Brodie's Story

Losing Brodie: A Part of Me is Gone

My brother Brodie and I were only a little over a year apart in age, and from the moment I met him, we were inseparable friends. Most of our days were spent running around the farm, often not coming home until Mom rang the dinner bell. As we grew older, our friendship grew too. Brodie was always quiet, while I was loud and outgoing. I took on the role of big sister with pride, fiercely protecting him. Brodie was a calm soul—pensive, sweet, and gentle. We had an effortless way of balancing each other out. I can still vividly recall his laugh and that mischievous grin of his when he was up to no good.

No one can truly prepare you for the pain that comes with losing a loved one, especially one with a connection so deep—someone who understood you in a way no one else ever could. Losing Brodie came with overwhelming guilt, a sense that I had taken our moments together for granted. Facing the death of someone so close at such a young age brought a mix of emotions, confusion being one of the strongest. In the first few days after his death, I felt numb. While everyone else was crying, I sat still. More guilt flooded me in those moments. What’s wrong with me? Why am I not crying for his death? Why am I the way I am? The pain I felt during that time has yet to be surpassed by anything else my twenty-one years of life have thrown at me.

I remember that day so clearly: August 17th, 2013—the day my life changed forever. I had chosen to go to a sleepover that morning. Brodie actually cried when I received the invite and begged me not to go. He didn’t want to be left behind, hoping I would stay home and play with him instead. I wish I had stayed. I wish I had been there to protect him from what was about to happen.

At the sleepover that evening, we were watching a movie and eating popcorn when my friend’s mom came in, sat next to me, and held my hand. She told me that Brodie had been in an ATV accident, and that my grandma was on her way to pick me up. I remember responding calmly, “Oh, my brothers are always getting hurt. I’m sure he’s okay. Do I really have to go?” The expression on her face dropped. In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just some little accident. When my grandma arrived, she tried her best to remain calm, but it was obvious she wasn’t okay. She asked me to pray with her as she drove quickly into town. Panic set in. I had never experienced anything like this before.

Entering the hospital was surreal. Seeing my family members arrive one by one, fear in their eyes, only deepened my anxiety. Everyone seemed apprehensive, constantly glancing at me. Did they know something I didn’t? Soon, they took us back to the emergency room. My mother was crying hysterically, my father, pale and silent. The sight of Brodie in that bed sent a chill down my spine. There were so many machines hooked up to him, so many doctors working frantically. My parents explained Brodie’s critical condition, telling us he would need to be life-flighted to Denver for more advanced care. We were advised to say our goodbyes. What did they mean by “goodbyes”? Surely there was no way I wouldn’t see him again. I had never known a world without my brother, and that world couldn’t exist, could it? If only I had known—if only I wasn’t so naive—I would have hugged him so much harder before they wheeled him away, down the hallway, and into the life flight helicopter.

That night, we had to go home and wait. We sat in silence, terrified of what we might learn with each phone buzz, each call, each text message. Despite the doctors’ best efforts, Brodie’s injuries were too severe. The weight of the ATV had deprived him of oxygen for far too long. On August 18th, 2013, Brodie was pronounced brain dead.

Losing my brother meant losing my other half—my best friend, my partner in crime. Every day since, I have missed him. The guilt of not being there for him in those last moments has haunted me for years. I’ve had to learn to forgive myself. Through this painful healing process, I’ve done my best to ensure Brodie is never forgotten. Raising awareness about ATV safety brings me comfort, knowing that I might help prevent another tragedy like Brodie’s from happening.

For you, Brodie—forever and always.