Firsting
When your world changes, you start over... or something like that
Following a significant loss, there is a period of getting reacquainted both with yourself and with your world–a world which is suddenly unknown and decidedly “other.” When my sister died by suicide, every experience felt new against the backdrop of her death. I was going through life as an alien in my own skin, trying desperately to make sense of day to day interactions and activities. These experiences became a long series of “firsts” which I've come to think of as my own version of "firsting."
I know I’m not the only one to have these experiences, but even so, many of them caught me off guard, and occasionally still do. So, in some way I want to put this out there to validate anyone else who’s gone through this or is going through it now. And in a way, to put it into the consciousness of anyone who hasn’t so if one day they do it might not be a total surprise.
The initial months after Sarah’s suicide seemed like a near constant inundation of never-before-experienced interactions and activities, even though they were mostly just habits and routines of basic survival. Especially early on, it felt like each thing I did was a marker of the contrast of my aliveness and her death. I had to break the seal of “doing this without Sarah being alive” for every single mundane task.
The first time I woke up in a world without her. The first time I brushed my teeth knowing she’d never brush hers again. The first time I took a shower. The first day back at work. The first time food actually seemed appetizing. The first time I saw each person who is important to me (even if, in some cases, it was years later). The first time I finally went back to a yoga class. The first cup of coffee.
In most of these experiences, I felt a strange juxtaposition of numbness and intense alertness at the same time. My senses seemed enhanced, but some distinct disconnect would keep me from actually engaging directly. It was almost as if my brain hyper focused on some sensation to try to distract me from whatever meaning I might derive from the activity or what memories, questions, or regrets it might evoke. Any single thought association could send me down a path of stream of consciousness thinking taking me quickly to the brink of an existential crisis.
I still remember that first cup of coffee I made after she died. It was the next day, after a night of shifting in the bed, staring blankly into the darkness to try to avoid the scenes I imagined when I closed my eyes. I made the coffee out of habit. I’m a coffee drinker. I get out of bed, I make coffee. We had a single-serving Keurig at the time, so I put in the pod, hit the button. I moved through the kitchen, performing a routine. Honey. Creamer. Stir. These were automatic actions, but I felt them acutely. The handle on the Keurig clicking into place reverberated through my hand, the sound more audible than ever before. Each small movement, sound, and action marking my existence, contrasting sharply with Sarah’s absence.
I wondered if it was right to drink coffee on this day. I usually looked forward to my morning coffee, and any sort of potential enjoyment just felt… wrong. I knew Sarah liked coffee, and noted, perhaps foolishly, that looking forward to the next morning’s coffee hadn’t swayed her decision to live or die. Could anything have been worth living for? Apparently not; not for her in that critical moment.
I sat the mug on the kitchen table. I sat myself on the bench at the kitchen table, looking out the window to the back yard. The coffee smelled good. The mug was warm as I wrapped my palms around it. But I didn’t pick it up. I stared down at it, then out the window, then back down at the coffee, thinking. The coffee stared back, offering itself. Drink me. It will be good for you. It might help. My hesitation was sending the coffee into an existential crisis of its own. What did you make me for if you won’t let me fulfill my purpose? Drink me, enjoy me. It seemed to plead.
My phone rang. My older sister was checking in, providing some updates. She was with mom. Sarah’s body would have to be transported for the autopsy. There were matters to be attended to, travel plans to make. Things I might be able to help with, like writing a brief biography of Sarah’s life for the announcement. I needed to give my body some kind of sustenance to proceed. My intestines felt like they’d braided themselves together, food didn’t feel like an option. Coffee would have to do.
Feeling too weak to pick up the mug, I leaned towards it and tilted it towards my face. I slurped a small sip. It was rich and earthy, slightly sweet. I knew it tasted good, but I couldn’t attribute any quality to the flavor. I felt like an automaton programmed to drink the coffee, but incapable of actually experiencing it. It was inaccessible. I forced another sip, hoping somehow the coffee would fortify me. I drank about half the mug; I didn’t enjoy it that morning. Eventually I would again, but not that day.
Beyond routine occurrences, activities we both enjoyed, and especially those we’d done or used to do together, were a whole different category for firsting. They had, understandably, a bit more gravity. Listening to (or singing) certain songs, yoga, and meditation, were front runners in this area.
The first time I went to a yoga class after Sarah died I told the teacher what was going on and that she need not be concerned if I cried. The instructor nodded her understanding and I found a spot at the back of the room. Tears streamed the whole time as I went through the motions.
Then one day, well over a year after her death, I had a different first: the first time I made it through a yoga class without crying about Sarah, without contemplating why she didn’t want to be in her body. These days I enjoy yoga again. Now I still think about her often when I practice. Every once in a while I think I feel her presence. Most of the time I just remember her, miss her, acknowledge that I can’t call her when I leave. I do still cry sometimes, but I’m mostly cried out, at least in yoga.
Of course there are also the anniversaries: her birthday, holidays, the day of her death. The first of those were all brutal. Though they seem to be on a trendline of getting “better” with time, it’s certainly not always been a linear progression.
Another category is authentic first experiences where she would have otherwise been present, like when I got married. There was an empty spot in all the photos. The huge hug I didn’t get from her that day.
There are more firsts to come, and probably always will be. So, I will keep firsting along, and keep recalibrating, because that’s the only thing to be done.
Hundreds of yoga classes and thousands of cups of coffee later, I’m not any less heartbroken about Sarah, but I’ve gotten more used to living without her. Sometimes I still feel utterly lost and befuddled, but I’m largely acclimated, less of an alien. I still miss her on a cellular level, but I do look forward to my morning coffee again.
Thank you to teachers and peers for your generosity & invaluable feedback on this: Promise, Dipankar, Becky, & Michael.