Terry was born in Indianapolis, ironically enough the same city where my youngest son now lives, on February 1, 1961. My Parents adopted him when he was only 6 weeks old. Two and a half years later, they adopted me. We were, as most siblings, the best of friends and the worst of enemies. In grade school I was often picked on, the butt of jokes, the marginalized girl. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t over the top smart. I wasn’t quick witted. I was shy, cried easily, and was frightened of everything. One spring my parents took us over to the downtown St. Louis Famous Barr (now Macy’s). They wanted us to sit on a clown’s lap. Yep. A Clown. I was terrified. At first, Terry threatened me that if I wasn’t good he’d punch me. (We were promised ice cream if we were good.) Then, he made jokes until I really was laughing. Another time a girl at school stole some candy for me, and I cried. Terry saw me crying on the playground and when he discovered the cause, march to the girl and demanded the return of my candy. She refused. He threatened. She gave in and never again bothered me. I have no idea what he said, but he was my protector. Sure he teased me and picked on me, but isn’t that what brothers do? I always knew I could trust him with my deepest secret and I always knew he’d be there for me when I needed him.
Honestly, I could use his help now that my mom’s physical and mental health are failing. Some days, it’s all a bit much for me. He is, however, beyond offering that help.
On August 24, 1988 I waddled to bed somewhat awkwardly. I was vastly pregnant so lying down and getting comfortable was an ordeal. Somewhere close to 3:00 a.m. on August 25 the phone jarred Scott and me awake. Scott answered it. I hadn’t been able to get out of bed without help for several weeks. It was my dad asking us to come to the hospital. Terry, who worked a night shift at the Amoco station across from Fairmont City Race Track, had been involved in a robbery. We both threw on clothes and Scott drove to the hospital as quickly (but safely) as he could. I looked to the left as saw a helicopter, blades whirring. To my right were my parents, grandmother, Terry’s wife, and his best friend. Because of the pregnancy, they’d called me last since they hadn’t wanted to upset me if it could be avoided. It couldn’t be avoided. I went to my mom who was sobbing. Someone, I’m not sure who, told me that he’d been shot three times – the hand, the head, and the shoulder. They were going to transfer him to SLU Hospital. A few moments later someone from the hospital came out and asked us all to step inside. I heard an odd sound and looked left. The helicopter was throttling down and the whirring blades slowed. That’s when I knew. There would be no need for transport.
The next few days were a fog of confusion, pain, anger, and terror. The news media was relentless in trying to get me on camera – the grieving, pregnant sister. Scott became the family spokesperson. The line of people circled the funeral home the night of Terry’s wake. Family. Friends. Students who knew him from Collinsville High School were he worked during the school year as the grounds monitor. His former teachers. Co-workers. People I hadn’t seen since grade school. The girl who had stolen my candy came. She was in tears and said she’d never had a brother, anyone, who would stand up for her like he did me.
Tragedy comes to everyone in some form or another and I make no claims that the loss of my brother was worse than anything anyone else has suffered. I truly believe, however, that his loss was the first blow to my mother’s fragile mind and was the catalyst of her slow descent into dementia. Yesterday when I went to visit her she asked where her mom was. Then she said, “Is she with Terry?”
I answered Yes. She is. And they’re both very happy.