Monday Mournings: The Death of a Sister

Susan Oloier, author and writer; mother and wife. In my previous life I was a third grade teacher and Reading Specialist until my husband and I decided to quit our jobs, sell our house, and buy an RV to travel the U.S. for a year with our then two-year-old son. Now I write and take care of my kiddos. I was raised in the Midwest, lived in Phoenix for quite some time, and now reside in SW CO.

DW: Who was the person who died?

Susan: My sister-in-law, Sara. Her death last year dealt a devastating blow.

DW: How old were you at the time?

Susan: Early 40s.

DW: How old was the person?

Susan: 36

DW:Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

Susan: It was sudden and tragic. Sara was driving home from work, and there was a horrible car accident. No one else was involved. Somehow, she wound up hitting a concrete light pole. I believe they had to use the jaws of life to extricate her. She was taken to the hospital with countless injuries. I can still picture her lying there—so much herself, yet so very different. She never did wake up, so my brother was faced with some extremely difficult decisions. To this day, no one knows what happened.

DW: Did you and Sara ever talk about death?

Susan: We never really talked about her death. Though, I would occasionally bring up the life-limiting diagnosis of my younger son with her. She was so warm and loving with him; very compassionate.

DW: Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before this person died?

Susan: Yes. Many. Family pets (don’t laugh), all of my grandparents, aunts and uncles, two miscarriages, a close friend to cancer, and way too many children of other families who had children with Trisomy 18—my son’s diagnosis. In fact, after Zane was born, we were told to expect him to die within a few months. So death seemingly has been a companion lately.

DW: Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving?

Susan: I found people to be very supportive. There was a lot of family around after Sara’s death. But everyone was really in shock. I helped my brother and Sara’s parents plan out the memorial, and I helped officiate. So, in addition to grieving, I found myself in the role of supporting my brother’s grief, as well.

DW: Is there anything you wish you’d done differently with Sara?

Susan: I wish I would have reached out to her more, gotten to know her better. We were just coming to a point where we were feeling so much like sisters. So many times I get caught up in the minutiae of life that I tend to let too much time go by between calling someone. Maybe we’re all a little guilty of this. But it will always be my regret with Sara. I wish I could tell her how much she meant to me. But somehow, I believe she already knows that.

DW: Was she buried or cremated?

Susan: She was cremated.

DW: Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share?

Susan: I believe grieving is a life-long process sometimes, especially when death is untimely. I learned this from all the babies and children who have died as a result of complications associated with Trisomy 18; I’ve learned it with Sara. One critical thing I’ve discovered is that loved ones don’t want us to forget those who have passed. So we need to keep talking about them and not be afraid of hurting those who remain by bringing up their names. They’ve already been through the worst. We need to keep them alive in spirit, in heart, and in memory. It’s when others stop asking and talking about the deceased that it becomes especially painful.

DW: I couldn't agree more. Last but not least, were any songs played at the memorial that were

important to Sara?

Susan: There’s one from Rascal Flatts that was their wedding song, but it’s still too painful to have you play that. I can picture them dancing together at the reception to it. Instead, my brother made a slideshow using In My Life by the Beatles. Listening to it (even today) brings me to tears and makes me think of the memorial. It is so very fitting, though. And Sara’s parents are huge Beatles fans.

This one goes out to Sara...

A Memorial Day Remembrance

This Monday is Memorial Day in the United States, a day to remember the men and women who died while serving in the United States Armed Forces. I have invited one of my classmates at Goucher to share her experience of burying her father at Arlington Cemetery.  Tracey Emslie has been a journalist for many (many, many) years.  She is a Navy wife and an Air Force mother.  Her Dad was an Army PFC.

Day is Done by Tracey Emslie

The Chaplain closed his book and stepped to one side. The six members of the honor guard remained immobile, holding the American flag stretched taut above the urn as soft rain dripped from the overhead canopy. It was peaceful, if you didn’t mind the hum of traffic on the other side of the niche wall.  Eight more soldiers stood at attention on the green, grassy rise to our right.  Seven of them held rifles.  One stood apart.  A crisp rifle volley cracked the quiet; three rounds of seven simultaneous shots producing the traditional twenty-one gun salute.

