Sibling Loss
By Amie McBye (Social Media Volunteer & Grief Cafe Attendee) Ever since reading Jason Hazeley’s article earlier this year on the loss of his sister, I’ve wanted to write about siblings and how special and unique the bond is. I also wanted to touch on how tough it is to go through sibling loss. When I read the words in the article, it stopped me in my tracks. He had it right and pretty much perfect with what he said. It was so beautifully written and I agreed with every word. I did wonder what I could add. But I have been thinking about it – endless thinking time is a byproduct of losing someone you love – and while a loss seems clear, I think the connection you have with a sibling doesn’t have to be lost or end. In fact, while one of you is still here, that bond can’t truly end. When my second sister died in 2023, I felt as if someone had cut off one of my limbs. Six months later my brother died, and it was as though I had been stabbed in the heart. I was completely shell-shocked. How could this be my reality? How was I supposed to just keep going, walking, talking and continuing like life somehow had to go on? I’ve been thinking about my brother and how he must have felt when our first sister died when they were both in their 20s; I was only 9. All the questions that would have gone through his mind, some the same, some different to mine: Why did she die? Why did this have to happen? Why so young and why now? She was amazing and is now just suddenly gone. How are we supposed to go on without her? Almost an endless mind full of ever expanding questions. It was beyond devastating and my family continued with great difficulty, forever pained at her sudden, unexpected and the inexplicable removal from our happy family. I was bereft at losing my super fun big sister. I had spent so much time with her, following her around, full of admiration at her coolness, kindness and beauty. I often wonder what it would have been like to have her as a sister when we were both adults – to travel with, meet for a cuppa or go to a concert with. To phone her up for wise advise, her thoughts on potential boyfriends or who is popular in music. Though my second, much older sister and I didn’t grow up together, the particular bond you have, of growing up with the same parents, the same siblings, the same food cooked by the same people always binds you and she always made sense to me. All three of them were quite similar – genuinely kind, caring, fun well liked and music-loving people. My brother, in some ways crossed a lot of experiences that I didn’t have with my sisters. I was born 13 years after him but we grew up together in the same house with him being around for my childhood and me becoming an adult. We went to concerts, football matches and tennis matches. We watched some of the same films and listened to many of the same albums together. Football is particularly strange without him as he bought me my first Liverpool FC shirt when I was 7 years old (my older sisters were not into football so it’s interesting that he must of thought it was worth trying to get his little sister into liking it). Perhaps it’s something that he thought we could have in common. And we did, for over 30 years. All those matches, won and lost; goals, for and against; finals, some won, some despairingly lost. The nights away, the shared hotel rooms, meals together, songs sung collectively with others. We had that experience together. Of course I can watch matches with other people or solo, but the experience with my brother is missed because it comes with a shared history that no one else can have. We loved and watched the Only Fools and Horses Christmas special The Jolly Boys’ Outing (1989) and the Eddie Murphy film Trading Places (1983) so many times that whenever we watched it we would take it in turns to quote lines before they were spoken. This gave us so many laughs and knowing looks that only we could share. He loved Only Fools and Horses and I, without a doubt, inherited that from him. In many ways, we were our own version of Del and Rodney, one much older and different in many ways but still making complete sense to each other. There will always be unanswered questions, conversations that I can no longer have (I didn’t get to ask him if he wanted to go to the cup game against West Ham that December) and memories I’m trying to keep hold of. Those perfect, shared moments that only we knew and understood, never needing to explain, just getting it with a wry smile or a nod. Last New Year’s when I watched Trading Places with my partner, I wondered how it would feel. I expected to feel emptiness and the loss underneath my skin, with each line we used to quote. Instead, it surprised me to feel a warmth filling up inside, like my brother was there with me. Maybe after all, you simply cannot break the sibling bond. Related articles: Actress Riley Keough talks about the loss of her brother, mum and grandfather on this podcast. Elli Wood talks about how singing helped with her sister’s death in this BBC article.
Grief: 11 lessons in 11 years
By Alex (Grief Cafe Attendee) Alex recently joined one of our Grief Cafés and has kindly shared this personal and powerful blog with us. In it, she reflects on the 11 lessons she’s learned in the 11 years since her mum died — her only parent. If you’d like to read more of Alex’s writing, she shares her experiences in The Adult Orphan Blog.
A moment that changed me: I went to a Death Cafe
Are you afraid of dying, or are you afraid of not living?” Last year, I was sitting in a circle of strangers – half Buddhist monks, half morbidly curious members of the public – when someone asked one of the most profound questions I had ever heard. I was at a “death cafe”, at my local Buddhist centre in south London. A plate of biscuits was passed around while people nursed mugs of hot tea. At 29, I was one of the youngest attending the informal chat about death and dying, which was part of an initiative to encourage more open conversations about the ends of our lives. You can read the full Guardian article here.
I Can See Things Clearer: Occasions Without Loved Ones.
