Stevie

My little brother, Stevie Oversen, was born on June 28, 1954. He died just a few weeks shy of his sixth birthday on June 7. Probably of Reye’s Syndrome He had the flu and Mom had been shoving Pepto Bismol, aspirin, and 7-Up down him before he started throwing up blood and she rushed him to the hospital in Pocatello, ID. We lived in West Yellowstone at the time and there were no nearby medical facilities. The man who owned the cabins where we lived kept a team of dogs and a dog sled because it was sometimes impossible to get out for medical emergencies in the winter.

Mom said later, he was screaming and a nurse slapped him and told him to shut up. I would have been in jail because I would had torn her to pieces. I’m sure she wanted to but her friend Mary Jane held her back. More about Mary Jane later.

She called Dad who had been driving all day, but he drove there to see him. When Dad got there, Stevie was sleeping. He said he didn’t think he looked that bad and he was going to get a nap in his car because he hadn’t slept in forever.

Stevie died during the night.

Kidney failure they said.

Daddy wrapped him up in a red blanket to take back to Billings for burial. But, before he did, he drove down to West Yellowstone to see me. I was staying with some friends of Mom’s. They had already broken the news to me and I’d spent the day crying. I would have run away, but I didn’t know where to run and it was raining hard. So I sat in the floor and cried and played with a toy horse and rider Stevie would have liked.

When something hurts, our first instinct is to get away from it, but where do you run to get away from grief? Decades later, I still can’t. Stevie was my little buddy. My best friend.

When Daddy drove up, I ran out to him. Crying, screaming, begging him to take me with him. He was wearing his gray cowboy hat, a plaid western shirt, Wranglers, boots, of course. He kept holding me and talking to me, telling me he couldn’t take me with him. I jerked the car door open and tried to crawl in the back seat. He had a big, two-door blue or green car. He always liked big cars. In the back seat was a bundle wrapped in a red blanket. I could scrunch in around the bundle I was small.

I kicked and screamed and begged him some more to take me with him.

They finally peeled me away from him and he drove away.

Mary Jane was holding me as he drove away. Mom was understandably going to pieces and ran in the cabin.

Mom didn’t know it until later, but Mary Jane was supposed to be babysitting us while she worked during the day as a waitress. What Mary Jane was actually doing was whoring. She’d lock Stevie and me out of the cabin while her Johns were there and entertain them. Other people might notice us wandering around like a couple of feral kittens and offer us a drink or sandwich, but mostly we just entertained ourselves. We shared offered food with the chipmunks. Invented jumping games or rock tossing games. We’d draw lines in the dirt and see who could toss a pebble into a square or throw it the furthest.

When Stevie first got sick, he was told he had to stay inside. He hated staying in. I helped him crawl out the window so we could play.

I blamed myself for his death for years. There were other things. There are always things you blame yourself for when someone dies. Sometimes you deserve them. Sometimes you learn.

I wish I were in Billings today. I’d take flowers to my little buddy. They say time heals all wounds. It doesn’t. It gets better, but it never heals.

So, here’s to Stevie. Forever five. Miss you my sweet little brother.