When my three brothers and I were growing up and the proverbial hit the fan, Mum would often say, in a bid to keep her brood calm, ‘Well, at least we are all still here.’

She reminded me of this affectionate saying only very recently. I can still recall how I felt as a child when she said those words – a collective sigh of relief would ripple across our family unit and if I close my eyes tight enough as I type these words, I can still feel the tsunami of endorphins that quickly engulfed and soothed my young, innocent heart. I knew that in that moment – in the simplest of terms – that if we were all together, everything would be OK – nothing else mattered. It was us against the world. Until the day came when we weren’t all here anymore – and things were not OK. The day my brother, Louis Sydney Wilson died – 17th February 2019. The day when the six of us became five. When four siblings became three. The day when everything changed, and the earth seemed to flip on its axis.

Syd – as he was affectionately known from around the age of seven – was my little brother, four years my junior. He was the last person in my family that anyone would ever have expected to receive a cancer diagnosis, let alone a terminal one. Growing up he was the sensible one of the four of us. He rarely drank alcohol, never smoked, or took drugs, recreationally or otherwise, never caused my parents sleepless nights like the rest of us and was always, well……the golden child – you know the one – most families have one. He was the happy-go-lucky kid, funny, and intelligent – not that he would ever think that about himself. And even if he did, he would never say it aloud. Growing up he towed the line in all aspects of his life – he was never promiscuous, rarely answered back and was a ‘good boy.’ He would later comment as he was nearing the end of his life that this was half the reason he ended up sick. For whatever reason he never felt he could fully express himself and became trapped in what I refer to in my book Losing You, Finding Me, as the ‘invisible cage’ – his life became a product of what he thought others expected of him rather than being true to himself. A trap many of us fall into and struggle to get out of.

When he died, the loss felt unbearable. It was as if I was missing a limb. I struggled to make sense of anything for the first twelve months. I experienced what felt like a never-ending black hole of grief that I didn’t think I could ever climb out of and in all honesty, I wasn’t sure that I even wanted to – there were times I wanted to die with him. You see that’s the funny thing about grief, as much as it’s painful, it can feel like our only direct connection to the person that has died. Without the pain there is no love. In many ways the more pain I felt the closer I was to him. There is a saying that ‘grief is the price we pay for love,’ and I genuinely believe this – they come in equal measure.

The sibling bond is like no other – it’s an undeniable connection – we quite literally share the same DNA. When we look at our siblings, we often see aspects of ourselves – the parts we love and, annoyingly the parts we hate. It’s the only relationship where we want to push them off a cliff edge and yet catch them at the same time. I witness this playing out in my own sons lives. So, when one of them dies, it’s like a piece of ourselves has evaporated alongside them. The rich tapestry of family life seems to come away at the seams – memories forever altered – every family photo now incomplete.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all roses – we were siblings at the end of the day, and as with all siblings, we had our moments. But they were rare. When we didn’t agree, rather than argue, we would just drift apart like boats cast adrift at sea, not speaking for a few years at one stage, right before his shocking diagnosis. That diagnosis in September 2011 (on his twenty-eighth birthday) was like a bomb going off at the centre of the ocean – and although shocking and destructive, I will always be grateful that beyond the wake our boats were gently guided back to the safety of the shore. We were back where we belonged – together. You see, a cancer diagnosis has a habit of clearing the decks, silencing the ego, and removing the bullshit we all hide behind at times – it laughs in the face of family trivialities and misunderstandings. I can recall being overwhelmed with both sadness and joy – sadness of the diagnosis and all that we had missed during those years spent apart, yet at the same time a sense of complete and utter joy of being reunited with my little brother once again. I have learned since his death that the sadness and joy we experience in life live near one another. It’s the reason we have so-called happy tears. We cannot have one without the other.

Grief affects everyone differently, and when it comes to siblings, we are often overlooked. In the wake of our parents’ unimaginable grief, it can be difficult to process or even prioritize our own emotions without a sense of guilt. Syd was my brother, not my child, so there were times I didn’t feel I had the right to grieve in the same way my parents did. And how would we all readjust to this new family dynamic without the golden child? Where was my place in the family hierarchy now? Did my remaining siblings feel the same way? And he left behind a son – losing a parent when you’re just twelve years old – isn’t that the worst?

The problem is we often compare our grief when there is no comparison. We must acknowledge, accept, and honour our grief – and the many complex emotions that come with it. We are all unique as human beings – as is our grief. I now know there is no hierarchy of grief. It’s ok to feel whatever comes or to feel nothing at all. We must not judge someone else’s grief or our own. And the rule is – there are no rules.
Learning to live without the physical version of my little brother has been unbelievably challenging. There are many times when I have wanted to give up, throw the towel in, and just give in to my overwhelming grief, but then I remember that his death gave me a precious gift – the gift of a second chance at life and I would be doing him a disservice by wasting it.

So now when I think of that saying Mum used to say, I remind myself that despite Syd’s death, ‘we are all still here.’ – it’s only the form that has changed. We will always be a family of six, and I now answer that sucker-punch question ‘how many brothers and sisters do you have?’ with a proud ‘three.’ – he may not physically be here, but his spirit will always be with me – this I know.
Our paths may have changed but our sibling bond will last forever.

Book recommendations:

‘Sisters and Brothers; Stories about the death of a sibling’ curated by Julie Bentley & Simon Blake.
Published by Unknown.

‘Losing You, Finding Me; one woman’s crusade to save her brother and ultimately herself by Kay Backhouse.
Published by 2QT Publishing.

’The invisible String’ by Patrice Karst.
Published by Hachette Book Group.

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Kay Backhouse was raised in the Yorkshire Dales, a picturesque part of the UK. It was here where she developed a strong connection to, and an appreciation for nature and it’s healing properties.At the age of twenty-eight she emigrated to Australia where she lived with husband, Rick, and their children for ten years. Kay now lives with her family in the coastal town of Morecambe in Lancashire. Through her writing, yoga practise and hospice work, she spends most days working with adults and children, helping them to navigate their way through grief and significant loss. She truly believes that we have the potential to overcome any adversity and that the power to achieve this lies inside each and every one of us.

You can learn more about Kay and her book Losing You, Finding me here