It is strange how we talk about people who have died. We might say that they “passed away”, that they are “no longer with us” or that we have “lost someone” close to us. I understand why we do this, even the necessity of it. Euphemisms are designed for a reason, to be less abrasive, less offensive, to allow a subject to be broached, but not too deeply. To allow us to remain surface level.
Perhaps that is why I also find these platitudes often fall flat. They aren’t harsh or shocking or traumatizing enough to convey the real emotion behind grief.
Two years ago, after a sudden, brief and terrible illness, my youngest brother died. I distinctly remember wishing the day of his funeral that someone would just say the word. That evening, I turned to my husband in shock after one of the worst days of my life, and simply said, “My brother died.” “Yes, he did”, my husband replied. I couldn’t explain why, but it was important to me that we said it, that we admitted the ugly, painful, truth, and we didn’t try to make it easier or softer. He didn’t “pass away”. I didn’t “lose” him. He died.
I do still see the utility of euphemisms. With strangers or acquaintances, the softer words are fine, not only because they are less jarring for others (which honestly isn’t my biggest concern), but also because they allow me to decide how deeply I want the conversation to go. I can choose to use the more acceptable words and keep things surface level if that is what I need or want in the moment. I can even choose not to address it at all, that is my prerogative.
The first time someone asked me how many siblings I had after my brother had died, I remember thinking what a loaded, complicated question that now was. Just a short time before, that would have been a remarkably simple, straight forward question, completely appropriate to be broached by mere acquaintances. Now, my brain was on fire, my legs were jelly and I had no idea how to answer. I didn’t want to count one less sibling, that seemed impossible and disloyal and just plain wrong. I also didn’t want to share with this near-stranger the intricacies and complexities of my wounded heart and forever changed family structure. It wasn’t this person’s fault, they thought they were asking a simple, friendly question. They had no way to know that it was no longer a simple answer.
Ultimately, I did then what I do now. I decide how I answer based on the moment, how much I feel I can handle and how close I am to the person asking. Most of the time I just give a number answer; the number of siblings I have had since the day my youngest brother was born, the number I had for most of my life. I don’t owe anyone more than that.
Those closest to me, though, know what an effort it is for me to answer that question. I have seen my husband’s eyes dart to my face when it casually comes up in conversation. He is searching my eyes where I am and how I will answer. I did the same thing recently to my sister when a new friend asked her cheerily, “Oh, you two are sisters! How many brothers do you have?” I was concerned for the toll this would take on her and also curious how she would answer. I am so grateful for friends who understand and allow me to be blunt. I find it strangely comforting. My brother’s birthday wasn’t long after the funeral. He would have been 30 years old. As I lay on the couch that day, pretending to read a book but in no way capable of focusing, my husband came and hugged me and said, “I’m sorry your brother died.” My heart wells with love and gratitude just thinking of that moment.
So for today, where I am at this moment, I choose to answer the question this way: I have four siblings. I have one sister and three brothers. And Jonathan died.
Leave a comment