I don’t think I ever understood before, but there are two completely different and difficult tasks. One is grappling with the reality of death. Someone’s life—vibrant and complicated and real—is over. Their story stops. Their body ceased. However you think of it, that’s the final punctuation, with nothing but empty pages after.
The other is realizing that the loss never really leaves you alone. It’s all the moments when you want to text or call them, send a meme, buy something you find at a shop that they would like… it’s all the impulses that are hardwired into how you live your own life, and they pull you back open when your conscious mind realizes the impulse leads to a dead end. There’s no reason for the impulse anymore.
I think it took me about six months to really, truly, deeply accept my sister’s death. In that I knew she was dead, she had died, she would continue to be dead, and I could not change this. The biological fact, no matter how jarring, became part of the narrative of my life. The inner voice that previously would conjure the reminder “your sister is dead” has mostly quieted, satisfied that I understand this now.
I have not yet even begun to accept the loss. There’s still a cosmic injustice that keeps me a little angry. And there’s a seemingly unending amount of despair and sadness and pain and regret I can pull from, if I wish. I try not to lower the bucket into that well too often, but at any moment, I could.
I don’t know how to accept the loss, if I’m being honest. How do I accept something that shouldn’t have happened? That doesn’t really make sense? I’m sure part of me also thinks that accepting the loss is akin to being “okay” with her death, which I am not.
If you have advice, I’m all ears.
Unmoored Sister 