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| I don't talk about Steve anymore. He's become my secret. The one I'm too ashamed to share. |
| Steve and I were uncommonly close, that kind of close that only identical twins can understand. Born seven minutes apart, we shared everything. We lived together (except for college) until we were 27. Our mom tells me that when we were just over 2 years old, I talked Steve into climbing into my crib in the middle of the night. Mom found him in the middle of the floor, better at escaping his crib than getting into mine. Once, in a streak of high school independence, we asked for our own bedrooms. That lasted a month before we moved back in together, using the second room as a den. |
| Sibling rivalry reaches new heights when you're a twin. You have someone who looks and sounds like you, living a similar life. Steve was objectively smarter than me. He outscored me in every standardized test, from IQ to Graduate Management Admission Test. We did our homework side by side, yet he outscored me on high school finals. His first job paid more, and even when I got my MBA first, his banking job paid twice what my health care job did. It was impossible not to compare. But the competition seemed normal and motivating. |
 | | Twins Mike and Steve Radu embrace. | | Provided/The Radu family | |
| I loved being a twin, even in the small moments. Like the numerous times we'd go on a trip and come out of our hotel rooms wearing the same outfit and argue over who had to change. Or, knowing that no matter what I did, he was always in my corner. |
| Our careers eventually took us to opposite coasts, but our lives remained intertwined. We spent every holiday, every birthday, together – no matter where we were. |
| Now, at best, I'm a silent listener to twin stories. At worst, I lie and pretend he didn't exist. |
I didn't see it coming |
| The day I stopped being one of two was July 12, 2019. It was Friday. My wife and I were watching Netflix when my phone rang. I answered even though I didn't recognize the number because it was Steve's area code. It was a Los Angeles police officer. She asked me if I knew Steve. |
| A person dies by suicide every 11 minutes in America. People who take their own life are in immense pain with no hope for the future. I now know my brother was no different. |
| But I didn't see it coming. Steve didn't fit the simplistic "at risk" stereotype so many of us have, until we know better. |
| Call 988: The nation's new suicide hotline could be our fresh start |
| On paper, Steve had everything: an MBA from a top school, a successful banking career, family and friends who loved him. At 53, he had already done well enough to comfortably retire. |
 | | Steve Radu in 2007. | | Provided/Mike Radu | |
| But, in fact, he had several risk factors. He had suffered setbacks in his personal life and survived two heart surgeries that weakened him and made it hard for him to play his favorite sport of ice hockey. Always an "active" drinker, he had begun to abuse alcohol and sleeping pills. But, no ... he wasn't giving away his possessions; he didn't articulate an end-of-life plan; he wasn't outwardly despondent. He was stoic. He was proud. |
| If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org |
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