It was the first day of deer hunting season, nearly 18 years ago. I was babysitting my nephew John, while his father was out hunting with our neighbors and some of their friends. I remember watching "Sesame Street" with my nephew, when suddenly my brother's stepson Mark, who is my age, burst into the house and said that my brother Pete had been shot. I don't remember much of what happened after that. I remember hearing the sound of helicopters,and wondering why they were there (I later learned that they were from the local tv news channels, trying to get footage of the "first accident of the hunting season". They beat the ambulance to the hospital, and filmed the EMT's removing my brother's stretcher from the back of the ambulance. All you could see was my brother's head, but it was enough to make the news). I don't remember how I got to the hospital, but I know that Mark and I were the first to arrive. Someone gave me the bag of his bloodied clothes and his boots. Later, his wife arrived, as well as a priest.
My neighbor forgot to put his rifle on safety. As he and my brother were getting into his truck, he went to place the rifle on the gun rack hanging from the rear window of the truck. Something caught the trigger, and the rifle went off, exploding through the door, and sending bits of scrapnel into my brother's body. The bulk of the damage was in his abdomen, but he also got scrapnel in his eye, chest, and arm. He was in critical intensive care, then was transferred to a hospital in Philadelphia so he could be close to Wills Eye Hospital.
I'm thinking about this now for a couple reasons. It will soon be another anniversary of when the accident happened. My brother doesn't hunt anymore, though he makes a show out of being excited for everyone else who does. My old neighbor still hunts, and I wonder if he remembers what he did that day. Mark still hunts. I wonder how they do it.
Another reason was that I was thinking about my Mom. I remember she was a chaperone that year for my high school trip to Radio City Music Hall's Christmas Show. We were in NYC the same day that Pete was having major surgery. My Dad had convinced us that the best thing to do would be to go on the trip. Dad never lost faith that Pete would come home, that he would be ok. My Mom and I had seats in the balcony. It seemed every song, whether a solemn carol or a cheerful song, had a special, secret meaning for us. Then, a man came on stage and in the style of early Frank Sinatra, sang "I'll Be Home For Christmas". Mom and I sat there, grasping each other's hands with tears falling down our face. We cried for different reasons. Mom cried out of fear that she would never see her son again. I, on the other hand, knew I would.
Pete was home for Christmas that year. Pounds lighter from his ordeal, with no desire for a cigarette (what a way to quit cold turkey), lots of bandages here and there on his body, and moving slow, but he was home and he was alive. All he wanted to do was to come home and see his son. He was worried that since Johnny was just a year old, he was afraid that he would forget who he was. I remember Pete walking around my parent's house that day, dressed in his denim overalls (they didn't put pressure on his abdomen) and his arm in a splint. Gifts were exchanged, but we all knew what our true gift was... the miracle that saved my brother's life. It was a very special and significant Christmas that year.
