It feels like this, since she died.
Grief comes and goes, as they say. But I feel like that’s misleading. It comes. It lingers. It fades for a bit. Maybe a week, a day, an hour. Maybe a month even. But it doesn’t go. It exists in the background, always. Like the ticking of your clock or the leaky faucet dripping. When you’re tuned out to it - when you’re busy, or excited, or have family and friends around - you don’t hear it quite so much. But once it’s quiet. Once there is nothing but yourself and your thoughts - it’s all you can hear. And it hurts.
It hurts more lately. This happens sometimes. People who haven’t experienced grief expect it to be linear. As more time passes, you heal and get better, right? I don’t believe that. I believe there is a plateau in your healing, and I’ve already hit it. True, I am better than a month after she died. I am better than a year after she died. Now that we’ve been through all of the holidays and birthdays without her. But now, life just exists without her, and it always will. I won’t get any better than this. How could I? Jaime isn’t coming back. I don’t miss her less. I don’t get a second chance, or a new sister. There is no happy ending here. I don’t get to re-marry from a divorce, or get my dream job after being fired, or start a new life from the ashes of my old one. Those things all hurt too, of course. But they come with hope. With a silver lining, hopefully. But there is no silver lining here, no light at the end of the tunnel. There is just loss, and heartache. No true healing can happen here.
Maybe it’s the isolation of quarantine, even though life seems a bit more normal lately. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones. Maybe it’s the realization that I am having yet another major life milestone that Jaime isn’t here for. Another child who will only know Aunt Jaime through stories we tell and pictures hanging on the wall. And truthfully, the miscarriage we had in the winter released a new wave of grief, and I don’t think I’ve tucked that back away yet. Maybe it’s the constant, constant reminder that everyone close to me has their own sister, their own best friend. And I sit here alone.
Am I alone? Really? Not at all. I have an amazing husband, a great family, a few really close friends, and my baby girl. I’m far from alone. But I can’t describe the feeling of missing your sister. It’s a constant tug, a constant heartache. I can be in a room full of friends and family, and still feel like the loneliest person in the world. It’s hard to explain what it feels like, but I’ll try.
It feels like this. When I accidentally saw my baby’s sex - I asked myself who can I text who will really care? The first time I felt him kick - who will be as excited as me? My husband and parents, that’s a given. But who else? That’s where your sister comes in. Her nephew - her baby boy. Of course she would be thrilled. That momentary pause of - who do I tell this to? That’s where the loneliness creeps in. You don’t have to pause and ask yourself that when you have a sister. It’s automatic.
It feels like this. Feeling second to everyone. When every single one of your best friends has her own sister who is her best friend. You are never first. You are never the maid of honor, the first person they call, their Saturday night sushi buddy, because that’s their sister’s spot. It feels like needing to make plans two weeks out just to see your best friends, but knowing your sister would just stop by anytime. It feels like showing up to a dinner with your best friends and feeling so angry and sad and you can’t even explain why, other than “I’m so angry my sister died years ago”. And not even bothering to try, but hoping they understand anyway.
It feels like this. Being jealous when people can talk about their sister in casual conversation. Say her name without making others feel uncomfortable, or pity you. Tell a funny story that happened with her, and it was a week ago - not years ago. Have new stories and memories to tell people. Post pictures together with funny captions, not sad ones. Not be secretly heartbroken and jealous every time someone talks about her own sister, but maybe even join in and say “oh MY sister does that too,” with a laugh or an eye roll. I barely remember what any of that feels like anymore.
It feels like putting on a brave face and smiling along. Trying to fit in because you used to be part of the club. You used to have a sister too, so you can join in on the conversation. But also, not really wanting to. It feels draining, and frustrating, and sometimes downright infuriating. It feels like not wanting to watch any movie or TV show where the main characters are sisters. It feels like wondering when I’m 70, and I won’t have seen my sister in 46 years, if I will even remember I ever had one to begin with. It feels like dreading when my parents die and I am left alone. It feels like writing down every memory I have in a notebook because someday they’ll all be gone. It feels like some are already fading, and I can’t ask her to help me recall them. It feels like coming across an inside joke that only she would understand, and having no one to share it with. It feels like forgetting her voice sometimes. Needing a hug. Desperately wanting my babies to know her. It feels like just trying to stay afloat some days.
It feels like drifting toward your sister-less friends. Your grief-stricken friends. The ones who have known true, gut-wrenching and relentless heartache. Your friends who know that every single time they mention their sister, your heart hurts a little. Your friends who check in, ask how you’re doing. Even when you seem fine. Because they know that you are never going to be totally, truly, really fine again. And your friends who are okay with that, and aren't scared by it.
I try to wrap up every post or every writing with the positive. The bright side. But I don’t feel that way today. Today, I feel sad. Today, I feel the heartache that comes with grief and loss. Today, I miss her more than ever. And today, I will sit with my loss and acknowledge it, and let it be real. There will be time for smiles and silver linings tomorrow.
