Musings of a Grieving Sister

At some point last year, I came across a blog written by a bereaved sister that resonated me with me so deeply. In this blog, the author wrote eloquently about things that she still couldn’t do (and others she still found comfort in) several months after her sister’s departure from this earth. What she wrote gave voice to so much of what I myself was feeling that I shared her article with a few friends when I had no words to express how I was doing.

Inspired by this article, this is my own version of what I can and cannot do 14 months on without my brother.

Things that are still as they were in early grief

• I still occasionally have trouble sleeping. It doesn’t happen as regularly or to the same extent as the early days, and the 528 hertz playlists that would sometimes work are now ineffective. Yet these sleepless nights do still show up.
• I still have a tightness in chest when something comes up in conversation with colleagues or acquaintances where I would ordinarily have mentioned my brother or siblings. But now I can’t because I do not want to open the door to more questions. Questions around how many siblings I have, about where my brother is etc.
• I still cannot cope with “how are you” as a greeting, asked in passing, or at all really. My mind comes up with an error malfunction code when faced with this question.
• I still devour grief podcasts. For every one episode I listen to, I add many more to my “grief podcasts to listen to” playlist. And find understanding in the stories of other people who have faced the devastating loss of loved ones. And whose words give language to and validate so many of my own feelings and thoughts.
• I still want to fight anyone who minimises my grief, knowingly or unknowingly. I am still very put off by, and clam up when there is any hint of assumed grief hierarchies, comparisons or attempts by people to quantify my pain by a measure they’ve decided.
• I am still triggered when I see an ambulance or a hearse. This might prove a greater trigger on some days more than others, and often worse when I’m driving.
• I still take things a day at a time. This has proven to be a super useful technique as all I have to worry about is today. I have no energy or interest in thinking beyond a few weeks at the most. I’m just trying to get through today and that is enough for me.
• I still avoid large social interactions. My low energy cannot stretch to the extent that these interactions require. I cannot handle small talk and the overdrive that my brain would have to go into while answering normal, friendly questions. So I continue to avoid getting to know new people meaningfully to avoid these “get to know you” questions.
• I still struggle with decision making. The simplest of decisions still sometimes lead me down a rabbit-hole, reminding me of the first time I took myself on a solo retreat after the funeral. And it took me a good four hours to settle on a suitable AirBnB.
• I still want to wake up from what feels like a horrible dream. The most terrible of nightmares.

Things that have changed

• I eat regular meals, and regular portion sizes at that. My appetite is no longer suppressed, it functions as usual.
• I can take care of my body and exercise. My form of exercise has ranged from walks to pilates to strength training; but I am consistently moving my body and working out.
• I no longer have a rota of 5 items of clothing that I rotate among. In the beginning having this “rota “uniform” stemmed from both not caring about something that seemed so trivial, and also allowed me to make one less decision each day. I now no longer wear primarily black, although I still can’t wear overly bright or joyful items.
• I can concentrate enough to drive around town (most days). I don’t think I can drive further than 30-40mins, but the fact that I can continually refocus my mind enough to drive at all seems like a miracle some days.
• I can make it through a work day and sometimes be productive. My concentration and focus is hit-or-miss, but with patience, flexible deadlines and supportive colleagues; I am somewhat getting work done.
• I can sometimes be in crowded areas, particularly if it is a crowd that do not know me or where I am less likely to be asked personal questions.
• I can sometimes respond to messages within 24-48 hours. It doesn’t happen frequently, but when it does I feel quite proud of myself and accomplished.
• I can no longer listen to certain songs my brother loved, that we introduced each other to, or some of his favourite artists. Songs that featured on my Spotify Wrapped last year because I played them so often to connect with him. Perhaps I played them so much that they’ve become too painful to hear.
• In the early days, my grief was so raw, so palpable that it spilled out of me unreservedly. I did not know else to answer questions but honestly, as an expression of the pain that permeates every part of my being. But now, 14 months on, I realise that I have a choice in who I share why grief with. I have learnt that not everyone is a safe person for my grief, some people will respond in hurtful ways because my grief makes them uncomfortable. And that feels like a slap in the face after I have found the strength to open up and express myself. So now I am finding it empowering to realise that I get to choose who I bring into the depths of my grief and I am able to better regulate my sharing.
• I have been finding solace in new, creative outlets. Notably, I’ve picked up crochet as a hobby. A hobby that doesn’t demand any difficult conversations, no tricky questions or uncomfortable situations. No decision-making or complex information to rack my brain. Rather I can empty my brain wholly. All I need to focus on is my next stitch, and then my next row. And before you know it I have my own little creation completed.

This is not a complete list of my capabilities or limits. Just a few examples that I’ve chosen to expand on. There is much more that is just as it was 14 months ago, and so much that has changed. I am so so different from who I was 14 months ago, and still discovering this new version of me as she changes each day. And on each of those days, I trudge along. One day at a time.