which I still try to forget). In med school, he competed in his first triathlon. (Apparently, despite all the summers we spent growing up swimming in lakes in East Texas, he wasn’t crazy about the swimming part). Then he went on to become a wildy accomplished adventure racer, mountain biker, and an ultramarathon runner, on top of being a successful and beloved doctor.

Anyway, from totally nerdy to all my girlfriends having crushes on him, David always cared for me like his own baby. He was so fun, so supportive, so generous. Spending time with him always made me feel like a million bucks. He was curious and kind and extremely humble. He always taught me something, and always made me the center of attention. What a gift. When we were together, even well into adulthood, he babied me, and I let him. The age difference made him feel like an incredible uncle as much as a sibling.

Today would have been David’s 64th birthday if he hadn’t died in 2008, by falling off a mountain. I mark this anniversary every year by writing something about him because I never want to stop celebrating that he was born or sharing him with the world because he was the best big brother anyone could have asked for, and holding a torch for him has become a bit of a second job, one that I am honored to have.

But it’s also another day of terribly bad math, because his kid sister here is now five years older than he was when he died at 47. Being almost 52 years old is disorienting in all kinds of typical, middle-aged ways, but every year I “outlive” David, makes me feel equal parts extremely lucky and sick to my stomach. Because it isn’t right; now, he should be retired or retiring from his work as a radiologist to focus on what he loved best: orienteering and racing, exploring and loving nature. Instead, he’s dead. And I’m here, still missing him every single day, now feeling like a wrong kind of big sister. It will never calculate, and I’ll never get over it.

It’s been nice to dive back into work around my book about him lately, to keep writing and driving conversations about sibling loss and processing grief — things I certainly never set out to do, but have become a personal mission, and a satisfaction — turning something terrible into something hopefully helpful, even hopeful. I don’t know where I’d be if I hadn’t had David as a brother, or if he hadn’t died.

He helped me realize I was enough and that I had something to offer. That life is short and precious and fragile and perplexing and beautiful and full of opportunities, and not to waste it. When I’m feeling insecure, I remember how he told me not to worry about what others think. When I’m stuck or unmotivated, the fact of his short, but incredibly full life reminds me we’re all on the clock, so I refocus my energy and do what matters most to me.

I feel more emotional than I anticipated today, nearly 17 years after we lost him, but maybe it’s because my heart is so wide open now. When David died, I told our mom that he would always be with me. I had no idea just how true that would be. I feel his loving presence every day. Despite the way the numbers look, I’ll always be his baby.