A New Way to Live

My sister Erin’s death happened long enough ago that instead of being able to automatically call up how many years it’s been, I have to remind myself of the dates involved to do the math. This October 5th, the difference between 2017 and 2004 makes for thirteen years. 

When you lose someone, there’s a period of time — I’d say a month, give or take a few weeks — when everything about the loss is so new with so much related activity that you don’t completely have time to process what’s happened. The visitors are almost continuous. The to-do list keeps growing. The many things that need to be taken care of serve as a kind of distraction. Eventually though, those things are resolved. The visitors are less frequent as people return to the attention their own lives demand. The items on the to-do list get checked off, while fewer new tasks are added.

The aftermath of a death isn’t something people talk much about. It’s uncomfortable, knowing that even though we’ve paused our everyday lives to help friends and loved ones deal and cope and survive the immediate shock and the abrupt redefinition of their lives, there’s only so much we can do to help.

I was in this outsider position not long ago. Very recently a friend of mine, someone I’ve known for a good number of years and have worked with, lost her son. Everything about the life her family had been leading changed overnight. 

I went to see her at the visitation to try and be supportive, but felt tongue-tied and hopeless after waiting in line to see her and her husband, knowing there wasn’t anything I could say that would change what happened or make things even slightly better.

The part of the visitation that stayed with me the most was seeing her other two children there. I’ve never met them, but between the times she’s mentioned them and the dozens of pictures I’ve seen of them on Facebook, I’ve put together my own rough ideas of what they’re like: The high school daughter, wide-eyed with a graceful, glowing smile, always surrounded by friends; the middle school son, looking ready for any opportunity to charge his way through discovering and experiencing whatever he can about life; both of them with enough of a glint in their eyes to hint at the potential for low-grade mischief just beneath the surface.

When I saw each of them at the visitation, I felt like I’d been stabbed. So much of the pain and confusion I had to navigate during the time Erin was sick, and after she was gone, came surging back. I knew my friend was experiencing a pain I couldn’t relate to, but I also had a pretty good idea as to what those kids were feeling. Losing a sibling far earlier than you should reasonably expect is a singular kind of pain. Your brothers and sisters are the only true lifelong companions you get. You expect they’ll always be a part of your life, in some manner. When you lose one, it's like losing a limb — you’re off balance, and you feel as if you might not ever be whole again. You have to adapt. You have to start over. You have to find a new way to live. 

When Erin died, I had no road map, no context for what I was going through, no idea what it was supposed to feel like, or what I could expect, or how I was supposed to come back from it, or even if I ever would. The whole world and my place in it was a collection of empty pages, and I had no tool to write with or any idea of what to say.

So today, for the benefit of those two kids, and to commemorate the death of my little sister — which she will always be to me even if she was thirty-three when she died — I’m going to share what I’ve learned about surviving the loss of a sibling. Erin’s biggest fear was thinking the day might come when we would forget about her. Sadly she’ll never know how wrong she was about that. If I pass on what I’ve learned about life and death to some others going through the very first stages of a similar experience, that might be another way for her memory to live on. 

All right, kids. Here we go. I could write thousands upon thousands of words on this subject, and have literally written the book on it, but I’m only going to address certain points, mostly the ones I wondered about when I was at the same place you are now. Take this for what you will, and maybe it will help:

*It’s okay to be sad. Sadness isn’t bad. You won’t always feel it, but it won’t ever be far away. It’s coming from the love you have for your brother, even though he isn’t physically with you anymore to receive it. 

*It’s okay to laugh and have fun and enjoy your life. Doing this isn’t being disloyal to his memory in any confusing way.

*Every new thing will hurt for awhile. Every time you have to face all of this from a different point of view, it will hurt. I promise this kind of hurting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Those new hurts that come along are going to be a part of how you hold onto him, and keep his memory fresh and whole.

*You won’t ever completely stop hurting, but you’ll hurt less. Time really does heal. You’ll miss him and you’ll think about him every day. Thirteen years after losing my sister and I cannot think of a day she hasn’t at least crossed my mind. Most of the time when she does, I smile at the memory.

*You won’t forget what his voice sounded like. You won’t forget how he laughed.

*You could very well always have things you wonder about, all the universal “what-ifs” that might not ever be answered. When things happen later in life, you’ll have times when you’ll wonder what he would do or think or how he’d react. Those questions won’t go away, but you’ll eventually learn to be okay with knowing you won’t get satisfying answers. You’ll have enough in your memory to fill in the blanks on your own.

*As time goes on, you’ll discover that you remember some of the tiniest, most seemingly random things about him with extraordinary detail. 

*Don’t be surprised if you catch yourself eventually developing some of his habits or mannerisms. My laugh gradually evolved to echo qualities of my sister’s that weren’t there before.

*When you catch up to his age and even pass it, he’ll still be the big brother.

*You’ve gone from being the three of you to the two of you. The relationship the two of you share is probably going to change. That’s what happened to me and my other sister. However you would describe the brother/sister relationship the two of you have today, it’s going to amplify into something new and stronger, because no one else on Earth will ever completely understand what you’re feeling about this the way the two of you will share.

*It’s okay to talk to him when you need to. If doing that feels awkward, go out at night and say or think what you need to while looking at the stars. Trust me, it works. 

*It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to move on. Moving on does not mean leaving him behind.

*He will always be a part of your life. I don’t mean that in a well-meaning, comforting-thoughts way. I mean the time you had with him will be a constant presence throughout your lives.

*You can still love him. 

*There is a new normal waiting for you, and for your family. It might take some time to find it, but it’s out there.

*Finally, despite everything I’ve said here, I have to tell you: There is no one road map. What I went through and what you’re going through are unique experiences in many ways. There’s only the path that’s going to unfold in front of you, and the new situations that present themselves, and whatever you need to do to handle them. But that’s okay. No matter where you go or what you do in life, you are always going to carry him with you.