My brother Bobby went to school on Friday, January 18, 1991, for the last time. He was suffering from what seemed to be a mild flu and was sent home from school. When he arrived home, it was clear he had something worse. He was coughing, lethargic, nauseous, and pale. He lay down on the couch to watch cartoons as I brought him water and crackers. A bucket sat next to him for when he threw up, since he couldn’t make it to the bathroom.
He was just 8 years old.
Sometime on Saturday morning, we woke up to find that my brother was worse than the night before. He couldn’t keep any Gatorade down and could no longer stand. My mom, a single mom of three kids, called our uncle to come over and babysit while she took Bobby to the hospital. As we waited for him to arrive, I sat on the floor next to Bobby. He was still lying on the couch, very pale, and breathing slowly. He was so hot to the touch, with beads of sweat on his forehead. As I sat there watching him, I felt terrified.
He was my big brother, and he had been sick quite often as a kid. He would struggle with walking pneumonia and colds more frequently than other kids his age. I figured this was just another case of pneumonia.
The phone rang, and I got up to answer it in the kitchen. Just as I was about to reach it, my brother—using what was possibly the last ounce of strength he had—sat up slowly and said, “Get the phone in the bedroom.”
“Okay, Bobby,” I said. I didn’t think to question him. I simply ran to the bedroom and answered the phone. It was our uncle calling to let my mom know he was on his way over.
When I returned to the living room, I saw Bobby pale, with his eyes rolled back, and not breathing. I screamed for our mom. She ran out and told me to get help. I didn’t know what that meant, so I ran outside and started screaming.
Our next-door neighbor was just pulling groceries from his car when he saw me. He dropped his bags and ran over to Bobby. That was the first time I ever saw CPR. I held my little brother and shielded his eyes as our neighbor tried desperately to save Bobby. It was so awful and traumatic to watch.
When the police and our uncle finally arrived, neighbors stood outside, covering their mouths and crying as my brother was carried out on a stretcher, still receiving CPR.
My little brother and I were left at our neighbor’s house, playing and eating Happy Meals. After what seemed like hours, our mom and uncle returned from the hospital. I had never seen a more broken woman in my life. She was hunched over, dragging herself under my uncle’s arms.
I don’t remember how she said it, but she sat us down and told us Bobby was dead.
My mom made calls to family, neighbors, and the school. It was all a blur. I distinctly remember her asking for help picking out the outfit Bobby would wear for his funeral. I chose green corduroy pants and a green, black, and brown sweater—an outfit he really liked. I remember my mom picking out his socks and underwear and folding them gently on top of the couch. She said we had to bring them to the funeral home. Her voice was flat and monotone.
She told us we would have to go back to California to bury him. She wanted him buried near her mother.
My brother had been born before the Hib vaccine was widely available. He had contracted Hib flu and was dead within two days of showing symptoms. Hib had spread to his spinal cord, causing spinal meningitis, which explained why he could not walk on the last day of his life. The autopsy also revealed that he had contracted hepatitis B.
He had not been vaccinated for either hepatitis B or Hib. Both vaccines are available now and have been part of the regularly scheduled vaccine regimen for many years. When I had my son, I was adamant that my son receive his Hep B vaccine before leaving the hospital. Hep B causes a weakened immune system, which makes you more prone to illnesses.
Hep B can be contracted through bodily fluids. In the case of Bobby, I recalled to my mother how we would play ‘blood brothers’ and ‘blood sisters’. It was a game where you prick your fingers and rub your blood together, or if you had a cut, you’d rub your cuts together. We would later find out that one of the boys with whom Bobby had regularly played this game contracted Hep B as well.
The fallout from losing Bobby was incredible. My mother would randomly put her hand on my mouth as I slept to make sure I was breathing. She wouldn’t let my little brother or me sleep alone until I was 11. It was annoying at the time, but now, I understand. I grew up with a horrible sense of dread. Death was around every corner.
She never recovered from losing Bobby, and spent the rest of her life in a state of anxiety and depression that prevented her from enjoying life. When she died, I felt so sad, but also a sense of relief for her because I knew she secretly wanted to be gone.
The school was amazing, supportive, and tried to help our family through the difficult times. They planted a tree for my brother, which still stands to this day.
He had so much potential. He was brilliant, handsome, funny, and charismatic. Even at age 8, people would tell us he was an old soul. A family friend once said that while playing chess with Bobby, he forgot he was playing with a 6-year-old. Bobby could hold conversations like an adult, and I have no doubt that if he had survived, he would have gone on to achieve great things.
I always told myself that if I had children, I would do anything to protect them. Whenever I encountered friends, acquaintances, or even strangers online who were against vaccines, I would tell them about my brother.
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