Sometimes, it just hits. A wave of grief so overwhelming, it's hard to figure out where the next breath is going to come from. How that feeling of your gut just being ripped from your body is ever going to go away. That happened to me on Thursday. It happened again tonight.
Ever since my brother died, whenever a family I know, or feel any kind of strong connection to, loses a child to death, I'm overwhelmed with grief. Not only is it a bit of a grief trigger for me, but I also feel overwhelmed for that family. I know the hell they have ahead of them. I know the path they have to walk is often dark, cold, and hard. And my burden for them is so heavy, I can barely breathe.
Thursday, I found out that 19 year old Rachel McCrary- a lifelong friend of my friend Mandi, and about whom I have heard stories and received countless pictures of her during Mandi's and my days of snail mail correspondence- had died suddenly, in a car accident. While I have never met the McCrarys, I feel like I have. I feel like I've known them. And my heart aches for them and their loss, and what that means for them, the rest of their lives.
When I got the news, I had just gotten out of a dental appointment. I was so stunned and overwhelmed by an indescribable wave of emotions, I couldn't go home. So I wandered. I walked through various stores, looking a little at some furniture options, but mostly, trying to just keep moving. If I didn't, I'd collapse. I'd fall apart. And later that day, I did.
I was explaining things to my guy, and suddenly, I was in tears. He asked me what I was thinking, and I barely managed to get out, "I miss my brother," before ending up in sobs. Grief is a funny thing. For a long time, it's all you can think about. Then life starts to go back to normal. Years can pass with little more than a few pangs of conscious pain. Then something happens, and the loss is once again more than a soul can bear. As I sobbed, effectively giving my guy a salt water shower he didn't need while he held me, it felt as though the loss was brand new.
And in a way, it is.
Grief is a lifelong process. Even long after we manage to adjust to living life without someone, we experience things that make us grieve a long ago loss as a present loss. Because it is. I remember grieving my brother at my college graduation. He would have been so incredibly proud. And again at my grad school graduation. And and our cousin Jason's wedding.
The past ten and a half months, I've been grieving my brother in a new way. More than any other time in my life, I have needed him in the last almost year. I'm not going to deny that I have had an amazing support system. I have had people step up for me in ways that quite literally saved my life. And I'm so grateful. I really am. But I needed my big brother. He'd be 42 now. And he would have been here for me, arms wide open. He always adored me. He wanted so much for me.
Thursday night, as I talked to my guy about Rachel, and about how hard things like this are for me, I felt so overwhelmed by my loss. And tonight, I got home from hanging out with Mandi and Jim, who just returned home from Rachel's funeral, and it hit me again. Today is May 16th. On the 28th, my brother will have been gone 23 years. I climbed in bed and the tears again overwhelmed me. I write this through blurry, tear-filled eyes. I stop every couple minutes as it all overtakes me.
The thing no one really tells you about loss is that it's not a one-time thing that occasionally makes you sad throughout the years. My loss didn't begin and end on May 28, 1993. It began there, but it continues. Every day. The last almost year now, aside from all the other huge changes and losses that have come so close to killing me, I have lost my brother. I lost his presence at my graduations. I lost his presence when I was trying to survive. I lose his presence now. My ability to call him in tears and have him tell me I can do it. That everything is going to be okay.
My loss isn't almost 23 years old. It's almost 23 years long. And I have to say, realizing that and dealing with it takes one hell of a lot of courage.
Ever since my brother died, whenever a family I know, or feel any kind of strong connection to, loses a child to death, I'm overwhelmed with grief. Not only is it a bit of a grief trigger for me, but I also feel overwhelmed for that family. I know the hell they have ahead of them. I know the path they have to walk is often dark, cold, and hard. And my burden for them is so heavy, I can barely breathe.
Thursday, I found out that 19 year old Rachel McCrary- a lifelong friend of my friend Mandi, and about whom I have heard stories and received countless pictures of her during Mandi's and my days of snail mail correspondence- had died suddenly, in a car accident. While I have never met the McCrarys, I feel like I have. I feel like I've known them. And my heart aches for them and their loss, and what that means for them, the rest of their lives.
When I got the news, I had just gotten out of a dental appointment. I was so stunned and overwhelmed by an indescribable wave of emotions, I couldn't go home. So I wandered. I walked through various stores, looking a little at some furniture options, but mostly, trying to just keep moving. If I didn't, I'd collapse. I'd fall apart. And later that day, I did.
I was explaining things to my guy, and suddenly, I was in tears. He asked me what I was thinking, and I barely managed to get out, "I miss my brother," before ending up in sobs. Grief is a funny thing. For a long time, it's all you can think about. Then life starts to go back to normal. Years can pass with little more than a few pangs of conscious pain. Then something happens, and the loss is once again more than a soul can bear. As I sobbed, effectively giving my guy a salt water shower he didn't need while he held me, it felt as though the loss was brand new.
And in a way, it is.
Grief is a lifelong process. Even long after we manage to adjust to living life without someone, we experience things that make us grieve a long ago loss as a present loss. Because it is. I remember grieving my brother at my college graduation. He would have been so incredibly proud. And again at my grad school graduation. And and our cousin Jason's wedding.
The past ten and a half months, I've been grieving my brother in a new way. More than any other time in my life, I have needed him in the last almost year. I'm not going to deny that I have had an amazing support system. I have had people step up for me in ways that quite literally saved my life. And I'm so grateful. I really am. But I needed my big brother. He'd be 42 now. And he would have been here for me, arms wide open. He always adored me. He wanted so much for me.
Thursday night, as I talked to my guy about Rachel, and about how hard things like this are for me, I felt so overwhelmed by my loss. And tonight, I got home from hanging out with Mandi and Jim, who just returned home from Rachel's funeral, and it hit me again. Today is May 16th. On the 28th, my brother will have been gone 23 years. I climbed in bed and the tears again overwhelmed me. I write this through blurry, tear-filled eyes. I stop every couple minutes as it all overtakes me.
The thing no one really tells you about loss is that it's not a one-time thing that occasionally makes you sad throughout the years. My loss didn't begin and end on May 28, 1993. It began there, but it continues. Every day. The last almost year now, aside from all the other huge changes and losses that have come so close to killing me, I have lost my brother. I lost his presence at my graduations. I lost his presence when I was trying to survive. I lose his presence now. My ability to call him in tears and have him tell me I can do it. That everything is going to be okay.
My loss isn't almost 23 years old. It's almost 23 years long. And I have to say, realizing that and dealing with it takes one hell of a lot of courage.
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