The details of how a loved one passed while biking or as a pedestrian is telling.  As reported by NPR this week, about half of these cases are not even reported

'I looked for any details, any scraps of acknowledgment from the world, about my brother’s existence and passing. It was not headline news in LA; I don’t think it made it into the LA Times or onto the evening news'.

To read, please click on LINK:
https://usa.streetsblog.org/2018/06/25/please-try-to-look-squarely-at-the-crisis-of-traffic-fatalities/

Kirsten Brewer and her brother Tom. Photo: Kirsten Brewer

About 40,000 Americans lost their lives in traffic crashes last year. Traffic violence is a public health crisis. But we rarely hear from the people who lose loved ones, who mostly suffer in silence. We invited readers to share their experiences of coping with devastating loss caused by traffic collisions. Kirsten Brewer responded with this essay.


In 2016 my brother Tom was biking home in Los Angeles. He took a street that I would learn is quiet for LA, but statistically deadly for bicyclists and pedestrians. At about 6 p.m. on this particular Saturday, a drunk driver in a box truck careened down a side street, hitting parked cars before killing my brother at an intersection. He was 26.


That first night after I got the call I was shocked and frightened. My brother was already dead, yet I was scared of what was to come. We had few details that first night, and my recollection is fuzzy. Trauma affects your memory.


We weren’t quite sure that it was a drunk driver. We didn’t know it was a truck. We didn’t know where exactly my brother was in LA. 


It was late in the East and there was nothing I could do. I tried to sleep; I could not at first. The fear felt like I was on the edge of a tremendous pit. It was inevitable that I would fall into this pit. I worried that my brother had suffered. I worried that the crash had been gruesome. Most of all I feared what would follow when that pit of grief sucked me in. I had no idea what was to come for me or my family. 


Over the following weeks I went through the rituals of unexpected death. I called friends and family to inform them; then I texted and emailed others because the conversation became unbearable.
I looked for any details, any scraps of acknowledgment from the world, about my brother’s existence and passing. It was not headline news in LA; I don’t think it made it into the LA Times or onto the evening news. My small, hometown newspaper back East did a cover story. They interviewed my dad and photographed him in his apartment in front of a wall of photos and my brother’s artwork.