Margaret D.
Photography by Jessica Pentel
The last thing I wanted when my older brother and only sibling, Jack, died when I was freshly 10 years old, was to be treated differently than anyone else.
I craved normalcy more than anything during that first year of grief-- a return to Taco Tuesday with my family of four, the walk to my Mom’s car at school pick-up with my best friend beside me, our backpacks swallowing our tiny frames as we were always the shortest and scrawniest in our respective grades. Late August trips to the Outer Banks (a period of time Jack coined the “Sunday of Summer '' years before) and trying so hard to pry the latest information out of him like “WHO IS YOUR NUMBER ONE CRUSH IN MRS. WHITTLE’S CLASS AND DOES SHE LIKE YOU BACK?”
One of the strangest things people don’t know about the death of a loved one before experiencing it is that a new date unfairly squirms its way into your calendar. Amongst the birthdays and holidays, my family is now forced to recognize September 8th as the day Jack died. It was a rainy Thursday evening, his second day of middle school. For months afterwards, every Thursday evening was a dreaded reminder of the night we lost him. I became the girl in my 5th grade class whom everyone felt sorry for. I remember a friend asking me if my teachers gave me A’s on everything now, and I was embarrassed and confused. I did not want to be given any special treatment, because, to me, this meant I was now broken or less than.
I began to worry that my good grades were the result of some sort of special treatment, despite the fact that they were normal for me. Doubt seeped into my mind when I was awarded a substantial role in our class's meager production of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe that Spring. Did I really earn the coveted part, or was it another act of sympathy? It didn’t help when the whole class threw a party (with presents) for me on my half birthday that year, something no one else got. The elation that should have come with these acts of kindness and accomplishment was minimized, stripped away by the fear that I didn’t actually deserve any of it.
The physical symptoms of grief are also rarely talked about but go hand in hand with the emotional ones. I left school early many afternoons because I felt like I had a fever or was going to vomit, what I now know so clearly was anxiety. I ran off the field in the middle of a soccer game in a torrential downpour with this same feeling in my stomach, unable to control my breathing, feeling like the Under Armor under my jersey was going to suffocate me. I realize now this was probably a panic attack, related to the weather the night Jack drowned in our neighborhood creek that had flooded beyond its banks with murky, brown water.
I used to love rain, and as the decade has passed, I’ve found joy in it again. Sweet summer days at the pool when an innocent drizzle starts then quickly turns into a full-fledged thunderstorm once you’ve (hopefully) already piled into the back of a minivan. Falling asleep to claps of thunder, the occasional strike of lightning illuminating your room while the comfort of raindrops drumming on the roof eases your sleep.
I’ve come to terms with rain again, accepting that while it took someone from me, I no longer feel an obligation to vilify it. Rain is a good thing, loving someone so immensely is an even more wonderful thing, and loving someone does not stop when they’re no longer physically with you. If you’re reading this, you can continue to live a fulfilled life after the death of a loved one.
Maraget D., University of Virginia ‘23
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