By Janice Konstantinidis

Corporal Derek Gardner—what can I say about him?
I’ve been sitting here for most of the morning trying to write a eulogy for my brother’s funeral. Nobody told me it would be this difficult. The minister from our church offered suggestions, but I can’t relate to them. He spoke about forgiveness and coming to terms. Seeing Mom and Dad so shocked and confused adds to my growing sense of anger about my brother’s death.
I start to type.
My parents were unable to contribute to Derek’s education. Dad was laid off from work when the recession hit. Mom was a nurse in the local hospital. They made ends meet between her job, and the produce they grew on their small farm.
My words tumble out as jumbled as my thoughts. I try to focus as I try to be the elder brother Derek deserves.
My brother wanted to be a surgeon ever since grade school. After three years of college, he found it difficult to combine full-time work with his studies. Being an A-student, he expected nothing less than the best from himself.
The army offered decent pay and a college education too good to pass up. Derek enlisted when he was twenty-one.
I look up from my computer. Through the window I see Mom walking in the garden weeping. Huge, heart wrenching sobs. I continue writing.
Derek’s skills as a medic were invaluable to his unit, yet they sent him home eleven months into his tour. We knew he’d seen some ugly things; his letters gave fewer and fewer details as the months passed. He always seemed extremely focused, serious and meticulous in everything he did.  He told me in one of his last letters, that he had begun to question the whole matter of troops being in Iraq.
The blast of an improvised explosive device propelled Derek from his vehicle. He alone survived. The Army flew him to Fort Lee for medical treatment and he was released after two weeks. His broken arm and dislocated shoulder began to heal.  He attended the army clinic as an outpatient and continued to make excellent progress physically, but his mental health was another issue.
One Saturday morning I pulled into the driveway after running the usual errands. My wife beckoned from the door. She was crying and on the phone. My mother could barely speak, but there was no mistaking what she told me. Derek is dead. I tried to absorb the news. My brother had committed suicide.
On the night Derek died, he’d been to visit a friend — a high school buddy — who recently returned home from Iraq. Derek had been distressed to see the damage to his friend’s eyes that had caused him to lose his sight.
After we heard the news of Derek’s death, our family talked and cried together, and sometimes, through sheer exhaustion, we slept. The police said that he drove his car off an embankment at high speed. He hadn’t been wearing his seat belt. Later we learned about my brother’s decision to donate his organs.
I sit, cursor blinking. My mind reeling at the knowledge that the former Vice President of the United States is said to be doing well after receiving my brother’s heart. This man, responsible for the U.S. invasion of Iraq, and thousands of futile deaths has been given a second chance. This man, who sacrificed lives for personal gain, lives because my brother died.
My brother died because this man lived.
I sit shaking my head in disbelief. Forgiveness is not something I can contemplate.

 Janice Konstantinidis is a member of SLO NightWriters, the premier writing organization on the
Central Coast of California. Moving from Australia, she retired from her work as a Gerontologist to live on the Central Coast where she lives with her husband and two dogs.