Every generation has its day that “will live in infamy.” Many people remember what they were doing when JFK was shot. I remember the somber atmosphere at school after the Challenger explosion. Everyone has a story about where they were the morning of 9/11.

It’s as if, before the tragic event, that date was just one of 364 others on the calendar, but it suddenly has a blemish – a stain that is forever etched into your mind. That’s how I feel about Jan. 23, the day my brother died.

I met a new acquaintance the other day at an event on campus, and after she mentioned that she was expecting (she was at that stage where you couldn’t be 100% certain, so you’d better not say anything so as to not put your foot in your mouth), I asked when she was due. Enthusiastically, she said, “January 23rd!”

Literally, I felt my heart sink. I suddenly had a hollow feeling in my chest, and my throat closed up for a moment. All of this happened in a fraction of a second, and I don’t think she could tell that I was taken aback. I managed to smile warmly, congratulate her and wish her all the best. Inside, though, I could have cried at the drop of a hat.

Thankfully, it was a crowded event with plenty of distractions, so I excused myself to get a glass of water and found some new faces to greet. The lump in my throat went away as quickly as it had come, and I was fine.

The thought occurred to me that my tragic day is someone else’s day of joy. Who am I to steal her joy because of my grief? What better way to redeem (for lack of a better word) that blighted day than something as beautiful and marvelous as a new life entering the world?!