I write this on the six-month milestone of my sister’s last night on this earth. I can’t help but feel a heavy mix of emotions as I consider the weight of my responsibility to live life well, because I currently still can. Six months ago she had a wonderful night, but she did not know it was the last one. Six months ago she went to bed, mind full of the things she would do the next day. Six months ago she was the baby sister I could hug and call and share memes with.
Six months ago I wasn’t the person I am now, either.
I was more type A. I was just coming around the corner of what I thought was a major breakthrough in openly telling the people in my life what they meant to me. I was stressed and letting work take more than its fair share of my time. But I was also looking forward to August and a new chapter; I would be back in my home country, closer to friends and family. It was going to be a great upcoming year.
And then the world fell apart underneath me. I’ve somehow stumbled forward for six months. I’ve sort of recovered a large part of the things that used to define the “me” I recognize, but she is not all back. I don’t think she ever will be. I’ve lost my little sister. And I’ve lost the big sister I was, too. I’ve lost the only shape of my family I recognize.
I no longer know how to answer simple questions. How many people are in my family? Do I have any siblings? What tense do I use when I talk about her now? It tears my heart each time.
The answers make people uncomfortable:
There are three living people in my family, but there were and should be four.
I have a sibling, and she is dead.
My sister is many things to me, but grammatically speaking, I should talk about how she was because there is no more is-ing possible from her.
In six months, I’ve made remarkable progress toward being “okay,” whatever that means. In six months, though, I’ve often found myself back in a profound pit of despair. Never quite as deep as the first weeks, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. People tell me the next six months will also be challenging in new ways. I am just so tired. I don’t know if I have it in me to face more challenges. But I have to have it in me to keep living each day to the best of my ability, because I can, and she can’t.
Unmoored Sister 
Hi. I don’t know if comments are welcome here, but I will dare, since I am in the same position as you. In most ways I feel exactly the same as you describe. One of the many things that seemed so clear after my sister died that was not obvious at all before: she still IS. It’s not as if she never was, not at all. We still have the past and the present, forever, we were stolen only the future. When I think about not being with her again, I oscillate between heartbreaking sadness, and honestly, at times…joy. After a few months, remembering her is the best way I have to be with her, and I still can, even if in dimmer colors than if she was physically here. And lastly – and I know how cheesy this sounds – she IS in us…in me. I am the closest thing to her homologous role, the closest and youngest genetic dual, she is my partner, she has been since she was born, forever. I notice the things she would have noticed and make the same faces sometimes and tell my parents what she would have told them. And the sadness and pointlessness of living without her is countered, for me, by this. I live for both of us in a way.
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Not only are comments welcome, but I appreciate yours. I think the hardest thing for me is that both sides of the spectrum—being joyful and being broken—and everywhere in between all hurt and I can convince myself I am somehow doing something wrong in each of those moments. But you’re right; they are with us, part of us, and forever existed and exist. I absolutely live for her and me, now.
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