By Jodi Iachni Seversen
Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.
~Marc Brown
Explaining death to a young child is never easy. When my brother suffered a massive coronary while riding the Metro to work and died suddenly, I struggled with what to say to my young son about his Uncle Bobby. Spencer thought the sun rose and set around superheroes like Spider-Man till the day Uncle Bobby hoisted him up on his shoulders in one swoop and carried him through the streets of Washington, D.C., high above the crowd. That day, Uncle Bobby, not Spider-Man, was the strongest man in the universe. When I explained that Uncle Bobby's heart just stopped working, Spencer thought for a moment and then sighed, "Gee, I wish we could have gotten him a heart like Ironman's."
"Me too," I sighed, as I fought back tears and hugged Spencer. I kept the message in as simple terms as possible, and after our talk, Spencer said, "So Uncle Bobby is in Heaven?"
"Yes, and he'll still watch over all of us and take care of us just like always."
"Okay," Spencer said happily with a reassured smile as he hopped off the couch and went about his eight-year-old day.
At that moment I wished my own heart could have been as easily comforted. But I knew that my only brother was gone forever, and there were things I would never be able to tell him. Like how I measured every boy I dated against Bobby's character, or how, when he taught me to ride a bike, he also taught me how to pick myself up after I fell. I would never again hear his voice on my birthday when he would call me and, for that brief moment, make me feel like he had nothing more important to do than talk with his baby sister. How would he ever know now how much I loved and adored him? No, my sadness was not as quickly comforted with the simple knowledge that my brother was in Heaven.
A few weeks later we were in church, kneeling in silent prayer before mass, when Spencer started giggling. When I looked his way to give him the standard mom, stern "time-to-be-quiet-and-stop-playing-with-your-brother-look," I noticed he was staring up at a corner of the church. "What are you looking at?" I whispered.
"Uncle Bobby," he whispered back matter-of-factly, his gaze never leaving the spot. "He says to tell you 'Hi.'"
To say I was surprised or shocked by his response would not be true. Spencer has always been a "special" boy, and truthfully, this is not the first dead person with whom he's conversed. When he was three years old, he proudly announced at my niece's wedding that "Ra Ra" (a beloved family friend who had passed away a few months before), was standing next to the bride.
So on this day, I simply whispered back, "Tell Uncle Bobby Mom says 'Hi' and that we miss and love him."
"He said he knows that, Mom. He said to tell you he loves all of younz and it's pretty warm here."
The "pretty warm" comment was one thing, but the "younz" gave me the real pause. That's a Western Pennsylvania term that my family uses for "you all," but I quit using upon moving to Wisconsin fifteen years earlier.
"Oh," Spencer quickly added, "I mean it's pretty AND warm here."
I immediately smiled and shook my head. "Thanks for clarifying your location, Bob," I said to myself.
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Spencer continued to giggle, and when I asked why he was laughing, he whispered, "Mom, it's Uncle Bobby. You know he always makes me laugh."
I could not argue with that. Bobby's laughter was infectious. His trademark smirk was so permanently fixed on his face that even the funeral director could not make him look sad. This little exchange in church brought me back to my own youth and the many stern looks I got from my mom as a result of my brother's sense of humor, which was apparently still contagious, even in death.
"Did Uncle Bobby like comic books?" Spencer asked me one day as we drove to his favorite place in the world, Galaxy Comics on Clark Street.
"Yep! He liked Archie Comics and Mad Libs when he was a kid, and we watched the oldBatman series on television every week."
"Cool," Spencer said, feeling his bond to his Uncle Bobby was still intact.
On December 26, 2012 the last book in the Spiderman comic book series (#700) was released. Galaxy is a block from my office, and I intended to go during my lunch hour to pick it up for Spencer, but work got in the way. It was after five when I finally arrived at the store. I looked on the shelf, but did not see anything with the number 700 on it. It was then that I learned from the laughing store clerk that they sold out within thirty minutes of opening the store. He told me to tell Spencer not to be too disappointed, as the new "Superior" series would be starting soon. I went back to the shelf intending to find something else to hold him over till then, when something with #700 on it caught my eye. I picked it up and asked the clerk, "Is this the one he wanted?"
Stunned, the clerk replied, "That's impossible! I know I sold the last one early this morning. I've been telling people all day we sold out. I have no idea where this came from!"
For a brief moment I thought I heard the distinct hearty chuckle of my brother behind me and then I smiled. "Don't worry," I said to the clerk, "I know where it came from." I whispered a grateful thank you to my brother.
I now have no doubt Bobby does look out for our happiness, and my heart is a bit more consoled. Even though it was December 26th, in the eyes of a ten-year-old boy, it was a true Christmas miracle, confirming Uncle Bobby's status as a superhero in all our hearts.
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