Grieving

As I indicated in my last post, my sister Barb passed away at the end of June.  It's been a difficult summer.  This grieving process has been much different than other experiences I have had with grief.

I've lost many loved ones.  My Dad passed away when I was 13.  My grandparents are long gone.  I've lost aunts and uncles, including some aunts with whom I had a particularly close relationship.  Their deaths brought heavy and terrible sadness.  I still miss them.  My faith gives me great hope, but it does not mean that these deaths do not make me sad.

Grieving for my lost sister, though, has been qualitatively different.  For a while, I felt shell-shocked.  Even though her death was not unexpected, I could not believe that my sister -- the sister who sat across from the family dinner table from me for years and years -- had died.  It would catch me by surprise and take my breath away.  My sister. 

Parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts -- at some level, you expect them to die. Hopefully not too soon.  But it is the natural ordering of things.  The older generation gives way to the younger generation.  Their deaths cause pain, sometimes intense pain.  Their deaths change you, especially if you lose a parent at a young age.  Your heart will ache. 

My heart aches now.  At the same time, I have this nagging feeling like I've lost something very profound but I cannot quite articulate what it is and I think I may have taken it for granted for a long time.  A colleague wrote to me that losing a sibling is like losing a limb.  Exactly.  Losing a sibling is like losing your arm or your leg.  A piece of yourself is ripped away and you wonder if you will ever feel complete again.  There is this void, this vacuum.  Once, I was part of four kids; now there are three of us.  How can we go so simply from four to three?  One of us is missing. 

Our family has gaps in it, but gaps at the level of my generation.  Not the older generation, which, although painful, is comprehensible.  But this is my generation.  This is my sibling, with whom I share a very unique history.  There were four people in this entire world that share exactly the same DNA input as a result of the marriage of Art Miedema and Agnes Huisman.  Now there are three.  And everything feels out of balance as a result.

I simply cannot imagine what it must be like for my mother.  I feel for her.  I grieve for her, too.  How much can one person bear?

As for me, I feel a constant vague sense of loss, an ache that is almost always present.  This ache is punctuated by intense feelings of grief that come at unexpected moments.  And always the sense that I've lost something, that I'm missing something, that I've misplaced something even.  My brain is still struggling to grapple with the idea that my sister is gone, that I have one less sibling.  But when this thought crosses my mind, I don't experience shock anymore.  Even worse, I experience resignation.  Yes, my sister died.  I have lost a sister.  I'm getting used to the idea, and that is hard, too.

I've been surprised at how often my thoughts go to her.  I'll read something and think, "Oh Barb will love this."  Or I make a mental note to tell her about some experience I've just had.  I did not realize how often my mind records things to pass along to her until now.  It's the jolt of realizing that I cannot pass along these stories that has awakened me to how often I think of her each day. 

My sister and I were separated by nine years, so we didn't have that sisterly bond of growing up side by side, playing together, sharing each other clothes and so on.  She was older, so the experience was more of her telling me what to do, me driving her crazy, and her taking me out on adventures.  Our day to day lives were very different, and have been different for most of our lives.  Yet there is -- was -- a strong subconscious bond there and a desire to share experiences, stories, and jokes.  

My sister's death has also forced me to examine my own life.  It was a stark reminder of my own mortality.  What choices have I made?  Am I content with those choices?  Where I am going?  Do I really believe all the faith stuff that I claim brings comfort right now?  And if I really do believe all that stuff, what are the implications for my own life?  When I die, will God say to me, "Well done, my good and faithful servant?"  My mind has been occupied, both consciously and unconsciously, with these thoughts.

And then there is the loneliness.  Not many people my age have lost a sibling.  Not many people know what it is like.  My siblings and I haven't talked too much about our experience.  Maybe the wound is too fresh.  But I have questions and I wish I could ask someone who has walked this road.  Sometimes I can talk to my mom, who has lost three siblings.  We have had some great conversations -- honest, open talks -- that make me love my mom that much more.  Still, it would be great to talk to a peer.  Maybe this blog post is partially about filling the need to talk about this grieving process.

People think they know what it is like to lose a sibling.  They think that all losses are alike.  They don't realize how different the grieving process can be, depending on the context.

I'm grateful to those of my friends who are quietly walking alongside of me.  I can say (and have said) to them, "my heart is sad today", and they understand.  They don't fill the space up with empty words and syrupy sentiment.  They don't try to make it better and they don't try to find silver-linings.  They just acknowledge the loss and pain and they walk with me.  They are a blessing.

I don't know how long the grieving process will last.  I certainly have not been all "sack cloth and ashes" since my sister died.  I have good days, even great ones. Still I haven't felt myself for a very long time.  Sometimes I can escape for a while.  The vague sense of something being amiss is almost always present, though.  Mostly, I remind myself that grieving is a natural, healing process.  So I let myself feel what I feel because that is the only way to move forward.  Henri Nouwen counseled that one should stay with her pain, meaning, don't avoid it.  Just feel it and process it.  It could take a while.

It should take a while.  I've lost a piece of myself.

In Memorium: My Sister, Barb Clark

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
 
I've been thinking about John Donne's words a lot lately.  They echo in my heart late at night and early in the morning.  Death, be not proud... They are there when I lie awake, thinking about everything that has happened, the great loss our family has experienced, the pain of it all.

On Sunday, June 30, 2013, my sister, Barb, passed away.  She had cancer.  She long outlived her doctors' prognoses for her, but at great expense, for she suffered a great deal.  She fought long and hard.  She wanted to live for her family, for her husband and children.  But she had primary peritoneal cancer (PPC) and was diagnosed at stage IV; this diagnosis is a death sentence.

 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

Barb determined that she would simply have to beat the odds.  And she did.  The average life span of a person with stage IV PPC is about 12 months.  Barb lived four years and three months.  In March 2012, Barb's doctor told her that there were no more treatment options for her and that she might live another six months.  Barb lived another 15 months.  Barb did not go gently into that good night.  She raged against the dying of the light. 

But do not think for a moment that Barb fought so hard because she was scared.  No!  Emphatically, no!  Soon after her initial diagnosis, the words of Question and Answer 1 of the Heidelberg Catechism (which we had all memorized at some point during Catechism classes) became very important and dear to Barb:

 Q.1 What is your only comfort in life and in death?
  A. That I am not my own,
       but belong --
       body and soul,
       in life and in death --
       to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ...

 Barb held onto to this most basic tenet of our faith: whether we live or die, we belong to Jesus, and so things will be all right.  Of course, "all right" does not mean "not painful" or "not hard".  Barb suffered a great deal and her death was not at all an easy one.  It was terrible and painful.  But Barb was never afraid.  She suffered physically and, emotionally, as she mourned that she would not see her children grow up, but she experienced no dread, no fear. 

I am proud of how my sister lived and how she died.  She ran her race with great strength, perseverance, and raw courage.  She chose to fight so that she could be there for her husband and her children.  Cancer took her life, but it did not win its battle with Barb.  It never stripped her of her dignity, her character, her faith, her love for friends and family.  In the end, cancer got the consolation prize: it ended Barb's days on earth but it could not take her Life.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

Yes, death's days are numbered.  Barb's fearlessness in death affirmed our faith and our hope in Jesus Christ as the Resurrection and the Life.  Barb is now Home.  She has joined that great cloud of witnesses that cheer us on in our own races.  And one day...one day, our family will be together again, laughing and celebrating at the Lamb's great feast.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more...

'Til then, my dear sister, 'til then.