My brother-in-law was Sgt. B. He served in the United States Army for ten years. And maybe it's selfish to say this, but he was my soldier, too. B was diagnosed with Susac Syndrome about three years ago. He made his final journey to 3B. I don't think I ever truly accepted it. I stopped to see him whenever I could while traveling for work. I brought my six-year-old with me often. And every single time we got back into the car, the same question came: "Mommy, when will Uncle B talk to me again?" That question broke me. How do you tell a six-year-old that the uncle he adores - the one who laughed with him, played with him, loved him - can't do that anymore?

When B was dying, I was terrified to leave him. I couldn't stand the thought of him being alone in that room. He had never left me alone when life was unbearable. I told myself I owed him that same loyalty. And then Bonnie Santucci walked in. She brought peace with her. Real peace. She looked at him and said, again and again, "B, you are safe. B, you are loved." She never apologized for his dying. She never treated him like he was already gone. She treated him like he was still here. And that mattered more than I can explain. She sat with me. She held me. I didn't even realize how badly I needed that until she did it. When she held me, it felt like B. I wish she had been there when I came to say goodbye. I wanted so badly to thank her.

Bonnie became the mother B needed when his own refused to travel to him. She stayed until his chosen mom, his mother-in-law, could be there for him at the end. Thank you to the entire VA for keeping him comfortable through these years. Thank you, Bonnie. His fight is over, but his voice is not.