It’s been four years since my sister passed; four years since I watched cancer eat away at everything but her spirit. It had been a short battle, not even two full years, and I spent most of that time believing a miracle was possible and her body would become free from the malicious cells. And there was a period of remission during the summer after Declan was born that felt hopeful; maybe even normal. Of course, we couldn’t have known that by the time winter holidays came she would be sick again, heading back to the hospital shortly after Christmas, or that two months after that, she would be gone.
In those four years, I don’t think I’ve known what to do with my grief. It’s a complicated swirl: shame that I don’t know how to be an aunty to her son without her around; guilt that I let her imperfections get in the way of acknowledging her beauty; fear of the uncertainty of my own life and what would happen if I left my babies too soon; futility as I watch my family numb instead of heal; anger that we can’t just let go of what seems petty and insignificant. Does grief mean you cry every time you think of the person you lost? Because I don’t. Mostly, it just feels surreal that someone who was always a constant in my life is no longer physically present. Going to family events almost feels wrong because she should be there — but she’s not.
As the anniversary of her passing came and went in February, I had this little thought whispering in my mind: I should shave my head. As a way to honour her memory and battle with cancer when she lost her beautiful, long blonde hair. As a visible symbol of my grief that hasn’t passed even though time has. And maybe even as an image of rebirth, because that love isn’t gone, it just became something new. But fear stops me: What if people will think I’m just seeking attention? What if it seems insincere? What if my lack of tears or emotional response seems to others as though I’m putting on a show?
It’s taken me a long time to realize that longing to be seen by people you know, people you care about, is such a core element of human connection. But our cries often are met with disregard if the reason for crying isn’t worthy. Is it any wonder that the hardest part of my grief is not really allowing anyone into it? Is my grief worthy? I’ve only shown what I wanted others to see, and always made sure to acknowledge the sweet alongside the bitter. I put away the tears to make other people know I’m okay, because I’m not sure they’ll still be present with me if I’m not. Yet, as I numb the difficult feelings, I also numb the joyful ones.
And while that served me for a time, it’s no longer a coping strategy I want to use indiscriminately.
So when Jason asked how he can be with me in this, I sat with my heartache and asked what it needed. And my heartache asked me to remember it, acknowledge it, and embrace it, but also to speak to others about it. To share the memories of her that will always live with me: The card game we invented, how her and Nicole would dress me up and do my hair when I was little (and our younger brothers), going camping and quading almost every summer, giving each other the same CD for Christmas, dealing with the conflict of me not calling enough, hearing about the loneliness she felt out in the country. To tell Sage about the woman that first held her middle name, a woman she will only know through stories. To intentionally set aside a period of time every year to honour this new love, much like folx in Mexico celebrate Dia de los Muertos. A funeral is a piece of closure, but that can’t be the end. No matter how much time passes, I haven’t forgotten my sister, nor has my love for her been buried with the casket. It still lives in me and is important enough to be given space to be felt, spoken, and witnessed.
