Whenever I have the
chance to say my brother's name, either aloud or on paper, I say it,
"Ronaldo Julian Campos was born on May 23, 1962. He lived for five days and suffered a bleed
in his brain. He had hemophilia.
I still wonder how
it is that I feel connected to him. I've
never seen any of his baby clothes, or photos (if they exist) and I desperately
want to know more. If only I had pushed
to find out.
I look back to when
my Julian was born, almost 21 years ago, and wish I would have questioned my
mother. When Julian would not stop
bleeding from his circumcision, my mother looked at me and said, "What if
he has hemophilia?" I was so stunned by her question that I completely dismissed her. Why didn't I
ask her why she thought that? And when
he was diagnosed with hemophilia, how was it that I completely put her question
out of mind! She died five weeks later.
It took the birth
and diagnosis of my mighty, warrior Caeleb, 10 years later, before I put it all
together, and by that time, my Dad was not able to tell me anything. His health was declining and talking about
the past was not possible.
When I was a little
girl, I remember asking my Mom and Dad about Ronnie and I'll never forget how
angry my Dad got with me. That's when I
realized that I would never be able to bring up the subject again.
I had a brother and
I feel his presence in my life. It
sounds crazy, but I do. I hope that he
is watching my boys and is happy at how they live with hemophilia. Hemophilia connects him to us. It's part of a legacy that I wish
we did not have to live, but helping my boys take charge of the disorder to
live full, empowered, active lives is how I will honor the memory of my
brother's short time in this world.
I love you, Ronnie.
