The dark side of grief

...or how family members get in the way of grief

When our daughter at birth died 21 years ago, I was pissed at my husband every time he held a baby, every time he smiled at a baby, every time he drew comfort from holding a baby. He seemed to draw comfort from babies, and I, well I hated babies. What kind of monster hates babies? I remember telling myself quietly. In return, I hated myself for the sheer horror that these thoughts brought me. I hated babies, and I was pretty sure I was either a) pathological or b) a monster.

It wasn’t until more than a year later, sitting in a circle with other women whose babies had died, that I confessed my feelings. I couldn’t look at babies, hold babies, see my friends with babies, or smile at babies. And as I quietly confessed my thoughts, a collective sigh of relief took over.

It turns out I wasn’t alone.

There were several moms who felt the same way. We decided that this was grief’s dark side. And we were pretty sure while we felt this way, it wasn’t something we should share in public.

Even though I found relief in knowing that they felt the same way, I still couldn’t explain my feelings to my husband. Instead, I just remained angry at T. when he held babies. I scowled at him. I walked away. I generally stayed mad for days.

If I couldn’t draw comfort from holding babies, I certainly didn’t want T. to find comfort.

One day after my mother died in August 2024, my siblings and I held a zoom call to discuss “the estate.” While it sounds regal, the estate consists of my mother’s home and her possessions. And while her body had just been removed from the house less than 15 hours earlier, we were on a zoom call talking about finding a real estate agent and cleaning out her house.

There were no how are you doings? No how are you feeling? It was all business. All talk. All let’s sort out the legal stuff.

Here’s some context: My mom was 88 when she died. She was battling pancreatic cancer for seven months. She spent her last 12 days virtually asleep unable to eat or drink and slowly dying. My eldest brother and I held vigil while my two other brothers chose not to come in the final days. One stayed home. The other went golfing and to a wedding. We knew her death was imminent. All four of us live in different states. Our mom lived in California, and I live in the north. One brother in the South while two live in the Midwest.

We all grieve differently I guess, is how I consoled myself during this time. As my anger simmered because of their absence, another part of me was grateful they weren’t there because honestly, they would have made her dying more complicated.

Grief was never the topic of our zoom calls. Let’s have an estate sale. Let’s sell the house. Let’s get it done by the end of the year.

For the first two days after my mother died, I wandered her house. I slept poorly. Had terrible dreams. I felt my anxiety growing, and I watched my brother J. make phone calls, talk to realtors, set up appointments, schedule meetings.

A realtor is coming by in the morning, J. told me on day three after she died. Okay, I responded.

I played along. I donned my good sister armor. I also made phone calls. Relatives. My mom’s friends. Her church. Her handyman. My boss. Her neighbors. I told them all she died, and I told the story over and over again. Fourteen days. No food. No water. Yes, she was tough. We knew that about her. We all nodded and sighed. My mom grew up on a farm after all. She lived through droughts and winters at minus 30 degrees. She was tough!

J., the executor, carried on. He called to order death certificates. He handled her cremation. He called the financial advisor. The insurance company. Cancelled magazine subscriptions. He called the gardener. The cable company. The church. He talked to her minister.

I continued to behave. I called her sister. My uncle. My cousins. My kids. I cancelled Amazon Prime. I threw out her library card.

I didn’t worry about hating babies this time. (And by the way, I draw great joy and pleasure from holding babies now!) I didn’t even worry about hating J. because he’d been my father figure for more than 51 years since our father died. He’d seen my rage and anger so I knew he could take it.

But I started resenting my other two brothers. They called. They gave advice. They suggested spreadsheets for things we wanted in the house. They offered suggestions. All from the comfort of their homes and hotel rooms. I cleaned her toilet and straighten my mom’s bedroom. I washed her sheets and remade her bed. I threw out her makeup. Her toothbrush. Her leftover pads.

They didn’t see our mom's cheeks sunken in. They didn’t change her diapers. They didn’t watch her gasp for air. They didn’t hear her cry out in pain as we turned her on her side so she didn’t get bed sores. They didn’t see the green and black and brown sludge coming out of her mouth just hours before she died. They didn’t watch me collapse to the floor sobbing when she could no longer wake up.

I can sit with a couple whose child just died and offer them my unconditional love. I can let them be anything they need to be in that moment, that day, that week, that year. I can listen to them say the most horrifying thoughts and I can tenderly hold their hands and tell them I understand. I can call them each day. Text them notes of encouragement.

But my love for my siblings is conditional. I cannot seem to forgive them for not showing up. I can’t forgive them for wanting to sell the house immediately. Get rid of her things. Move on. I can’t let go of the fact that one of them shouted at me that I just wanted to stay in her house longer so I could have a vacation. I can’t forgive the other one for all the years of bullying he inflicted on me more than 40 years earlier. I can’t forgive them.

One sibling call turned so ugly, I told them all to fuck off and left the room and swore off sibling calls for good. (The next day I longed for a script writer as good as The Bear script writers. I need to work on my use of the word ‘fuck’ so that I can better use it as an adverb instead of just a noun and an adjective. I wanted the Hollywood version of myself for that outburst.)

This is the dark side of my grief. My anger grows. My ability to think clearly diminishes. It brings out my shadow self. The one that wants to destroy things, hide valuable objects from them, steal things from my mom’s house when we’re told to list everything on a spreadsheet. Fuck the spreadsheet.

Fuck grief. Embrace grief. Love grief.

I’m leaving myself open to experience it all. Right now that experience is darkness. Bring. It. On.