Lauren Anderson, June 1969 - March 1998

It's hard to believe how time seems to go by so fast, but yet so slow at the same time. It's perspective, I guess. It's also hard to believe that it's been ten years since I heard the two words that have haunted every day of my life ever since. "She's gone."

My sister Lauren was in the process of finishing her final years as a resident at Duke Medical with hopes to specialize in trauma care, when about 10 years 8 hours ago, my parents got a bone-chilling phone call from the Durham Police saying that Lauren had been in a car accident on the way home from work, and that she was being rushed to the Duke trauma unit, which fortunately wasn’t too far away. I was in high school at the time, so I went to the hospital with my parents, my dad and I doing everything we possibly could to keep my mom calm on the seemingly infinite ride from Cary.

We waited for hours, which seemed like years, until the doctor came out saying that she was in critical condition and that she was unconscious. We went in to see her. I've seen lots of gross and painful images and videos on the Internet, but nothing comes as close as to what I saw that night. My beautiful sister wrapped in bandages, hooked up to all kinds of life support machines, with tubes coming out of all parts of her body. Reality didn't really hit me until I saw first saw her. I fell to my knees crying, and everything after that was really a blur.

My mom, dad, and I, along with other close family members, spent the night in the hospital, each taking turns going into her room to stay, to talk and to comfort. Looking back at my life, this night at the hospital was probably the most scared I've ever been.

The doctors throughout the evening were monitoring all her vitals, with little machines making those horrifying and unidentifiable beeps and chirps, which only have meaning to the doctors and nurses. The only machine that I understood was her heart rate machine. Her pulse was so variable throughout the evening; it got as low as 45 but as high as 130.

The following morning around 6am I woke up to relieve my dad of his command, to let him freshen up and get a cup of coffee. When I saw Lauren I had that horrible feeling that something wasn't right. I don't know what it was, but I could feel it flowing through my veins. I knew something bad was going to happen. Not 15 minutes later, her heart rate machine stopped beeping and all other kinds of alarms started going off. Within seconds doctors and nurses were yelling as they ran into her room, kicking my mother and me out. We hugged each other as tight as we could, crying and trying to cover our ears to cover up the reality that my sister was in the room dying.

A few minutes later the doctor came out to deliver the word that my sister had died. I felt lifeless. My whole body went numb, and I honestly don’t remember the events that happened. She was 28 years old. Her ashes were scattered on the family estate in the mountains of western North Carolina, her favorite place in the world to escape life.

Ten years later, I don’t think anyone in my family has recovered, and I don’t think that we ever will. There will always be that void in our lives, those grandkids and nephews and nieces that we’ll never get to see on holidays and never get to spoil with love. I’ll never get to hear her talk about how she used to think she kicked my ass at Mario Kart.

The drunk man who hit her went to court and served three years for vehicular homicide, and lost his license for an additional two. Out of anger my parents had every intentions of slapping him with a civil suit to ruin his life as he had ruined theirs. Instead, they redirected their anger to form a foundation on her behalf, which raises and donates money to charitable organizations who campaign to stop drunk driving. Since the founding, we’ve received over $400,000 in donations, albeit mostly from family and friends.

In 2003 we received a call stating that the man who robbed my sister of her life lost his life also when he ran off the road (intoxicated, of course) and was involved in a 60mph collision with a tree. I wish I believed in Hell so that I could happily envision this man spending eternity burning and writhing in pain.

Its 2008 now. Lauren would be turning 39 years old on June 17. I always imagined her being a wonderful critical care doctor, with a husband that enjoyed watching Wolfpack football with my father and me, and with two kids, a girl and boy, running around causing trouble. What do I miss most? I think its hearing her voice and seeing her beautiful face. I miss that smile I got on my face when my phone rang and when I saw that it was her calling me. I miss those late night conversations about absolutely nothing (although she occasionally tried to give me advice on dating girls).

Lauren, you were truly a one of a kind person, and even though you are not with us anymore, your memories will live within us forever. I miss you more than you ever could imagine.