Hindsight

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.