This first appeared in Modern Loss. Reprinted here with permission.
This is my sister — her name is Alison.
As I am writing this, it’s been about 10 months since my sister’s unexpected death. A short enough time that I can think back to a year ago today when life was significantly better, but a long enough time that it feels like I never had a sister. Within days of her death, it kind of felt like she had been gone forever.
I still get a lot of comfort from reading about other people’s grief experiences, even ones that seem very different from my own. I want to know as much as I can about other people’s sadness.
I read memoirs about pregnancy loss. I follow a widows group on Instagram. (I think widows and surviving siblings are tightly bound because, in some sense, we’ve both lost life partners.) I attend bimonthly Compassionate Friends gatherings for bereaved parents and adult siblings. I eagerly listen to podcasts that focus on tragic stories. I’m particularly fond of Terrible, Thanks for Asking, Everything Happens, and Grief Out Loud. I find comfort in hearing the voices of people who know this sadness of loss.
My emotional state and what I am capable of have changed since she died. I no longer spend a portion of everyday weeping, the raw grief of this loss seeping from my body. I still feel panicked in most social situations, worried about how it might force me to talk about myself, and therefore my loss. I wish that it was easier for people to know what I am capable of 10 months on, and what’s still too hard.
Alison and I with our children —Sam (left) and Corinne (right)
So here’s how I’m doing today — nine months and 23 days without my sister:
What I can do:
- I can reliably take care of myself and my daughter.
- I can be productive for short windows of time.
- I can go a few days at a time without crying.
- I can remember things that I need to do and do them.
- I can smile and laugh.
What I can sometimes do:
- I can sometimes look at pictures of my sister without crying.
- I can sometimes talk about my sister without crying.
- I can sometimes respond to texts/emails.
- I can sometimes (ok, rarely) return phone calls.
- I can sometimes tell funny jokes.
- I can sometimes engage in conversation and stay focused.
- I can sometimes care about other people’s problems.
- I can sometimes feel sad about something that’s happened to someone else.
- I can sometimes socialize in large groups.
- I can sometimes be a good partner to my husband.
- I can sometimes go a few hours without thinking about my sister and her death.
- I can sometimes feel happy.
What I still can’t do:
- I can’t write thank you notes.
- I can’t listen to voicemails.
- I can’t pick up the phone when it’s ringing.
- I can’t stop feeling scared for my sister and wondering where she is and if she’s ok. (I don’t believe in an afterlife, so I feel very confused by these questions.)
- I can’t sing songs/read books to my daughter that my sister used to sing/read to her son without crying.
- I can’t inform people that my sister died without crying.
- I can’t handle thinking about the enormity of this loss. She was 37 when she died. Her son was 22 months old. She will miss nearly everything that would have mattered to her.
- I can’t imagine believing that my life is safe and predictable.
- I can’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I don’t consider these categories complete or static. I’m not where I was 10 months ago, and I’m not where I will be 10 months from now. There may be some can’ts that transform into cans, and some cans that revert to can’ts — and that’s ok, too. Everyone has their own list. This one is mine.
Alison between her husband, Mark (left) and our brother, Austin (right)
(thumbnail illustration cred: Mari Andrew | @bymariandrew)
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