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When Heroes Die

By Arthur Slade

On December 12th, 1980, my brother David Slade died. It was a car accident on the Number One highway-- when he crested the top of a hill there was a vehicle parked on the shoulder. He pressed on his brakes, hit black ice and the resulting spin sent his Mustang into the path of an oncoming car. He died instantly.

He was seventeen.

A black hole is an invisible collapsed star that has a tremendous gravitational pull. The event horizon is an invisible line where the escape velocity (the speed needed to escape from the pull of the black hole) equals the speed of light. Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. Once you cross the event horizon there is no escape from the black hole.

David had crossed the event horizon.

So had I.

His death has affected me in so many ways it is impossible to list them all. Or even to understand each one. I was thirteen, on the tenuous crossroads between a child and an adult. David was my hero and he always treated me with respect. His death made me serious. Made me feel the weight of my years. Affected, irrevocably, my vision of what life was about.

I've always been a very private person so the pain became something I couldn't share with other people. Much of the anger and depression I've felt since then is partly rooted in the loss I experienced.

If heroes can die, then nothing is safe.

The worst part is the things that did not happen. David did not live to a ripe old age. He did not finish fixing up that '67 Mustang. He wasn't watching as I graduated from high school and university. I cannot turn to him for advice.

There's an old saying: from something bad, there always comes something good. In those first few months after David's death this became a mantra. I can honestly say my brother's death has strengthened me, made me realize how important and precious life is and that in turn has made it easier for me to deal with him being gone. He was alive, he felt love, he breathed... he was on this world for seventeen years sharing his presence. And I know I love him still, I love him for being my big brother, for trying to teach me about motors (though I still know nothing about cars), for being David. The love I feel doesn't end with death.

Turning the negative into positive is a constant battle. For many years the anniversary of David's death would bring a wave of depression. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine who had also lost her brother in similar circumstances, she said, 'I always try and do something fun on that day. In honour of all the fun I used to have with my brother.' So that's what I do now. I go out and toboggan or ice skate or see a movie and when I'm done, I say thanks, David. It's as if he's given me his permission to just forget my responsibilities and have fun.

And I have learned to communicate better-- to share my emotions and my feelings for other people. Because in the end that raw stuff, that emotion, is what's important in life. Even writing this article, knowing that people who don't know me will be reading it, is a healing step. I feel nervous. Vulnerable. And yet if it reaches someone else, helps them with their own pain, it is worth it.

What lies on the other side of the event horizon?

Not darkness. Not despair. But hope and the knowledge that, even for its failings, life is a beautiful thing.

Thanks David. You're still teaching me.