The Burden of Grief - Letters from Readers

 I'm starting to get regular letters from readers in my email inbox - which is how I prefer to get them.    If you want to write to me, please do so - HERE.  I do try to respond to most of my letters, but sometimes I get behind. So please be patient. 

In 2023, I'm going to start a Letters from Readers series.  I want to hear the stories of how you may have experienced loss - and I enjoy hearing from my readers even if they just want to say hello.   But I've been getting so many lately that I'm going to start sharing them here (as permission is granted by the original sender, of course).   Today's post is one such letter, and it comes from a lovely lady whose name I have changed to Cassandra.   I've changed the names of other people in her letter, as well, so as not to disclose anything private, as per her request. 

She writes to me about the recent loss of her sister Catherine to breast cancer at the age of 53.    Cassandra is older than Catherine, and seemingly has occupied the role of "big sis protector" in the family pecking order, as it were. I do not personally have siblings, and so I cannot empathize with Cassandra's loss, but others of you may be able to.    In her letter, Cassandra tells me of her feelings of great loss, but also great guilt, because she feels as if she should have been able to take better care of her sister; should have somehow seen it coming. 

My response, Cassandra, is this:   There is no fault or blame to the rhythms of life. Even when there seems to be, there is not.    The cycles of life pulse to a beat all their own, and we are sometimes only small notes of music within their rhythms.   This is their beauty. This is their ugliness.  No care for your sister would have prevented her cancer.  No work from your hands would have prevented her biomechanical death.   You were as good as any sister could be - and I'm certain she feels your love even now, when she has passed beyond your tangible reach. This is why memory is so important.   

Memories are our key to reigniting the fires of lives that have
passed on beyond the veil. In remembering, we re-member. 

Memory is a way our consciousness slowly unwinds its burden of grief.  When first we lose the sight/touch/smell/sound of someone we love so much, the loss leaves behind a gaping hole, and we are desperate to fill it.   It is a natural response to the deficit our finite tactile senses feel.  But this is where we must be careful - because our senses can (and do) deceive us.    That is why memory is critical here, because memory is the voluntary recall by you of the dispensation of your sister's life here, and it requires your participation and engagement to keep its course.    

Many times, our response to grief is to try to force ourselves not to think of our loved ones, or to occupy ourselves with something else.   These, too, are often necessary tools to keep us from succumbing to the bowels of sadness.   But they also sometimes prolong the process of grief, or perpetuate it, so that we are never able to transition to celebration from sadness.  My advice, then, is to embrace your sister - remember her for all that she has done and for who she has been - but also remember that she did not end. Her story did not end with her physical death.   She is still your sister!  Speak of her in the present tense, remember all her adventures, because in remembering her, you are quite literally  re-membering her, putting her back together, in a sense.   This is your role - to understand that your grief is not caused by the loss of her, but by the love you have for her, and that love needs only be transferred. 

My dear Cassandra, it is my hope that you - and anyone who is reading this who is experiencing their first holiday here in the West without the presence of a cherished family member - will remember your loved one - that you will piece them back together in your mind, so that you can relive all the experiences you have had with them, and also understand that while you are still here now, they have moved on to other experiences.  

Perhaps one day you will get to share those experiences with them, as well.