After I lost my sister, I was overwhelmed by grief. Then, a close encounter with Oregon’s Rogue River brought me back to life again.
Is the end of a life the end of the story?
After my sister died from her battle with cystic fibrosis, I climbed from moment to moment, hand over hand, as if up a slippery wet rope, from the bottom of a dark well, toward a vague light that some days I only half-heartedly aspired to. Some days I slipped back again, almost to the depths. Then, with cold, raw hands, I began once more to climb.
I had no hunger. I ate dark chocolate, smoked mentholated cigarettes, and drank more cheap red wine than was good for me. I sat wide awake in the middle of the night without the lights on. I wanted to learn how to breathe without weeping.
I had no words then, for my grief, but I do now. Still, they are only words for the memory of it.
Grief weighed heavily. I sighed deeply, compulsively, constantly, but I couldn’t relieve the pressure that felt like an axe in the middle of my chest. Electric currents buzzed through my heart. My eyelids burned red hot. I wanted to close them. I wanted the world to go away, the traffic sounds and the stray voices of people on the street; I wanted it all to simply melt away. Fatigue overtook me. I didn’t have the energy to stand up, or even to sit, but I couldn’t lie down because it was like being drunk, when laying down makes it worse. I closed my eyes and everything spun. I was dizzy with sorrow.
Tears betrayed me at will.
I underestimated the anger grief clutches in its gnarly fist. Everyone on the street made me mad, just because they were there. They were walking along, laughing, and my sister wasn’t, and these people didn’t know and couldn’t care less. I wanted to shout at them, and sometimes, I did.
Grief emptied my marriage of what little there was left. My husband found someone else. Of course, I should have seen it coming.
My body reduced itself to a stick drawing. I slept for hours, waking only to cry or to watch Soap Operas on TV. One day I saw blueberries on sale and remembered how Pam had loved them, and thought how I would probably have baked a nice cobbler if only there was somebody there to make it for. Then I asked myself if I was somebody. I bought the blueberries, made a huge dessert, and ate the whole thing myself.