When the after-echo of the shots fully died away, the eighth soldier put a bugle to his lips and produced the twenty-four traditional, haunting notes of Taps, letting them drift over row upon row upon row of starkly simple, white markers inscribed with the name, rank, and dates of birth and death of those interred at Arlington National Cemetery.  Composed by Civil War General Dan Butterfield, the bugler’s soft lullaby to the setting sun—and death—may be the only truly lovely sound to come out of a war.

There are restrictions concerning who can have full burial rites at Arlington: those killed in battle, those awarded major medals, Presidents and the like top the list.  Most of the others are “inurned” in the niche wall or Columbarium.  The common link for all is significant service, but despite the elegant uniformity of the markers, all their stories are unique and often complex; like my Dad’s, for instance.

He enlisted in the army as soon as he turned eighteen.  A year later, he was driving an ambulance; a medic dodging artillery barrages in the snow and fog of the Ardennes Offensive without enough food, clothing, or medical supplies during that largest, bloodiest battle of World War II.  89,000 American casualties. 19,000 killed. He was again behind the wheel of his ambulance, 14th in line to cross the Ludendorff Bridge over the Rhine at Remarge, the 9th to arrive at the other side.  Five vehicles ahead of him were blown up, including one immediately in front of him that was being driven by a friend.  Not long after he returned from the war, his mother committed suicide and he had to identify the body.

He drove race cars.  He became a brilliant engineer.  His “doohickies” that enabled the creation of F-111 fighter jets made the cover of Aviation Weekly.Twice.  Eventually almost totally deaf, he actively welcomed social isolation.  He could drip charm when he chose, but was a supremely absent father and grandfather who managed to alienate three successive wives, any number of family members, and all of his subsequent caregivers as Alzheimer’s took its brutal toll.

After the playing of Taps, the honor guard folded the flag once, twice, then into a triangle of white stars on a blue field. It was presented on bended knee to my brother, with “appreciation from a grateful nation.”  An Arlington Lady, one of a cadre of volunteers who attend every funeral to ensure that no one is buried alone, presented a condolence card from the Secretary of the Army and his wife.  Dad’s ashes were placed in the niche wall.  I put a modern postcard from Bastogne featuring a poetic tribute from Belgian children to the Ardennes veterans alongside it. It said they were the children those who died never had. The marble cover was screwed back on.  The honor guard went on to another funeral.

We walked up the hill to pay tribute to the Tomb of the Unknowns, where a solemnly marching guard helped a group of schoolchildren lay a wreath.  On our way back down, we drew aside for seven dark, gleaming horses clip-clopping their way up the hill.  One was saddled.  Six were in harness, pulling a caisson bearing a flag-draped casket as another rifle volley and another rendering of Taps played in the distance.

Photo by Tracy Emslie

400,000 starkly plain, white gravestones.  400,000 stories; some long, some tragically short.  They perform thirty funerals a day.  There are now so many dead that there is a three to six month waiting list.

If you’d like to take part in a future Monday Mourning post and share your experience with my readers, reach out to me!

Last, but certainly not least, help me do my little part to save the USPS. I bought a TON of stamps and if you sign up for my newsletter, I will send you some swag (stickers, bookmarks and now buttons!) from my debut novel Forever 51.

Monday Mournings: The Death of a Brother

Linda Jackson here. And I don’t know why Pam wants to know my age, but I’m a proud 45-year-old, who hopes to turn 46 in June. I am from the great state of

Mississippi

. (Yes, it’s great, regardless of what you’ve read in books or seen in movies.) I write books for children, specifically middle grade, perhaps someday, YA or even picture books. I self-published a few books to get my start in the business, and I am published in a couple of Chicken Soup for the Soul titles and did freelance writing for educational publishers as well. So, there you have it, I’m a writer. Oh, yeah, and I

blog

.  And if you comment on this post, you will be entered into a drawing to win this book that I'm in!  Pamela will select a winner on Friday.

DW:  Who was the person that died?

Linda:  My oldest brother, Jessie.

DW:  How old were you at the time?

Linda:  34

DW:  How old was your brother?

Linda :  50

DW:  Was it a sudden death or did you know it was going to happen?

