How Losing A Sibling Transformed My Life

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My oldest sister took my hand as we walked cautiously across an uneven path through the dense woods behind her friend's house. Wild ferns, rocks and decaying branches covered the old trail, but we pushed through the scratchy brush. The tall canopy of pines was laced with spiderwebs, and I gripped Cherie's hand a little tighter. “It's okay, Monkey, you're safe with me,” she said, pulling me closer as we walked out into the sunlight.

It was always like that with us growing up; Cherie was my safe harbor. She was the oldest of our family's four siblings and I was the youngest (with six years between us). My mother loved to tell the story of my birth and how Cherie decided that she would be my “other mother,” and often referred to me as her “baby monkey.”

Despite our age difference, we were inseparable. So much of my childhood was spent in Cherie's room, which I considered my sanctuary. It was a peaceful place that smelled of sandalwood incense, fresh paint from her easel and the White Shoulders perfume she frequently wore. We spent hours there cutting out paper dolls, drawing Arabian horses on her sketch pad, baking cakes in an Easy-Bake Oven and singing off-key to her Herman's Hermits albums. She taught me how to play Crazy Eights, Go Fish and War, our card games lasting long past our bedtime.

Mom never caught on when we feigned stomach aches together to stay home from school. She'd bring us bowls of soup and crackers while my sister and I cuddled together in our pajamas on the couch to watch hours of Dick Van Dyke reruns.

We made a pact then to be more than sisters, promising to be best friends forever after pricking our fingers with a safety pin and mingling our blood. I never doubted our bond — Cherie understood me better than most and defended me at every turn when I got into trouble. We often joked about being the family's black sheep since we were so different from our parents and siblings.

Our rebellious nature is what bonded us from the beginning. Cherie bloomed as a teenager, becoming one of the most popular girls in high school.

She had it all: creativity, intelligence, humor, compassion, beauty and an active social life. But no matter how busy she was with her friends, she always made time for me, often including me when they hung out after school. Watching her one night in the living room as she laughed and danced in her white go-go boots to the Rolling Stones, her thick blonde hair swirling around her shoulders, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

We remained close in adulthood, but Cherie's life began to unravel over the years. Her first marriage failed, leading to single motherhood, then a second marriage (that also ended in divorce), followed by financial struggles. Each loss chipped away at her self-confidence until nothing remained of the carefree girl who once danced in go-go boots. She continued into a downward spiral of depression, pacifying herself with long bouts of binge eating.

My sister was slowly killing herself with food, and by the time she was in her 50s, she had numerous health issues due to her obesity.

She lived alone and seldom left the house except for work, spending most of her time watching TV or playing online games. There was something broken inside her, but I had no idea how to help, especially after she became ill and refused to see a doctor. In the early hours of Halloween in 2009, Cherie's heart stopped beating, and I knew she was finally free of the unhappiness that had caged her for so long.

Months after her death, I felt unmoored, drifting aimlessly in an ocean of grief, anger and guilt. The "firsts" were the hardest — first Christmas, her birthday and the annual July 4th family party — without her. When Halloween rolled around, marking one year since Cherie left us, I realized I'd been letting my own health suffer while mourning her.

I was exercising less and eating more, often binge eating when alone. It was a strange, subconscious attempt at mimicking my sister's self-destructive pattern to feel closer to her, using food as a coping mechanism for my grief. Initially, I denied it when my husband pointed out that I was self-sabotaging my mental and physical well-being, but a checkup with my doctor confirmed that my unhealthy habits had caught up with me. I was severely depressed, overweight and pre-diabetic. My blood pressure was the highest it had ever been.

Change was necessary if I didn't want to end up like my sister. Over the next few months, I joined a gym that offered Zumba classes, changed my eating habits and began blogging as therapy to push through the grief. Remembering how much Cherie enjoyed my writing, I made a career of it to honor her memory, publishing my first humor book five years after her death.

The most significant impact of losing my sister was the major shift in my perspective.

Cherie left behind an adult son and a young granddaughter she'd never see grow up. Knowing that her death was preventable and living with the deep void of her absence, I couldn't place that heavy burden on the shoulders of my own family. Instead, I took comfort in the happier memories of my sister, still feeling her presence in her granddaughter's laughter and the warmth of her son's embrace.

Cherie taught me to choose a better life and to focus on the good that often hides behind our darkest hours. What remains after grief is hope, and once the darkness lifts, the light emerges.

 
Have any of you lost a sibling? How did you get through it? Let us know in the comments below.