Three weeks after my brother died, a snowstorm barreled down the East Coast. In preparation for the storm and in the time-honored New England Tradition, I headed out to the grocery store for bread and milk.
It was the first time I had been anywhere that wasn’t home or work since his death. The store looked exactly as it had three weeks earlier, but it felt utterly different — the way your own house feels different when you come home from vacation. As I stood in line with a dozen or so of my neighbors, much to my horror, I felt the tears coming.
I tried think about something else, but I knew it would do little to stem the wave of impending tears. The ambush of grief was becoming sadly familiar to me now. The tears came without warning: When I was driving to work, taking a shower, loading the dishwasher. This the first time since my brother’s death that I had been around people who did not know. Perhaps that was the trigger? I had no idea. I just knew I needed to get out of that store immediately.
It was then that Mary Beth saw me.
The conversation
Mary Beth is not her real name, but every grieving sibling has a Mary Beth. She wheeled her cart up beside mine, smiled the smile of someone who has just thought of something mildly amusing, and said in a tone that managed to make me feel guilty: “Well, where have you been?”
I hesitated. What should I say? The small voice inside me warned me not to tell her about VJay’s death, but I ignored it. The words came out almost on their own. “My brother passed away three weeks ago. It’s been rough.”
What happened next is something nearly every grieving sibling will recognize. She stiffened and seemed almost annoyed that I should spoil her shopping run with my bad news. And then, in the space of perhaps ninety seconds, she said almost every wrong thing it is possible to say to any bereaved person.
With considerable certainty she told me he was in a better place and that everything happens for a reason. She told me about her cousin’s husband’s sister, who had also died. She told me that at least I still had my parents and that I should be strong for my mother and that time heals. I stood there, holding a jug of milk that was beginning to sweat onto my glove. I nodded, and I said thank you, because that is what I was taught to do. In truth, I was so angry I wanted to slap her.
I cried the entire way home.
Why people fail us
I have spent the better part of two decades trying to understand why people we love — neighbors, friends, even family — so often fail us in the weeks and months after a sibling dies. I have concluded that, at least in the US, most people do not know how to mourn much less offer consolation to other. Our culture moves at lightning speed, as we scroll through life, jumping from one thing to another. And, in American culture, there is a kind of unspoken timetable for sorrow — generally, about four to six weeks. After that, most people expect you to be back to your old self, to get over it. The message is clear: That was sad. We are sorry. Now please, for everyone’s sake, move on.
We surviving siblings quickly learn that here is a hierarchy of grief in our culture, and we are not at the top of it. When a sibling dies, condolences flow first to the parents, and then to the spouse, and then to the children, but we are instead often handed tasks. Take care of your mother. Help your sister-in-law. Be strong for the kids. We are overlooked in the pecking order of grief, often struggling alone and made to feel that our loss is somehow secondary. Psychologists call this “disenfranchised loss” which, in simple terms means that society does not consider our grief as legitimate. The grief is real. The recognition is not.
What people say (and what to make of it)
Most of the worst things people say to grieving siblings are not said with any malice. They are said because the person speaking is likely uncomfortable and they feel as if they should say something. And, so they repeat condolences they hope will comfort you: God needed another angel. Everything happens for a reason. At least you had him as long as you did. These sentences are not meant to wound, but often, they shut down the uncomfortable conversation.
And that is precisely why they hurt.
Worse still is silence. The “I-just-didn’t-know-what-to-say” excuse, has its limits. Any adult who uses it as a reason for not calling, not visiting, not showing up at all, is perhaps the most hurtful. But for the well-meaning Mary Beths of the world, who fumble badly precisely because they are trying, you can perhaps offer them a bit of grace.
What actually helps
If you are reading this as a surviving sibling, here is what I have learned about protecting yourself from the conversations that drain you:
Trust your Voice Within. If something inside you warns you not to share the details of your loss, don’t. You do not owe your grief to anyone who has not earned it. A polite, vague answer is not a lie; it is a boundary.
Curate your inner circle. Find one or two people — and they may not be the people you expect — who can sit with you in your grief without trying to fix it. Another surviving sibling, a friend who has known sorrow, a chaplain, a therapist, an online sibling-grief community. These are your safe houses. Spend your honesty there.
Don’t audition new people for the inner circle while you’re hurting. This is a hard-won lesson. People you thought would show up sometimes won’t. People you barely know sometimes will. Note who shows up. Do not waste your strength on people who don’t.
Be ready for the grocery-store moment. It will happen. Someone you have not seen in a year will appear in the cereal aisle and say something thoughtless, and you will leave shaking. Have a sentence ready — thanks, that’s kind, take care — and use it without guilt. Save the real conversation for the people who care.
If you are reading this as a friend or family member of a surviving sibling: please understand that we do not need you to fix anything. We need you to say his or her name. We need you to ask how we are, not just how our parents are. We need you to text us six months later, when everyone else has stopped asking. We need you to be willing to be uncomfortable for a few minutes, because we are uncomfortable for years. Sometimes, we need to just talk about our loss. Be patient with us. We are struggling. Be grateful you are not standing in our shoes.
You don’t need the right words. Ask about our sibling. Listen to us when we tell a random story. Tell us you care and that you are there. But most of all, understand that grief moves slowly. Be patient with us.
