I lost my baby-brother in 1981 when he was struck by a train. No joke, actually run over by a train. Most people look at me in disbelief when they ask how he died. He was 12 and I was 18. He was deaf but still the cool kid in our neighborhood among those in his age-group. He went where he know he was not supposed to go without somebody older but he and his little gang went to the river to check things out. I was the first family member at the scene. Fortunately, emergency teams were there before I was and they waited for my father and step-father to arrive to make the positive ID. I can still see them carry the body bag and still hear my father scream then one of my older brothers hit the train with a 10-pound rocklike it was yesterday. I remember looking at his empty seat at the dinner table that day before we know he was already gone. I remember putting on my running shoes and jogging the streets looking for him praying he was home when I got back. I was the middle of five children with five older step-brothers and while I was only 18, I was the “strong one” holding myself together and helping others. Holding and rocking my nephew’s with my sister so they could sleep through the chaos then holding my sister’s hand through the night so she could sleep; doing the driving because others in my family were too grief stricken, on anti-anxiety meds or alcohol. I remember starting to cry once but ‘I had a strong faith and needed to be there for others after all’. Everyone was proud and decades later still hear ‘well done’. Problem was, I did not take time to grieve properly. Several years later one night during a time of another family tragedy it all finally hit me like two-tons of bricks and my wonderful wife held me all night, literally, while I sobbed and cried. I have since been able to be there for others in a more balanced way. Not looking for help. I am at peace - finally. But if my journey may be of help to others I would love to share. I am 48.