Linda:  Ironically, I thought it was sudden, because, at the time, I didn’t know what the word

hospice

meant. (Yes, I was 34 and had never heard of hospice before. Living under a rock, right?) When I heard my other siblings say he had been sent home under hospice care, I never thought to ask what that meant. I assumed it meant nurses were coming by his home to check on him until he got better. He had been battling cancer, had gotten better, then it came back, but I didn’t know it was there to stay. So, I guess everybody else knew my brother was in his last days except me. And that made me feel even worse.

DW:  Did you and Jessie talk about his death?

Linda:  A few days before my brother died, I talked to him on the phone. He asked me whether my youngest sister and I were planning to come see him. (That was nearly 12 years ago, but I can still hear his voice.)  He said, “I know y’all are coming to see your big brother.” I laughed and said, “We’re not driving that far.”

Here’s the deal. My brother lived in Decator, Illinois, at the time. I lived in Kansas City, and my sister lived in Mississippi. Both my sister and I were visiting my mom in our hometown in Mississippi for a few weeks during the summer break, which is why he asked if we were coming to see him.

So, even though we didn’t talk about his death, he assumed I knew about his impending death. But, of course, I didn’t. I had planned to surprise him with a visit on my way back to Kansas City. Sadly, he died a week and a half before my vacation ended, shortly after that phone conversation.

DW:  Had you experienced any other deaths in your personal life before Jessie died?

Linda:  I had another brother die from a gunshot wound when I was sixteen. It was my first experience with someone close dying tragically. In case you’re wondering, my mom had thirteen children—one son died as an infant, a few days after he was born, I think.

DW:  Were people supportive of your grief or did they shy away when you were grieving?

Linda:  Since I was in high school when my first brother was killed, I received plenty of support from my classmates. But with my second brother, nobody knew I was grieving. My siblings assumed the death didn’t affect me much because I didn’t attend the funeral. And the reason that I didn’t attend the funeral is because my mother didn’t attend, and I chose to be with her so she wouldn’t be alone. Side note: my mother stopped attending funerals after both her parents passed away. So she didn’t attend the funerals of either of my brothers, her siblings, my father…or  anyone else who died after 1977. I was afraid no one would show up at her funeral last year because of this…but they did.

J

DW:  Is there anything you wish you'd done differently with this person?

Linda:  Yes, I wish I had told my brother that I was coming to visit him rather than choosing to surprise him. Had I known what hospice meant, I guess, I would have known better.

DW:  Was he buried or cremated?

Linda:  My brother was buried. I don’t know of any cremations in my family.

DW:  Did you learn anything about the grieving process that you'd like to share?

Linda:  I learned that you can’t live life with regrets. As a result of my brother’s death, I decided to move back home to Mississippi. I felt horrible for my brother during his battle with cancer because I knew he wanted to be home (Mississippi). I never wanted to face that. So as soon as I went back to KC, we sold our house and moved to MS in less than a two-month timeframe. Also, months after the move, I was still grieving over the fact that I didn’t tell my brother that I was coming to visit him. Then one morning after I had taken my daughters to school and daycare, I stood in my bedroom and let it all out. I cried really hard for the first time after my brother’s funeral and told him how sorry I was that I didn’t go see him and that I was sorry I didn’t attend his funeral. Then suddenly I actually felt a presence in the room and sensed my brother’s voice saying, “It’s okay. I know. I know you were coming to see me. You don’t have to keep holding on to that.” From that moment, I let it go and never cried for my brother again.

Shortly after that incident, my family and I started attending a church where we met a man who, I swear, could have been my brother’s twin. And not only did they look alike, but they sounded the same and had the same mannerism. Of course, I questioned him about his family. But his family was from Alabama, and he didn’t think we were in any way related. But since that day, that man has been like an older brother to me.

DW:  Were any songs played at the memorial that were important to Jessie?

Linda:  As stated earlier, I didn’t attend the funeral nor did I want anyone to talk about it. So I have no idea what songs were played. All I know is that it rained really hard on the day of the funeral. Also, because of the age difference (16 years), I didn’t know my brother well enough to know his favorite songs. I just know he liked Blues. So if you know of any good Blues to play, go for it.

J

This one goes out to Jessie...

Thanks Linda for sharing your story!