The Process

Grief and loss. The sudden shifting of reality, the uncertain footing in unfamiliar territory. And no matter how many times one has been on the journey the scenery is never the same, the signage still indecipherable.

Sudden loss knocks the breath out of you. Repeatedly. Relentlessly. Daily routines, the slender tethers connecting us to a world we can manage, are suddenly irrelevant. Simple tasks become incomprehensible. You get a cup out of the cupboard and look at the cup in your hand in confusion. The toothpaste tube falls off the bathroom counter, and you have to tell yourself to pick it up.

At times you feel like you have this grief thing under control. Five minutes later you are crying at the sun breaking through the clouds. 

Long gone are the days when one could enter into a period of mourning, shielded from having to pretend to be a sane person in a world gone mad, protected from having anyone--a friend, neighbor, or local shopclerk--witness a sudden onslaught of tears. Grief was allowed to take its own course, out of the spotlight and in the quiet corners of comfort in one's own home. Instead, now we are encouraged to "get back into our normal routine," when it seems that nothing will ever be normal again and routines make no sense.

Support from family and friends is deeply comforting, but for me, grief is a solitary experience. I face it each time as I always have, and each time is uniquely painful. I have learned to make allowances for myself and take each wave of sorrow as it comes. I know that grief will soon become two steps forward and one step back, and one day, it will become two steps forward. Then it will become two steps forward, and two more steps forward. And then there will be enough steps that I am back in a world with landmarks I recognize. 

A Goodbye

Today my sister died. Over the past year and a half since I first posted about her she was in and out of the hospital several times, often on the brink of death once again. In between times she would get sober, vow to stay sober, until the disease of alcoholism got her once again within its grasp. Her struggles with all of her demons are now over, and I hope that eternity holds some comfort and peace for her.

When my brother told his wife that Julie had died, she said, "For you, she died a long time ago." It's true. Estranged from her for decades, my brother and I could never really come to terms with her or the disease which finally killed her. Years ago she broke the bonds of family, and never made the effort to restore them, aside from an occasional phone call, usually while drunk. Just a few weeks ago she called and left a voicemail that she wanted my brother's phone number so she could call him on his birthday. Her speech was slurred and it was difficult to understand her. I didn't call her back. I'm not even sure I regret not calling her back.

I haven't felt bitter toward her for many, many years. Just sad. Sad that the little girl for whom I once realized I would give my life never found her place in the world. She married once, and had several children, then divorced and had several more children. I only met her first child when he was a baby, though my father kept in touch with most of them over the years. I don't know what they think of their mother, or how they are feeling now that she's gone.

A few weeks ago I asked my father for an address where I could send Julie a letter. I used to call her "Jules." I thought I would just send her a note to let her know I was thinking of her. It felt like time to do that. My father sent me the hospital's address just the other day. I hadn't written the letter yet.

My baby sister is gone. A part of me--a distant, quiet part of me--feels the pain of loss, feels the pang of guilt, grasps the finality of death and failure. 

If I shed a tear, will it be for everything she never could be, or for myself, and all I wasn't for her? I wrap myself in thoughtfulness, and sit in still and silent grief.