Grief- She’s a Sneaky B

We’re all familiar with the concept of grief. When we hear the word, our brains typically go straight to the physical loss of someone we love. And without going too deep into the many issues Western culture has when it comes to death, dying, and grief…it’s complicated.

Loss comes with a lot of emotions. Sadness, anger, guilt, confusion, and even relief at times. Sometimes all at once.

I’m no stranger to grief. Like most people who have made it into their 30s, I’ve experienced loss in different forms. In childhood, it was the death of beloved pets. In high school, a grandparent.

But the one that rocked me was losing my brother when I was in my late twenties.

He was my older brother, so technically, I always knew the odds of me outliving him were “in my favor.” But I expected that to happen when we were old. When we had kids and grandkids and decades of full lives behind us.

I didn’t expect to lose him when he was in his early 30s.

It’s been five years now, and the “big days” still hurt like hell. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. The days you circle on the calendar and know might be hard.

But what I’ve found is that sometimes the worst grief days aren’t the ones you see coming.

They’re the sneaky ones.

The land-mine days.

The days when you’re living your life, not a care in the world, and then your three-year-old hits you with, “What happened to your brother?”

Or you catch his birthday on the microwave clock and suddenly your stomach drops.

One grief land mine I really wasn’t expecting came when I reached the age my brother was when he died.

He’s my older brother.

How could I possibly be older than he ever got to be?

The day I realized that I had officially lived longer than he did was a gut punch. It brought back emotions I hadn’t felt that intensely since the day I heard the news.

But it’s been five years.

I should be over it by now, right?

My bereavement days ended a week after he died. The rest of the world kept moving. And somewhere along the way, society seemed to decide that one year was the magic number. You make it through the “year of firsts” the first birthday, first Christmas, first anniversary… and then you’re supposed to be…what? Done?

Grief doesn’t work like that.

It doesn’t check the calendar before showing up. It doesn’t care how many years have passed or how much therapy you’ve done or how happy your life is now.

Sometimes grief announces itself weeks in advance.

And sometimes she’s sneaky, waiting until you’re standing in your kitchen, glancing at the microwave, before reminding you just how much you still love someone who isn’t here anymore.