“No parent should ever have to bury a child.” It’s an expression of grief that I’m sure you’ve heard before, and one that’s often echoed when someone dies younger than expected.
It’s a phrase I heard a lot in 2015. My brother, Steve, had just passed away from his second battle with esophageal cancer. He was a surgeon, former collegiate athlete, and newlywed with the terrible misfortune of chronic acid reflux that eventually led to a deadly diagnosis. He was a bright spot in many lives, with an uncanny ability to light up any room he walked into. He was 33 years old. His whole life was ahead of him. He died surrounded by family, with his one-month-old daughter nestled into his arms.
The world knows no greater heartbreak.
And yet, “No parent should ever have to bury a child.” But what about the grief felt by siblings?
I heard this phrase a thousand times as my family floated through that misty haze of grief. Mourners, perhaps at a loss for words, perhaps searching for something to say that would both resonate and show empathy, would come up to someone in my family one after another, opening their arms to what was no doubt, a mere shell of a human, to share that sentiment between syncopated sobs.
I simply nodded in agreement, as the tears rolled down my own cheeks, at a total loss for words myself. Because they’re right, no parent should ever have to bury a child.
As a new mother, I can’t even imagine the pain. Unlike my parents, I wasn’t there for Steve’s first steps or his first words. I didn’t get to rock him to sleep in my arms, gently humming his favorite lullaby. I missed all the early milestones. I don’t remember his first love or his first major heartache. I didn’t assemble his baby book, or meticulously plan parties for everything from birthdays to his baptism, to graduation. I wasn’t here to soothe his fears, or watch with pride as his dreams came true right before my very eyes. I never got the privilege of being his whole world or having him be mine.
No, I cannot even begin to fathom the depths of a parent’s pain after losing a child, nor would I ever want to.
But I am well aware of my own grief.
I almost feel guilty saying it. Grief isn’t a contest. It’s not a race to be won. There really is no comparison between one person’s pain and another. Even still, I can’t help but feeling like sibling survivors are the forgotten grievers.
We aren’t viewed as being on the front lines of grief, in the same way a parent or spouse is, and yet, our loss is no less profound. We find ourselves in the proverbial no man’s land of mourning; members of some secret society we never ever wanted to be a part of, where the cost of membership is excruciatingly high.
No, I wasn’t there for his first steps, but I walked side by side with him in our neighborhood Fourth of July parade, streamers flapping in the wind, under a canopy of candy being thrown by other parents as we cruised down the street. I passed him in the hallways from elementary school to college, always feeling infinitely cooler when he tilted his head back in acknowledgment.
I wasn’t there for his first words, but I can tell you I hung on to every one of his. When he told me there were monsters in the basement and the only way to keep me safe was for me to hide in my toy chest (for hours mind you), I did it, because who wanted to risk it with monsters in the house?
I didn’t sing him lullabies, but some of my fondest memories from my teenage years, can be traced back to the passenger seat of his car; two siblings who couldn’t have been any more different in real life, now united by music, belting out Tom Petty or Dierks Bentley, or any of a thousand other artists in the binder of CDs he kept in his car.
I think back to family vacations and Sunday night dinners, school dances, and concerts. I think of never-ending games of flashlight tag in the neighborhood, and the top-secret clubhouse in the backyard, complete with sign-in sheets, meeting minutes, and our own secret handshake. I think of birthday parties and carnivals; the laughter, the fights, the tears, the growing pains. I think of my 21st birthday party, and how he was the first in line to buy me a shot, scarring my tastebuds for life, as the remnants of that Three Wisemen lingered in my mouth. I think of all the time spent cheering him on in hockey rinks, or splashing together in the waves of Lake Michigan or the Pacific Ocean, or dancing the night away in bars from Detroit to Grand Rapids. Siblings are so deeply entwined in so many of our oldest and fondest memories, it’s impossible to ever imagine a life without them.
My heart aches in pain for what was, but perhaps more so, for what will never be.
My brother never got to meet my husband. A framed photo and a ridiculously-colored pair of sneakers stood at my wedding, in the spot where he should have been. He missed the birth of my daughter, the biggest miracle of miracles. He won’t be there to watch her grow alongside his own daughter, or watch them play, laugh or have sleepovers. He’ll miss their birthday parties and graduations. He won’t be there to dance at their weddings or walk his daughter down the aisle. He never got to play Santa or the Tooth Fairy. He’ll miss more holidays than he was on Earth for. He’ll miss watching his own parents grow old; miss being able to care for them in the same way they cared for him. I won’t get to have him over for dinner or call him just because. An integral part of my life now missing, in a way that can never be replaced, because there is absolutely no substitute.
The sibling relationship is profoundly unique. They’ll know you longer than anyone else in your life, longer than your spouse, best friends, children, parents. They know the secrets of your past and can see the promise of your future. They know your roots, your story, your background. They’ve witnessed your transformations and your growth. Nobody knows you quite like a sibling does.
I’m not sad for the life my brother lived, I’m heartbroken for the life he’ll never get to; for even the happiest of moments and celebrations are tinged with a sense of loss, and an overwhelming sense of incompleteness. One person is always missing, leaving a void that can never be filled. Sibling loss is now part of the very fiber of my being. It is impossible for me to celebrate what is, without simultaneously mourning what was, or what could have been. Every corner, every moment touched by loss, in a way I don’t think is as easy for someone to understand, as a parent’s loss of a child.
Yes, no parent should ever have to bury a child, but the ripples of grief extend so much farther than that.
To the forgotten grievers,
the silent mourners,
those grappling privately with pain.
To the siblings, grandparents, cousins, co-workers, and neighbors…
Each ripple just as significant as the last;
Each loss just as devastating.
Ripples, that turn to waves, and change the tide of grief as we know it.
To each and every one of you, I am so very sorry for your loss.
