Today’s Grief
My sister was born 24 years ago today. I don’t really remember anything about the day she was born; I was 3 years old.
Then, 23 years and about 8 months ago, she died of leukemia. We didn’t know she had cancer — the disease spreads so quickly in an infant, her cells already dividing so fast — until she was gone. I remember that day much more clearly.
I don’t have anything clever or profound to say.
Today, like every other July 30, I’m sad. Sad that we didn’t get more time together. Sad that I’ll never know what kind of person she would have been. Sad that I never saw her grow up into an amazing young woman.
But today I’m also sad because I know how many other families are experiencing this kind of profound pain. We’re united on this journey of loneliness and heartache. I’d like to say that it gets better — and in some ways, it does — but it’s been 23 years and 8 months, and I’m still sad. You will be too.
I have some peace knowing my sister’s death was likely unavoidable. Everyone involved, from my parents to her doctors, did everything they could to keep her with us. I can’t begin to imagine the pain of losing a loved one to this pandemic.
I think a lot about Barbara Kingsolver’s Poisonwood Bible, a book literally about the loss of a sister. The “bleak anniversary” of her sister’s death falls on a day of national mourning for a heroic president. I am mourning a sister while millions of people mourn their sisters and brothers and parents and friends and loved ones, while we mourn John Lewis, currently lying in state.
I am mourning a sister while tropical storms rage in the Atlantic, a pandemic ravages our country, we protest for Black lives, and a rocket carries a tiny rover to Mars. Life goes on.
My grief on this day feels small, silly, distant. It seems strange to talk about my grief when so many others are suffering and the world is so large. But that’s what grief is. We feel it, no matter the circumstances.
We can mourn and we can celebrate and we can go about our days like nothing’s happened at all. Our pain is different, but it’s there. No matter how profound the darkness feels, how acute the pain, we share it.
