I’m the last surviving member of my family. It’s a different grief than I’ve ever known

This First Person column is written by Dr. Brian Goldman, host of CBC Radio’s White Coat, Black Art. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

On Passover, I stood at my synagogue with fellow congregants to participate in the Yizkor service. Yizkor is a Hebrew word that means, “may [God] remember.” It’s a prayer service we recite four times a year in memory of departed loved ones.

I’ve been attending Yizkor services since my father died in 2013 and my mother in 2014. In the years since then, I’ve mostly tried and failed to conjure up a son’s grief at losing his parents.

This Passover, things were different. My sister, Joanne Orliffe, died in January. And as I said a separate prayer for each of them, I began to sob uncontrollably.

I am the last surviving member of my family of origin. I still have my partner, Tamara, and our children, Kaille and Alex. The four of us have drawn closer since my sister died, and I have benefitted beyond words from their love and emotional support.

Still, I’m the only one remaining from the family in which I grew up. And there is something about that experience that has given me the space to connect with my grief.

Anderson Cooper talks about this on his podcast All There Is with Anderson Cooper. His father died of a heart attack in 1978 and his brother died by suicide in 1988. His mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, died in 2019 at the age of 95.

“She was the last person from the little family that I grew up in,” said Cooper on the first episode of the podcast. “The last person who knew the same stories as me and had the same memories. Now I’m the only one. I feel like a lighthouse keeper on an empty island.”

Since Joanne’s death, I too have experienced that strange sense of emptiness. It’s a grief experience people seldom talk about. There’s an expectation to outlive your parents and a comforting vocabulary to go along with it.

The death of a sibling may lead to what is known as “disenfranchised grief.” It’s the kind of grief that goes unrecognized by modern society. The lack of support during the grieving process can prolong the pain and isolation of grieving.

The relationship one has with brothers and sisters is one of the longest relationships a person will likely have with anyone. A sibling is a friend, rival, confidant and witness-bearer to one’s early family life.

From an early age, I was proud of my big sister. I remember attending a school play in which Joanne had a lead role. I broke up the audience’s attention and the play by standing up and yelling, “That’s my sister!”

At summer camp one year, I stepped on a nest of wasps and got stung by ten of them. I was taken to the camp infirmary to get treatment, and Joanne was there to make sure I was alright.

Growing up in north Toronto, Joanne and I had our share of petty arguments. But by the time we were adults, we patched things up. I had trouble making friends and envied Joanne’s knack for nurturing friendships. Her prodigious verbal skill and memory for names led to long and thoughtful conversations with friends that went on for hours.

As our parents became elderly, Joanne and I became their caregivers. We grew closer as we shared caregiver duties and even closer as co-executors of their estates. Through memories, we validated each other’s laughter and pain.

Then, in 2018, Joanne was diagnosed with young onset dementia. She developed aphasia, an abnormality of the speech and language centres of the brain. She had trouble understanding what her doctors and I were saying. Though she could speak fluently — words and long sentences — most of what she said made no sense. Often she got frustrated when I didn’t understand her.

The dementia progressed rapidly, and Joanne spent the last 13 months of her life in long term care. I became Joanne’s power of attorney and caregiver. In those final months, it became harder and harder for Joanne and I to share memories. I tried valiantly to become the “Joanne Whisperer,” and got good at guessing what she was trying to say.

There were brief moments of crystal clarity. In her room at the long-term care home, I had hung a portrait taken of my sister and I when she was eight and I was five. She would often stare at that photo for long periods of time.

One day, around three weeks before she died, I took the photo off the wall and brought it close to her so she could get a better look.

She stared at it for a good couple of minutes before speaking words that I can still recall her saying.

“I was always proud,” she said. I knew that she was trying to say she was always proud of me. I cried tears of joy as I hugged her. Despite her speech and cognitive challenges, I could revel in the fact that Joanne was still there.

And now, she isn’t.

Since her death, I’ve done several things to connect with my grief. One is to say Kaddish for my sister. It’s a prayer that is part of the Yizkor service. Mourners also recite it three times a day for the first year following a family member’s death, and annually thereafter on the anniversary of the death.

I have also connected with my sister’s oldest and deepest friends so that we can share memories of her.

And that childhood portrait of me and Joanne now hangs on a wall in my home. And every time I look at it, I feel proud of her.

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