Smiling While Grieving
I lost my sister 5 years ago. She'd have turned 53 today. Tonight, rather than remembering her through tears, I'm trying something different. I'm remembering her with SMILES.
According to Psychology Today, “Humor is also important during the time of grieving. When we are in the depths of despair over the loss of our loved one, it is hard to think that we will ever smile again let alone laugh. One of the tasks of grieving is to learn to laugh again. A study from the University of Berkeley found that widows and widowers who could smile and laugh when remembering a loved one experienced less anxiety and depression at six, 12, and 24 months. Many successful bereavement groups incorporate laughter where members are encouraged to share humorous experiences associated with their loved one.”
It’s been more than five years since I lost my sister, Beth, and the grief has certainly changed. Today would have been her 53rd birthday. Rather than remember her through tears tonight, I'm trying something different. I’m using photos to reflect on some of our happiest, funniest moments. They may not all have been humorous, but each one of them brings me a smile.
Years after that vacation, we’d always look at this photo together and laugh out loud.
“What the hell am I doing with my right arm?” Beth would howl. “Am I trying to cover up my sprouting boob-lets?”
I’d always wonder aloud how many people ended up peeing in those kinds of folding chairs.
A two year age difference.
Looking through all these photos now, I can see how we were, in many ways, like twins in our expressions, our hammy outlooks on life, and our many lived experiences. And yet, it often seemed (at least to me) that we were SO vastly different in age.
I was the older, bossy, nervous one. You were the dramatic, mischievous, playful one. We navigated life together, learning and creating language and connection. And, you were constantly trying to steal my stuff.
I can’t help but look at this photo and laugh. We were on that ridiculous, cross-country trip to California with Dad and his second wife. We were goofy adolescents — crushing on cute, California boys while still losing our baby teeth. Here we are in those Grand Canyon shirts Dad bought for us at some gift shop. I’d put Sun-In in my hair and lightened it to a very sexy, fried-chicken-shade of orange.
There, on the table, is evidence of the culinary staples we grew up on: Coke, kielbasa, ketchup, and corn. Ah, and there, just behind me, is another case of our father’s Andre champagne. Cheers.
When I had to pee on that rafting trip, you squatted down with me so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. Or, at least that’s how I remember that moment. Maybe you had to go and I squatted down so YOU’D feel less embarrassed? Who knows? Who cares? Life was always an adventure with you.
How many times did we choreograph dances and synchronized routines just so we could get the laughs? So over the top, we were, cheesing it up for the masses.
We shared a strong desire to make others smile, to help them forget their worries for a bit, to pull the spotlight off their lives and train it on ourselves. We weren’t looking for glory; rather, we sought to please others, to ease their minds, to distract them for a moment.
We were performers at heart. We beta tested each other’s material. We made it okay for the other to take “theatrical” risks. We occasionally took the air out of the room with our back-and-forth banter, but it never got to us. We were united and shameless in our limelight-hogging.
In the mid-to-late 80s, neither one of us could successfully pull of the hairstyles of the era. Too much gel, too much mouse, too much hairspray, too much heat from all the curling and crimping irons. And, too many goddamned mullets.
We shared clothes. Cars. Colleges. A sense of humor. A deep love of family. A desire to be mothers and raise our kids together.
When you were named Prom Queen your senior year of high school, I was off at college. God, how I wish I’d have come back that weekend to see you off to the dance, and to see you come home after having been crowned. In every picture, you sparkle and glow.
Remember when we went on Spring Break together, how it rained the whole time, and how we held dance-party-after-dance-party in that crappy old rental near the shore? Remember how the sun came out on the last day of the trip, and we burned ourselves to a crisp? Remember how we shared the driving and slept in the car on the way back?
We had so many shared smiles, Beth, and I’m remembering them all as I drift off to sleep.
Love you. Miss you. Hope you see this.
Your little big sis,
Chris
Grief often has a mind of its own, but how wonderful when we can direct it ourselves! Sending you hugs, I know how hard it is. ❤️❤️
Today my husband and I would have been married 63 years. I have spent the day thinking of him, that day, and my fond memories.