My sister broke her arm when she was 11. I was about 5 or 6 at the time and I remember this time clearly because it was the first time I really experienced grief.
She went to a birthday party and broke her arm on the trampoline but we didn’t know until she got dropped home after the party. I will never forget watching her get out of the car and stumble up our driveway, clearly in a huge amount of pain. Mum rushed out and kind of caught her as she stumbled. I watched through our loungeroom window as the mother who dropped her off just reversed out and drove off. It was the early 80’s so things were different then.
Anyway my sister ended up in hospital having her arm reattached as she basically broke it in two pieces, and then she ended up in ICU because she vomited while under the anaesthetic. It was all spoken about in hushed tones and I got the vibe that it was pretty serious but my mind kept going back to that visual of her stumbling up the driveway and that car just driving off.
When my sister came home she got a kitten. It was a black and white kitten called Missy and she became my sister’s best friend. They spent every moment together while my sister recuperated at home. Her surgery had been extensive and the subsequent ICU stay meant that she was at home for quite a while and little Missy was her constant companion.
During this time I also experienced a change in my always strong sister who all of a sudden was not the same. The accident had rattled her and she was quiet and withdrawn. She spent a lot of time by herself, with Missy, and did not get up to her usual mischief.
One day we came home and there was a box at our front door. Mum said Oh look it’s a delivery, but when she opened the box it was Missy. She was still and her fur looked different. My brain couldn’t register what had happened, why would someone put our cat in a box and why did she look so still? There was a note. To paraphrase it said I’m sorry I hit your cat.
What happened next was total devastation. I had never witnessed that level of pain before. I had already lost my grandmother by this stage of my life but I had been shielded from the grief of her passing so it hadn’t affected me, or touched me like this did.
It was hard for me to watch, my little brain and heart couldn’t handle the unbridled guttural growl that emanated immediately from my sister. She raced into the street and started screaming “Who is the bastard that killed my baby?” over and over again.
“Who is the bastard that killed my baby?”
It was pure anguish and heartbreak and it felt surreal. She didn’t want to be hugged, she didn’t want to be held, she didn’t want to talk about it, she was white rage and anger. It was devastating to witness.
I think of that moment often, even today more than 40 years later, and I think of myself standing there and feeling so helpless. Helpless because there is nothing you can do when someone is hurting like that. There is nothing you can say. You just have to let them grieve.
Later, when I was 14 and going through a really rough time at school, I got a kitten. He was my constant companion and I adored him. One day I was calling him back home when, as he ran towards me across the road, I watched as he got tumbled up in the wheels of the yellow car that I had not seen coming down the hill. He was only 4 months old and I cried for two weeks straight. My heart broken and filled with guilt and what ifs. What if I had looked up the hill to check if a car was coming? What if I hadn’t called him across the road, would he have crossed that road with the trust that because I called then everything was ok? I felt sick, I couldn’t eat and I had tears silently rolling down my cheeks constantly. I do not exaggerate when I say I cried every day for two weeks.
I was in pain. I also know that it was frustrating for those around me. It was decided that my time limit to grieve had expired and I should pull myself out of it. I learnt then that there is no time limit on grief. It’s also not up to others to decide how or when we mourn the loss of someone we love.
Those were my first experiences with grief. I have had many more since then, both witnessing grief and experiencing it. It doesn’t get any easier. It’s hard and it’s uncomfortable to watch. We want it to end, we want things to go back to “normal”. The thing is that it changes you forever. In particular when you experience it yourself you are forever changed. It doesn’t mean that is a bad thing. Often it means that our love for those around us grows and deepens.
I have learnt that people say and do things they wouldn’t normally do when they are in pain. It’s confusing. Some feel invincible, like nothing matters anymore. Some take it out on those closest to them as they can’t rationalise the way they feel. It’s ok to just feel. It’s ok to be angry and feel mislead by life. If other people feel uncomfortable with your pain then it’s ok for them to distance themselves because not everyone is at the same stage or coping level.
I hate it. I feel resentful that my mum was taken from us when my kids were so little. I hate that their first experience with grief was witnessing my grief at her passing and also their own grief, as they had loved her so much and still do.
I wish it was something we didn’t have to experience and I wish I could shield my kids from it but I can’t. So here we are, fully alive and witnesses to the love and loss of those around us. Hyper aware of how tenuous our existence is. We can choose to either embrace that and dive straight in or throw ourselves under a blanket and deny it. I’m choosing living and all the pain, anger, and confusion that goes with it.
