At nine years old, I didn’t know what grief was. My father thought that if we kept on marching, we’d be fine. He was a soldier and didn’t believe or know about discussing sadness, overwhelm, heartache.

As I grew older, I needed to visit the pain. I needed to listen to the levayah again and again, and then I needed my husband to listen to it to learn about my mother. I needed to read the letters written to our family during the shivah — the letters we kids weren’t allowed to see. I needed to know that my mother loved me, that she was both special and normal at the same time.

My oldest daughter and many granddaughters are named for my mother, and it is still a journey. Losing a mother is forever. I still wish I had a mother to be proud of me. I definitely do not live with a constant ache, but there is always a part of me that has been changed because of her death.

I

t’s 2019.

My brother’s wife is very sick. The similarities between her and my mother’s illness are eerie. Both were diagnosed during pregnancy. Both clung to Hashem, made the most of their time, and grew from their nisayon. Both died. They each touched so many lives.

This time I can hardly handle the pain. I can literally touch my heartache.

I can’t watch my brother’s loneliness, his bewilderment.

I can’t look at my four-year-old niece at her mother’s levayah.

Although she’s clueless, I’m not. During the shivah, I let others take care of the other kids; knowing what’s ahead for my nieces and nephews is too painful for me.

It is my sister-in-law’s mother and sisters who are sitting shivah, and I feel like an outsider. I never had such a strong relationship with this sister-in-law so my tza’ar is watching my brother do this all over again. I’m helpless in the face of his crushing pain. There isn’t much I can do for his family. I’m not allowed in and that is painful in and of itself.

Even his remarriage is exceptionally difficult for me. While others rejoice that there will be stability and a functioning home, I can only relive the tension that occurred with my father’s remarriage. True, it’s done differently today, and my experiences definitely don’t dictate how it will be for him, yet anyone who has dealt with the adjustment of blending a family knows it’s not simple. At my brother’s second wedding, I smile and cry at the same time.

I

t’s 2021.

My husband’s sister is diagnosed.

This sister-in-law is my age. She’s my friend, and we share our lives. The entire family takes our cues from her and we’re all upbeat. This is just a blip. We send Shabbos food for the family on the weeks she has the treatments, we schmooze all the time; she manages her medical care herself. We look forward to the beautiful sheitel she’ll buy when her oldest son will get married. How we laugh when we imagine her as a mother-in-law. She’s almost done! Hurrah! Three years have passed since the initial diagnosis. She has just a few more months of treatment and she’ll be cancer-free! My sister-in-law dreams of organizing a support group for cancer patients who are dealing with the aftermath but are d-o-n-e!

And then everything implodes.

She becomes weaker, discovers the cancer has returned, this time in her kidneys, and dies six weeks later.

This time my husband is sitting shivah. I sit next to his mother, on a tall chair; she’s on a low one. I’m privy to her deepest emotions, to the unfathomable agony, to the emotional exhaustion, the tears that never stop. There is an unrelenting panic to the pain. What’s going to be?

I watch my in-laws do what my grandparents did when we were kids. I have become my aunt. I am now the tante who is supporting everyone, who is making sure the kids know how much we love them.

When my brother-in-law sobs at the levayah and can hardly get through his prepared speech, I’m sure I’ll pass out. His anguish is palpable. Yet my brother-in-law is keeping it together for the sake of his kids.

Is that what all fathers do?

When I say HaMakom yenachem to my father-in-law, all I see is my Saba. Can a father get back to himself when he’s lost an adult daughter?

My youngest nephew is seven years old. This is my little brother when my mother died. Is it even possible for him to remember his mother?

Am I really doing this again?

This time, I miss my sister-in-law desperately. Our family as a whole has worked together during this crisis and that brings comfort, yet my pain is so individual. I’m a part of a grieving group, yet I’m so alone. I’m the only one with my memories, my experiences, my relationship with her.

I know that the essence of all nisyonos is to feel lonely so I don’t fight it but it’s oh, so hard.

I know what this family is dealing with, yet I don’t know. Because I’m not my brother-in-law, I’m not my in-laws, I’m not my nephews. The only thing I do know right now is this persistent, pervasive sadness.

I also know that every person in this picture will get through it. I’m living proof of how Hashem helps to not only surive, but thrive.

I know because I’ve done this too many times before.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 953)