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.