How two siblings move through the fog of grief together

My brother came for a visit, something I hope he does more often.

I haven’t wrapped my arms around him since his wife’s memorial service just a few months ago. My sister-in-law’s passing was unexpected, but I have found that even when you are expecting death, it still comes unexpected.

No one is really prepared.

I am slightly ahead of Greg in this loving and losing process. My brother is newly into the walk of grief that I started over a year ago. I remember that, at some point after my husband’s death, a fog settled in.

My brother has entered that fog.

When you live in the cloud of grief, it is hard to see the future and, some days, the next step you need to take. The fog only allows you to see what is in the past; not what is ahead. There are no instructions, no map to find your way out, no clue when the fog will lift.

It is different for different people.

I listened to my brother’s shattered voice as he listed the challenges of life after love. The things you can’t find, the things you don’t know, the things you can’t forget. Greg talked about the mountain of sympathy cards he received, the sound of silence all around and his long, sleepless nights.

I can relate to that.

That night, Greg repeated stories I have heard before. He told me what he did yesterday and the day before. He spoke about lawyers, funeral food and tears on thank-you notes. But he had a hard time talking about tomorrow.

That fog keeps getting in his way.

His voice broke again when he mentioned his children, or his home, or the way life used to be. I can tell Greg is tired — tired of the constant fog that makes it hard to breathe. Hearing him talk, I know that if I reach to embrace him, he will fall apart and I will too. I also know that’s not what Greg wants to do.

So I don’t.

The next morning, while the widow cooked, the widower chatted about the community where he lives and the people who lift him up. In detail, he described the first time he had to fill out a form and realized his status had officially changed. “I can’t tell you how it felt to mark that widower’s box!” Greg said, wiping tears from his face.

Oh, I think I know.

I let my brother say all he needed to say. I didn’t reply “I know how you feel.” I didn’t tell him about the months of fog and the moments of inability to catch your breath. I didn’t tell him that I am walking the path too.

I didn’t tell him that.

In reality, I could offer pieces of earned wisdom, more than a few suggestions, a bit of advice about what lies ahead. I know, because I am a few steps ahead of Greg.

I want to tell my widowed brother the first thing he needs to do is learn to live with himself. Marking the widow/widower box means that you are now in charge of your life. That means spending time with yourself first and finding comfort there. Others can keep you busy, activities can fill you up. Still, you have to go home to yourself.

I know the fog won’t allow my brother to hear any of this.

After I watched Greg drive away, I walked back into my empty house and felt that familiar heaviness of grief. I could almost see the air thickening, filling my head with a fog that will try and pull me back to the same place my brother finds himself. So I did what I still do when that fog tries to creep back in. I fill my house up with music and light. I step outside, and take a deep breath.

Then I do it again.

You can reach Lorry at lorrysstorys@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on Columbia Daily Tribune: How two siblings, a widow and widower, move through grief together