I always hated the cold, but I was urged to go play outside with
the other children. I was bundled up with long woolen stockings, black sateen bloomers over my underwear, galoshes, scarf, gloves and tam o'shanter. Still, I was miserably cold.

Earache struck unexpectedly. Suddenly it felt like lightning bolts were shooting down my ear, the stabs of pain piercing into my head. I was shocked to notice that the other children kept on with their games of running and snowballing, not at all aware of my suffering. It was then I knew that trauma was purely personal. Others could come to comfort or treat my hurt, but I was the only one who felt the pain.

Years later, driving home alone from the county hospital in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi in the wee hours of the morning after Ed's death, I was shocked to see houses dark, people asleep, unaware of the catastrophe of Ed's passing. I had to remind myself that it was my personal trauma, mine alone. And I know that at my own death, the trauma will also be mine alone.