Truths

Losing your parents is one thing. As I told my friend Kim when her mother died suddenly in her sleep, “as terrible as this is, you will get through it. Because we are designed to outlive our parents.” I had other, more comforting things to say to Kim, I promise. But I believe my blunt assertion is true.

My grief at losing my mother was indescribable. I have since lost my dad and my birth father. Each death brought with it a load of pain, regret, and bafflement. When you lose a parent, you are forced to face the truth that you are flying solo in these matters, and that anything you need to work through where that parent is concerned, you’ll be doing the work on your own. They are not there to answer your questions or meet your emotions with apologies or explanations.

You realize, over time, that they were people too. They were also doing the best they could with the basic wiring and inadequate tools with which they were provided. Just as I am, as a parent. And man oh man, have I ever made mistakes.

Siblings

Siblings, though. Losing a sibling is another order of magnitude. Because you were in it together, a united front, somehow surviving your difficult childhoods together. Even if you were part of what made those childhoods difficult. Even if you drove each other away. Me and mine might have fought in whispers, but we still fought. There were fractures and fights and a general sense of hopelessness at times. We were all so weird.

But if anyone outside the sibling group had a bad thing to say about one of us, we circled the wagons. No one should dare. For everything a sibling ever did wrong, they did something right. We understood each other, our damage and genius and above all, our humor. Because that is how we made it through. By laughing.

Where to go from here?

On Sunday, as we sat in my sister’s apartment waiting for my nephew to arrive, my younger brother and I exchanged a deep look. “We have to do better,” I said. He agreed with a nod, because more words were not needed. We didn’t say, “because we’re what’s left.” We didn’t say, “because life is short.” No one had to say those words. We sensed them in the air and saw them in each other’s eyes. I felt it in the long hug from my sister-in-law, who is not much of a hugger but in that hug I felt all the love flow from her to me. We are what we have left.

My nephew and I keep calling each other to see if the other one is okay. We are both not okay, not at all, but we are actually okay in that we continue to draw breath, shower, run errands, eat food and the like. I think my husband might be getting tired of my big purple robe, but it’s been quite comforting to me, this big ugly purple robe with spots on the front. It’s like climbing inside Barney or Grimace, a big goofy purple monster hug. Yesterday when he came home, I had on two robes, a blue one with the purple one over it. Today I have on another comfort outfit, one in which I might be able to leave the house if needed.

Early mornings are difficult. I wake up and remember that my sister is gone, and then I lie there in the dark and turn things over. Yes, it was swift. But, she was alone. Still, she loved her independence and her home and her privacy. But, she died alone. And then the worse thoughts come. What if it wasn’t fast. What if she was in pain. What if she was afraid. What if she lingered there for a moment when she might have called for help. What if she died unsure that she mattered, that she was loved, that she’d be mourned.

I cry a little, then I either go back to sleep and have stupid dreams or I get up so I don’t disturb my husband. And I put on my big purple monster bathrobe, and come out here and sign into work, and try to distract myself with that.

And then there’s the trip.

My husband and I are leaving on Wednesday for a long, pre-planned, pre-paid vacation. No one has suggested we don’t go. We are going. But before we do, we are meeting with the family here on Sunday to discuss next steps, some kind of memorial. That will happen after we get back.

We also have to discuss the dismantling of an apartment that is so full, so arranged and curated and amazing and overwhelming that it is a small wonder. Every square inch holds a piece of art or a shelf, and every shelf is full, and single item on a shelf is interesting or beautiful or charming. This studio apartment is an expression of my sister, of her fine eye and acquisitive nature and deep-seated drive to glean the world for special things.

I made my daughters laugh the other night with my theory that if we still lived in a hunter/gatherer society, Cat and I would have been the most ferocious gatherers of all, ranging far and wide in our hunt to find sustenance. I mimed our ferocious triumph at unearthing a natural cache. I said we’d be working deep into the twilight, getting every last bit of it. They’d have had to send out people with torches to find us because we’d have been so engrossed in our hunt. But our people would have been provided for. They’d have lived through each and every winter.

This drive lives deep in our blood. But deeper in hers than mine. And somehow we have to help my nephew take this all down and find places for it.

What’s next.

The medical examiner is releasing my sister to the funeral home today. That’s a cold, bare fact. I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe that someone who took up this much space in my life, my heart, my past, my history, my future–that she could be gone.

Another order of magnitude.