By Amie McBye (Social Media Volunteer & Grief Cafe Attendee) Occasions can be strange without loved ones. This past Christmas there was a gaping hole where my brother used to be for me and my mum. It wasn’t as bewildering as the previous December when I had to visit the mortuary and register his death whilst people were Christmas shopping. I felt like I had come from another planet and, at that time, could not relate to anything in the world. Christmas is presented as a time with loved ones, but it is now also a reminder that my sisters, dad, and now brother are no longer here. Occasions look different now. This February, I celebrated my birthday with a trip to Iceland with friend. I’d always wanted to go and thought there was no time like the present. Due to adverse weather in Iceland that week, a couple of our planned tours did not go ahead and my friend was really upset by this. But what was so interesting for me was that I didn’t feel the same – I didn’t even feel that disappointed to be honest. A little while ago, I was talking with a wonderful friend of my mine (who I’d met at my first Grief Cafe) about how things can look a lot clearer after loss. You see people, experiences, pain, joy – everything – differently, like the focus on a camera or the lens during an eye test at an opticians. You thought things were clear until you get shown a clearer view that you never knew existed. Life can change in an instant, and things that once may have been annoying or stressful do not have the same impact anymore. This may not be understandable to those who have not gone through such life changing events. My previous birthday was four days after my brother’s funeral and it was so strange and surreal. Needless to say, I was not feeling happiness then. I didn’t really feel anything. But equally, now, any joy is magnified. How you feel is how you feel, you just have to go with it. For example, earlier this year I cried watching Madison Keys winning the Australian Open women’s singles title for the first time. People had been saying for years that she had the talent to do so but people had doubted her. Her joy at almost 30 and having got there after the struggles, doubt, hard work and ups and downs was so beautiful. I also cried because the person I wanted to share that moment with was my brother; my ally and fellow big sports fan. In that moment I really missed him and felt real pain. In Iceland, however, I felt so much joy. I had an unbelievable in-water massage at The Blue Lagoon, got caught in a hailstorm while soaking in outdoor thermal springs, and enjoyed thoughtful surprises from my partner, including a birthday playlist and gig tickets. My birthday was filled with kindness—from champagne at breakfast to a surprise wrapped pastry in a café, VIP tickets from a friend to the LAVA Show, a free cocktail, a stunning dinner at Fish Market with a special dessert and Polaroid keepsake, and a kind birthday message with Icelandic chocolates from the staff at the hotel. I felt such good will and positivity from the people of Iceland. And all that in 3 nights – I was so far from disappointed. I actually felt internally very happy. Returning home, I cheered in the street as my team Liverpool FC scored their 3rd and 4th goal in the League Cup semi final. Another joyful moment for my birthday week. Another final without my brother. He would have been thrilled. I am grateful to be here seeing things so very clearly. I couldn’t ask for any more than that. So, birthdays, Christmas, occasions – there are no rules. ‘You don’t have to do nothing’ but you don’t have to do anything either. Related articles: Experiencing occasions without loved ones – the Guardian A change in perspective after loss – The BBC
Me Without You
By Amie McBye (Social Media Volunteer & Grief Cafe Attendee) “Sometimes I still find myself in shock, because grief is like waves. Sometimes I’m like, I’m okay, I can function, I can take my kids to school, I feel like I can be involved in my life. And then some days, I’m like, woah, he is never coming back.” Shannon Abloh (Virgil Abloh Foundation) talking to Vogue Australia in 2023 about her late husband, the influential fashion designer Virgil Abloh I know what she means. A therapist told me I was in denial about losing my brother, but respectfully, I know she was wrong. She didn’t understand – I was simply in shock. It was sudden, unexpected and too much to take in. How could it be true? When I was born, a small, three-month-premature baby, my brother was 13 years old and already established as a big lover of Liverpool Football Club, sports, and Run-DMC. He was always there, even when we argued, and he drove me mad. He was like a protective shield; always walking me to the train station after I would visit. Always walking on the inside, he insisted, closer to the road just in case, which made me laugh. He was always my big brother and I was always his little sister. A world where he is not around is a strange place and in some ways, does not make sense. I don’t know if it ever will, at least not in the same way. There is an empty space in my life where he used to be. It’s like the narrative of how life is supposed to be has malfunctioned. Not quite right. There is a particular kind of isolation that comes from losing someone and I don’t think that I have ever felt as alone as I did in that moment that I found out he was gone. The Grief Cafe came along for me at the right moment and I found out about it by accident, from the East of Eden email newsletter (I do Pilates there). The Pilates was the only time I had for myself amongst death admin and trying to make sense of how things were now. But at a time when I felt alone, isolated and a bit of a mess, I felt grateful to have gone alone to a Grief Cafe. Even though I didn’t know what to expect and was nervous, once there I felt like I was speaking a language that people understood. It was a relief. I mean, there is not even a pressure to talk at all. Generally day to day, I felt like an alien and very vulnerable all the time, but it was different there. It wasn’t about finding answers, but having a space to be where I was. Everyone there has lost someone (or people), they were always kind to me and listened every time that I have been to one. The thing is, the people that know you are used to how you are ordinarily. But losing someone can shake your foundations and change you and people can’t always cope with you not being as you were. It’s what they know and how they are used to you. Change is hard and scary, especially when your life fells like it’s not as you know it anymore. The world can go from technicolour to grey in a blink of an eye. Sometimes often multiple times during one day. It’s hard to explain this, so I found it so heartening to not have to. Having been to a few sessions now, I know that it is okay to be exactly how I am when I go to a Grief Cafe. Plus I always feel better when I go to one. And that helps.