Tag: impact of grief

Celebrating life, dividing objects, and spreading ashes

Catching up on many milestones that have passed in the last few weeks.

A lot has happened since I last posted. I haven’t felt like I’ve had time to breathe for a while now, let alone write. If you are in a position to better control your schedule, I don’t recommend cramming so much activity into your life like I had to.

  • On August 18, I moved internationally, back to the United States for now.
  • On August 27, we held my sister’s first celebration of life in the town where she had been living.
  • On August 28, we began the challenging task of sorting through my sister’s worldly possessions and deciding who would keep what, and what we would donate or get rid of.
  • On August 30, we drove to her two favorite places along our state’s coast and spread some of her ashes.
  • On August 31, we donated approximately 80% of her wardrobe to a local charity she would have been happy to see her things go to.
  • On September 4, I moved into a new apartment across the country.
  • On September 5, I began intensive training for my job.

I need and want to reflect on many of these milestones, so in the next few posts, I’ll do just that. But let me say I am in a weird place where I am relaxed but emotionally saturated. Rested but tired. Okay and also barely holding it together.

Spreading her ashes was intensely emotional, in a way I didn’t expect. Every step of the way, if there was a way for their to be interpersonal friction between the four of us⁠—my sister’s partner, my parents, and I⁠—there was. Donating her things felt like a major achievement and a sucker punch to the gut at the same time.

Most importantly, I’ve had to reckon with the fact that the first major life change for me has happened, and my sister wasn’t witness to it. I didn’t get to visit her when I briefly went home. I didn’t get to send her a video of my new apartment. I didn’t get to delight her by telling her I was going to give dating a try again in this new city. I can’t try any longer to convince her to come visit me in the places I am.

I have officially moved forward, and my sister has not, can not, and never will. Time stands still for her story, and I wish mine could, too, if only for a moment.

That simple fact is enough to leave me crying, something I haven’t had time or privacy to do in weeks. Clearly, my heart remains heavy, despite the months that have passed.

Unknown cause of death

I never thought three months later we wouldn’t have an answer yet. Nor did I think we would be treated like the problem in so many ways.

I think each reason for someone’s loss comes with it a specific set of pains. There are different broad categories of loss, that range from violent death to a slow-moving illness to an accident, and everything in between. I can only speak with any authority on the kind I know: a completely mysterious death.

My sister went to bed on Friday, May 19 with a full weekend of plans, including work, attending a friend’s wedding, a short road trip, an air show, and quality time with her partner.

She never woke up on Saturday, May 20.

From the beginning, it’s been an agonizing experience for the rest of us. The realities at the scene of her death don’t match what the on-scene medical examiner and detective recorded; they did not accurately record the sequence of events, which still frustrates me⁠—what if this sways the final cause of death determination? Additionally, we still don’t have the results of her autopsy three months later. It may be another three before we do. And the few details we do have make me believe we will never get an actual answer.

The authorities treated us like naive family and acted as though we were definitely going to find opioids in her blood, meaning she overdosed. The physical examination yielded a symptom common in, according to the doctor who conducted the autopsy, only drownings or overdoses. She didn’t do drugs⁠—not even over-the-counter painkillers, if she could help it⁠—and her toxicology came back clean. Note to all the detectives and medical examiners out there: we are not all in denial. Some of us are right about our loved ones not being the cause of their untimely deaths, and it is painful as hell when you dismiss us as unreasonable.

Despite knowing the toxicology results, we are still waiting for the report. For the answer. They don’t share preliminary findings from the autopsy without blood and tissue samples. The tissue samples were collected and now sit somewhere, along with our shattered hearts, in bureaucratic purgatory. In less than a week, we will hold a celebration of life for my sister, but hanging over us is the storm cloud of the unknown. Honestly, we will be lucky to know the result by the end of the calendar year. And the result may be an official finding as useful as a shrug emoji.

In the absence of an answer, we all build our silent, mental mythologies about what happened. The narratives some of us construct are, in my opinion, a hindrance to the process of healing. Even more frustrating, the other parts of the bureaucracy don’t give leeway. Her life insurance provider is threatening to deny the claim because we haven’t supplied the final death certificate. We want to, but we don’t have it still. The mental, emotional, and financial wellbeing of her partner relies, in part, on this answer we don’t have. And we’re being treated as the cause of our own ills.

We just want to know. Is that so much to ask?

Now there’s no one that understands

Today I had a (thankfully private) meltdown over something that wasn’t worthy of that level of drama, but it reminded me that the person I would have turned to⁠—my sister⁠—is gone.

My sister’s celebration of life is in 11 days.

Our mom has, in part, kept herself occupied by thinking through the minutiae of the casual outdoor event. I know she needs to do this to keep herself sane. I know this stresses out my sister’s partner, who is focused on keeping himself afloat. I find myself playing this weird intermediary role to try to keep the peace, but it tears me up inside. Because for our entire lives, if something sparked outrage or frustration within the family, my sister and I would turn to one another. Originally in person, in conspiratorial conversation later, and then once we got older, via messages.

Today I needed her, and she wasn’t there. Because now she is dead. And I am alone.

I’m not alone-alone. I have friends. Our parents. My sister’s partner and I talk frequently. But I am alone in the way that counted, in the way I needed to not be alone. When I needed the only person in this world who could have understood why I got so frustrated as I helped our mom put together a printed handout for the celebration. When I needed my little sister who would validate my frustration, share a recent story of her own, and make it all okay.

I couldn’t distract myself with the task, either, because the task had me staring at photos of her. Her full legal name. The two dates with the hyphen between, focusing so much on the day she first lived and the day she died, eliding all that came between. A thank you from the family, just the four of us where there should have been five. (Her partner is family until he decides otherwise.)

My sobs were for the fact that no matter how many stories I tell, no one will ever have grown up with me. This magical, unspoken intuition born from a shared childhood, shared home, shared parents was ripped from me, and all I have left is the memory of how wonderful it was to have. I did not recognize how great sisterhood was until I lost it. I will spend the rest of my life confronting situations that stab my heart as I realize they would have been better or easier with her.

She would get it, she would completely understand me and this immense challenge, if only she were here for me to talk to.

[Poetry] Please Say Her Name

Your willingness to continue to speak of those we’ve lost is a gift. Please give it.

Please say her name
Its syllables a confirmation 
Of her place in this world
Its cadence a comfort
To my forever broken heart

Please say her name
Your willingness to speak it
Means she is not forgotten
The vibrations of your voice
Carry her legacy one more day