After my brother’s unexpected death, my cousin showed up in a huge way | Opinion

Content warning: This piece contains mentions of suicide. If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health or in crisis, dial 988 to reach the 24/7 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.

Between sobs, my niece shouted over the phone, “My daddy’s dead! My daddy’s dead!”

Her daddy’s dead? Does that mean my brother’s dead?

My older brother? The little boy who stood between me — confused and terrified — and my incensed mother when she was intent on punishing me for some convoluted, incomprehensible wrong. My strong, older brother, who made it successfully into adulthood, which meant I could make it too. The handsome and confident young man who proudly walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. The role model that I watched and emulated more than any other as I grew into an independent adult, determined to leave in the past my violently tumultuous upbringing. Of all people, Buzz was dead? Gone? Forever?

Buzz was successful in business. He had a reputation for perfection in his craft and he had the admiration of many. He had hobbies, like running marathons and biking double centuries. He was a wonderful uncle to my two boys as they were growing up, attending soccer games when they were small and building their first custom engines when they began to drive.

His beautiful home, which he shared with his wife of 25 years and his 20-something daughter who had just walked the stage at her California State University, Fresno graduation ceremony, was immaculately cared for. He had just purchased a California Special Edition Ford Thunderbird with cash.

“Buzz made it, so I can make it.” That was my mantra.

How could he be dead?

It was the middle of the night. In a daze, my husband and I got in the car and drove to his house. My niece, my sister-in-law and I cried and clung to each other. Two policemen had come to their door. Buzz was found on a lonely, rarely-traveled road between Salinas and Hollister in his truck, a hose running from the exhaust into the cab.

In the most shocking possible way, Buzz had not “made it.”

I called Cherrill, a cousin who had been my best friend all my life. She lived in Modesto, where we had both been born and raised. She listened and then responded simply, “What can I do?” “Please come,” I replied.

No questions asked, no hesitation, no equivocation; she came. It seemed I just glanced over my shoulder and there she was, coming through the kitchen door. In the middle of that darkest of nights, I was not alone.

She made all the phone calls, and she was with me the next morning when I went to my mother’s house to tell her that her oldest child, her son, was dead.

That was 35 years ago. Buzz was 50. I was 49.

Some things do not significantly decrease in effect with age. Every recounting is the opening of a very deep wound. I remember my mother’s face. I remember her shriek of abject pain. I know of no balm for that kind of pain. You may find a brief surcease in sleep, but then there is the waking, and it’s new all over again.

Cherrill was there during all those worst moments. In the middle of the night, she came and she stayed. I don’t remember all the things she did — those first terrible days will always be a blur. But she came and stood beside me. I was never alone.

There was a funeral to be arranged, and Buzz had no church affiliation. His wife and daughter grieved. My mother grieved. And I mourned deeply with my younger brother, Pete. In a stunned state of incomprehension, Pete and I clung to each other. Once there were three, now there were two.

There are experiences that retain a sense of exquisite pain beyond years of intervening events and hundreds of possible explanations and efforts to “get over it.” Buzz’s death — his suicide — was one such event.

Cherrill was with me through all of it, and I will always remember the one who came. The one who dropped everything. The one who never second-guessed or offered unsolicited advice.

Sometimes, just being there with no agenda of your own takes courage. Stepping into the breach without knowing where solid ground might be. Cherrill was that kind of courageous.

Bunny Stevens lives in Modesto, her hometown, and has served on The Modesto Bee Community Advisory Board. She is the opening courtesy clerk at the Safeway supermarket on McHenry Avenue and an ordained minister in the Universal Life Church. Reach her at BunnyinModesto@gmail.com

This story was originally published November 22, 2025 at 5:00 AM with the headline "After my brother’s unexpected death, my cousin showed up in a huge way | Opinion."