Last night Miriam was upset about a school playground incident. I listened to her and hugged her as she cried.
Then I went to my room and I cried too – upset that my little girl has been left like an only child, with only her mum and dad to turn to much of the time.
Up until September 2012 Miriam had two older sisters living at home. The three girls had each other to discuss their woes with. Oftentimes I heard things second hand rather than first hand.
Leah was the primary dispenser of hugs. From a young age, Leah’s emotional barometer was very sensitive, she usually knew if anyone was upset and she offered them comfort. Even while still of Primary School age, Leah could sense if I had a difficult day at work and she would offer me a hug.
I remember one day when Leah was very young, maybe 6 or 7 years old, I was very grumpy and got very annoyed with her regarding some childhood misdemeanour. She fled to her room in tears. When I had calmed down, I went to her room to speak to her and she looked at me with her big brown eyes, like a wounded puppy, and exclaimed “Mummy, you’ve hurt my feelings.” I didn’t know what to say.
I remember another time when Leah was 5 years old and I was very worried about a family situation, but trying not to show it. I remained calm on the outside (or so I thought) and I was very careful about what I said in front of the children. Leah’s big brown eyes looked up at me as she asked “Mummy, is this the worst day of your life?” I was speechless.
I know what it feels like not to have sisters living at home to share secrets with. By the time I was Miriam’s age, all four of my siblings had left home. I hated feeling like an only child, with only my parents for company, kind and caring though they were.
Similar to Miriam, I was a ‘wee late one‘, except that it was Cork City not Northern Ireland, so Mum used to tell people that I was “an afterthought – her baby“.
At home she called me “a chuisle, mo chroí” which is Gaelic for “the pulse of my heart“, or else she called me “Vicky, a leanbh” which is pronounced “Vicky Alanna” and means “Vicky, my child” – a term of endearment.
This is how Leah came to be named Leah Alanna.
As Miriam sobbed her heart out last night, it occurred to me that her tears were probably not only regarding the incident in question – the usual stuff of pre-teen girls – but her tears were also expressing the loss of a sister who had always been a source of comfort.
Miriam and Leah were very close. Miriam accompanied us to Bristol for Leah’s first Outpatient’s Appointment.
Miriam accompanied Leah and I again when we flew over for Leah to be admitted for her Bone Marrow Transplant.
Miriam came right to the door of the Transplant Unit, beyond which no children are allowed, unless they are patients. The Transplant Unit swallowed Leah and I up, whilst Hospital staff cared for Miriam until our childcare arrangements kicked into place.
Once Leah was back out of the Transplant Unit, five weeks later, Miriam was over twice to visit us with her Daddy. Leah loved when family came to visit.
During the 6.5 weeks that Leah had at home before her final hospital admission, if Miriam wasn’t at school, she barely let Leah out of her sight. She used to get off the school bus, get changed and go straight down to Leah’s bedroom. There she stayed until bedtime.
On one occasion, for a very special treat, she was allowed to sleepover in Leah’s bedroom with her.
When Leah was critically ill in ICU, she was desperate for Miriam to be allowed in to visit her, but the rules of ICU were “No Children Allowed“.
I tried to explain this to Leah, who was on a ventilator and communicated by typing on her iPad, but she insisted that I could just bring Miriam on in without permission, because she didn’t look like a young child. This was Leah’s reply to me on the matter:
I asked the staff about bringing Miriam in to visit Leah, but they were concerned that it would be distressing for Miriam to see her sister so ill and said that she needed to be helped to prepare for this. A Family Worker from the local Hospice was sent out to our house to start this work.
Of course, while all of this was happening, Leah’s condition was gradually deteriorating and both time and opportunity were lost.
Eventually, at 1am on Thursday morning the 16th January 2014, Horace drove to Belfast City Hospital with Miriam and Simon. I sat in the car and explained things to them. Then the two of them accompanied me into the ICU to say their goodbyes to their much loved sister, who was now deeply unconscious and hooked up to countless machines.
It was one of the saddest moments of my life.
One of the many challenges for a bereaved parent, is trying to support our grieving children, when oftentimes we feel barely able to support ourselves.
5 thoughts on “Grieving For A Sister”
Oh, I’m so sorry that the hospital staff convinced you to wait and “prepare” Miriam. I was 12 when my grandfather had a massive heart attack (he did live another four years, but his heart had stopped and it was touch and go much of those four years). I think back on that time with gratitude that I was included in nearly everything – including many discussions that might have been “over my head” by somebody’s standards. We’re never really prepared, are we? No one prepared YOU for the death of your child – how could they, even if they tried?
Anyway – you did everything you thought best for both girls. There’s absolutely no handbook for dealing with any of this. But as a HAPPY only child, I want to assure you that there is NOTHING wrong with being an “only.” There’s everything wrong with losing the sister Miriam had, the daughter you had, and not being able to get her back – but your time and love and attention will help to heal you and Miriam both. The scars will remain, but you can both be happy. Talk to each other and give each other those hugs you’re missing. You’ll just have to give them in triplicate! 🙂
Neither of you can replace Leah for the other, but you can help fill the hole left behind. I guess what I’m really trying to say is that you don’t have to try to “be happy for Miriam’s sake” – better to grieve together than alone.
Thanks Holly, it’s a very steep learning curve. xx
Yes, it is. In reading your blog, it seems you learn with honesty and grace. Just remember what you said about vulnerability being a strength. That will work with you and Miriam, too. How’s Simon?
Thank you Holly for your lovely words of encouragement- they are much appreciated.
Re Simon – he is a man of few words unless the topic is computers! However he attended a full week of school last week and seems to be eating normally again so I assume that he has recovered 🙂