I never thought that something like this was going to happen to my family until it did. One phone call changed my life, and it left me feeling weak and powerless; like the world turned against me. I was left not knowing what to do or who to turn to.

It was December 11, 2015. I was at my friend’s 13th birthday party. We spent the evening exploring all the rooms and floors of her house, giving each other horrid makeovers, laughing at the stupid jokes we told each other, and eating a lot of junk food. 

I remember walking out of her room and into the kitchen when I got a phone call from my mother. I didn’t think much of it at first, but when I answered, I immediately knew that something was wrong. Her voice was shaking, and it was softer, unlike her usual loud self.

“Hey, mom,” I answered.

“Hannah, I need you to sit down for a minute. Can you do that?” My heart stopped. Something bad had happened, but I couldn’t think of what it could be.

“Yeah, sure. What is it?” I said as I sat down at my friend’s dining room table. I was shaking, afraid of what was going to come out of her mouth.

“Connor was in a car accident, and he died.” She said it so bluntly that I thought she was joking.

“Are you serious?” My voice was trembling like crazy, causing my friends to look at me with curious looks on their faces.

“I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m dead serious,” I heard my mom say.

“No, mom, stop saying that.” I was holding back tears. I was on the verge of crying. “Are you seri—” my voice broke and I just cried. I let salty tears flow down my face and onto my lap and the floor.

The whole time I was thinking, there’s no way he can be dead. I just saw him a few months ago. He was fine.

I hung up on my mom and slammed my phone on the dining room table. My friends surrounded me, making me feel claustrophobic. I felt embarrassed; my face was hot and wet, and my eyes were red and puffy. We just sat there in silence for a while until I decided to break the silence.

I looked right into my friend’s eyes and told her. “Connor died.”

The next couple of weeks changed me. I spent most nights crying myself to sleep, trying to think of how it was possible live without Connor. He was such an energetic kid, always smiling and laughing. How could I live without that little ray of sunshine in my life? I spent most days hating the world and everyone else in it, turning away my family and closest friends.

I felt myself slip into a state where I would isolate myself from anyone in my life who could help. I became a rude and quick-tempered slob. I left plates of food lying around my room and clothes all over my floor; I wasn’t motivated to do anything anymore. I lost all emotions. I left my homework unfinished, and my grades suffered. This devastation was controlling my life, and I let it.

The visitation was on December 16. I told myself that I wasn’t going to cry or get emotional. I needed to stay strong. I thought that I would be able to walk past his toys and his casket quickly and silently without breaking down crying.

I walked down one wall of the room his casket was in. His casket was in the middle of the far wall, with his pictures and belongings on the other two.

There were family pictures on pieces of tagboard on the left side of the room. Some were from when my family and I went to see him over the summer. We visited the Badlands, zoos, and got to explore his new neighborhood in Rapid City.

His casket was in the middle of the far side of the room. It was smaller than the other caskets that I had seen at funerals: this casket was the size of a child. The casket was closed because he had suffered too many injuries in the crash. It was surrounded by different kinds of flowers and photos of him. The casket was green, his favorite color, with some John Deere logos scattered across it.

I walked up to his casket and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I then walked to another wall, trying to hold back the tears that were already welling up in my eyes. There was a table in the middle of the wall to the right of the one with the casket.

 I saw what was on that table and just lost it.  On the table was his favorite stuffed animal, a green tiger. We had gotten it for him when he came back up to Wisconsin to visit us. Next to his tiger was a pair of Converse that were way too big for him; they belonged to our grandpa. He had written something for him on the shoe. I don’t remember what it said, but whatever was on there, that’s what made me cry. 

I cried harder than I did at any other point in my life. I never realized how much I would miss him until that moment. I missed his laugh, his smile, how his face lit up when he got to “drive” our grandpa’s truck. It was those little moments I wished that I would be able to relive with him. 

The next day, December 17, was the day of the funeral. It was being held at my grandparent’s church. Connor’s mom and dad wanted us to wear green and yellow to the funeral instead of black because he loved tractors and all things John Deere.

Even though the friends and family who attended were wearing these bright and vibrant colors, the atmosphere was the same as at the visitation. People walked with their heads down, tissue in hand, and unexpectedly hugged all that attended.

My siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and I were asked if we could write down a few things about Connor onto a note-card for the pastor to read during the service. We did so, crying as we wrote, remembering Connor and all the things that we loved about him.

The next few weeks after the funeral were easier than I thought. I had managed to get back on track and bring my grades up to what they used to be. I only cried myself to sleep a handful of times after the funeral. The one thing that made it hard to move on was my youngest sister.

She was closer to Connor than the rest of us, literally and figuratively. Her and Connor were less than two weeks apart, and they spent more time with each other than the rest of the family. They would hold hands and walk down the sidewalk, play with Legos or dolls, and have sleepovers whenever they were able to.

 During random times in the day, she would ask, “Where’s Connor? Can he come over and play?” It broke my heart repeatedly when she said that. I tried to think of how to tell her that she can’t play with him again, but I couldn’t. She wasn’t old enough to understand what it meant for someone to be dead. How could you explain to a four-year-old that she can’t see her best friend anymore?

This accident changed mine and my family’s lives forever. Most of them were able to get along with their lives after it happened and didn’t let it control them. They kept living their lives and not letting this ruin it, because Connor wouldn’t have wanted us to let our lives slip away from us. I realized this, which is why I picked myself up and got my life back together, because I still had the rest of my life to live.

I might not live to see tomorrow. Today could be my last day. I try to live every day to the fullest since I realized that it can be taken away in the blink of an eye. I learned to not let the events in my life, whether they be good or bad, keep me from living the life that I want, and I strived for that. I learned to not let my life slip away from myself to a point where I’m not able to control it.

I need the people in my life to talk to when I’m feeling upset; I can’t turn them away. This tragic incident changed my entire outlook on life, but I wish that it didn’t take my four-year-old cousin’s death to make me realize it.