Not Quite the Same

November 12, 1969 A very special day for my family. A little boy was born to my parents. Robert Chester Bussa (though he'd kill me for ever saying his middle name!!).  I don't remember it, because I was 5 years away from being born, but what a precious day! Obviously, I don't know much about his early years but I know he was pretty happy. Who wouldn't be! Growing up in the beautiful rolling hills of western Scioto County, literally just down the road from the beautiful Ohio River! Then, of course, at the age of 5 becoming a big brother to such am adorable baby sister :) Ok, maybe I'm laying it on a little thick. But I guess I'll never be able to explain how, even though we didn't really have a lot, we felt like we had it all.
As it always does, living in a fallen world, things got tough eventually. But through it all, we had each other. I picked on him relentlessly! Man, I was tough on him! I can't even see a pop bottle opener without feeling a little twinge of guilt. Remembering the time I was picking on him, as usual, until he got mad and chased me, I went flying from our living room, thru the dining room, and into the kitchen. Somehow, he didn't quite clear the turn and his head went right into the bottle opener hanging on the wall. Gashed his head right open. Oh did he scream at me!  Or the million times I would give him a quick little slap on the arm, over and over until he finally got so mad he'd just haul off and get me good, then I'd cry to Momaw "Robb hit me!!" Of course, he'd get in trouble, and she never did ask him WHY he hit me lol. He never did tell, either, as far as I knew anyway. No one else would've gotten away with that, but I always did. Never really thought about how much he adored me. But I adored him just the same.
As we got older, my dad remarried and we moved to a different town. Robb loved living there. I hated it. Things weren't good  at all. But I knew he always had my back. My parents swore that they would never split us up, but I really wanted to go live my mom. He loved the town we lived in. With a passion! He had tons of friends, and played on the football team. It wasn't too awful far from our family and friends in our other town (what I still consider my home!! Friendship, Ohio!!). Mom lived 3 hours away. But Robb knew things were bad for me. He knew I couldn't take much more. He gave up what he wanted and moved so that I could be happy.
I could tell you our whole life story, but this really isn't about that. More about how awesome he was. Sure, he had his faults. What human doesn't? I didn't see it enough back then, but he sure did love me. He sure gave up a lot for me. And he sure was a great brother! Man, do I hate to type "was" Oh what I wouldn't do for 5 more minutes with him!
He didn't handle his health very well. Well, let's be honest, that's an understatement. I can still see him setting there on that bed taking all his pain meds and drinking Rum to wash it down. Being so sad about some things  that had happened in his past. I'd get so mad. "Just let it go!" I'd always  say. In my worst of times, he was always there for me, but now that he was in his worst of times, I was wrapped up in myself and not understanding why he couldn't move on.
Robb made a lot of bad choices in his final days. That just made me madder and madder. I knew that he was slowly killing himself (though not on purpose). I knew that if he didn't change the things he was doing, that he was going to die. I tried to tell him that and he wouldn't listen. I'd just get more mad. Not sure I will ever forgive myself for that.
The last time he left the hospital, somehow I knew. But I wouldn't allow myself to do anything but be mad. He refused treatment. He was taken there by ambulance, but by the time he got to the ER, he was awake and told them that he didn't need any help. He would be ok on his own. I yelled at him. Then I stopped talking to him. For about a week.
He called me one Thursday morning. Wanted to know if I could get ahold of the doctor for him. "Ok." I said. "I love you, Stef" he said. Told him I loved him too. Something in me goes back to that conversation. Like he knew. Honestly, I think he was afraid he was going to die. That was the last time I talked to him. My step dad came home later on that day and found him on his bed. He was gone. Forever. Gone.
I know that we are supposed to praise God for each and every day that we are given, and I do, but I hate that day. August 19, 2004. The day that the best brother ever died. Oh if I could go back to August 18, 2004, and every day before!
There has been many days since then. Over eight years worth of days. But none of them, nor any other from this point on, will ever be quite the same, as when he was here. I wasn't the best sister, but man he sure was the best brother!
Next week is his birthday. He'd be 43 if he was still here. We'd be celebrating with a Little Debbie cake and a pizza. I'm sure a Coke, too. I guess I'll have one for him. So here's to you big brother. I miss you. I love you. You may be gone, but will forever be in my heart!!