The Grieving Tree
Kat Locke- Jones
The last time I took a trip around the Sun without you I was three.
There’s this picture of us on the first day you ever came home, probably within minutes of me being promoted to an older sister of two. Mom still has the hospital band around her wrist and Dad’s shoes definitely give him more of a “Danny Tanner” vibe than the “Uncle Jesse” vibe he was probably going for. Kevin looks a little unclear about whether or not you’re worth putting down his Pooh Bear for, and in this very first picture of you and me, I’m reaching out to you.
This past trip around the Sun has been filled with me reaching out to you.
This first year without you was filled with trying to figure out what life meant without singing (read: screaming) K-Ci and JoJo’s “All My Life” on the way to the beach. It meant not having someone to analyze people’s shoes with on their way to communion at church. I went a year without having my iPhone charger stolen in the middle of the night. This year without you meant I didn’t have to buy an extra birthday gift for our parents because I knew you would forget. On Christmas Eve, if I’m being honest, I felt a little silly making Ritz cracker sandwiches with cocktail sauce, shrimp, and exactly one piece of cheddar cheese without you.
I struggled with what it meant to be a survivor of suicide loss. I knew how to be an older sister, but there isn’t exactly a handbook on being an older sister to someone who died of suicide.
For 23 years, being your older sister meant spending Sundays at the dinner table, telling Aedan that if he was a character on Full House, he would be Kimmi Gibbler. And then, after getting yelled at for teasing him, telling him that he was Comet instead. Being your sister meant having a girl buy me a free drink at the bar because she thought I would put in a good word with you. It meant after-work phone calls because we both hated driving in silence. It meant spending twenty minutes texting back and forth before we “approved” of an Instagram caption. It meant singing in the kitchen with Patty to a song we made up on the spot about Cheez-Its.
But, what does being your sister mean now that you’re not here?
I remember Dad sitting us all down one night as kids to read us The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. It’s such a small memory- Victor wanted to sleep in a sleeping bag instead of his bed, Kevin had a Yankee hat on, I wasn’t really paying too much attention because I had a loose tooth, and you were throwing a ball up in the air. I don’t even remember if we finished the book that night. But, growing up, I always knew the gist of the story- a tree gave everything it had for a boy that it loved.
I’m not sure if I truly understood the message as freckle-faced ten year old, but I was able to figure out that this was supposed to be a metaphor for the strength of love. That this touchy-feely sort of story was to represent the kindness and generosity found in love.
When you took your life last July, I kept coming back to this idea of love found in The Giving Tree. I never got to the stage of grief that is supposed to be filled with anger at you for leaving, but… I spent a lot of this year just wanting to know if you had even the slightest idea how much we all love you. About how much we would have given- branches and all- to have you back in our life.
And as I’ve spent this year grieving and trying to sort together whatever it means to be an older sister to someone who died of suicide, I’ve come to the conclusion that The Giving Tree is, well, kind of full of shit.
It took me a whole year to realize that love and strength are not measured by how much pain you can endure. It’s not measured by giving up so much of yourself that you feel depleted. It’s definitely not measured by how many times you “successfully” tell someone you have allergies instead of that you were actually crying in the car to a Justin Bieber song.
But true, quiet, love and strength are measured by being compassionate to yourself. By noticing, feeling, and responding to your emotions- even if they seem sad or scary or like something that doesn’t really go with your day’s to-do list. This year of grief meant realizing that family photos can never really be “recent” again but they can still be taken. Sometimes love is just working on being fluent in silence. Sometimes strength means living out the more accurate signs of grief which are, according to my research, crying, rewatching The Office fifteen times, crying, and eating a lot of bagels.
If this year taught me anything, it’s that the generosity and kindness of love can better be measured by love you show yourself. This year of grief taught me that your relationship doesn’t become less important or meaningful or impactful when you lose someone you love, no matter how you lose them. Being your sister still means making up songs about cheese by-product snacks. It still means telling Aedan, who will be starting his senior year this year, that he’s, like, twelve years old.
But it also means being kinder to myself and sometimes means having to create space to be sad. It means honoring other siblings who have lost someone to depression. It means going to weekly therapy sessions and texting your friends when I really miss you. Being a survivor of suicide loss doesn’t fit perfectly on a Hallmark greeting card. It’s finding that sweet spot between being strong and not just trying to be impenetrable.
My first trip around the Sun without you since 1994 wasn’t filled with any less of your love or strength.
And the horrible fact of the matter is, I’ll probably take a lot more trips around the Sun without you than I did with you. I’ll have to learn the ways to tell my future kids our stories without you being there to chime in when it’s your turn. I’ll spend my next few trips around the Sun finding community when having conversations about you and your story. I’ll spend these next few trips figuring out how life without you can still be a life filled with you.
While I’m still not sure if have a concrete definition about what means to be a survivor of suicide loss, I’ll keep spending my trips around the Sun creating a space where people feel like others are reaching out for them. We, as family, a community, and a foundation will keep having conversations about why mental health matters.
As for what being your sister means for me today?
It will always mean reaching out to you.
I adored you your entire life and I will miss you for the rest of mine.
And hey, put in a good word for me and the Yankees with The Big Man upstairs.
P.S. I love you.
Angels in the Outfield
New York Yankees vs. Baltimore Orioles
16 Replies to “The Grieving Tree”
Your words are amazing and perfect about your brother. He’s stand right next to you, just in a different way. Beautiful !!!!!!!💙💛💙💛
I keep Sean’s memorial card in my monthly planner. I see him and always have to take a deep breath. He was a good friend of my son. I cannot imagine any greater pain than losing a son/ brother. I continue to pray for peace to Sean’s soul and healing for all those who loved him.
This is very well written. “Being a survivor of suicide doesn’t fit perfectly on a Hallmark card.” A year ago my heart broke for your family when Madi came in my room to tell us Aedan called and what had happened. Little did I know 8 months later my Mother in law would take her own life. My mother in law came to Sean’s viewing with Madi Don and I, she saw the pain everyone was feeling first hand and we talked so openly about it. I remain baffled because we openly talked about the heart break your family was feeling. Your Dad came to us to hug us the night Dolly died and continues to be an incredible friend as we get through our first trip around the sun without Dolly. Your articles help me, thank you for writing them as I try to understand my own journey through this sorrow.
Such an amazing expression of so many emotions of which many can relate, but many more cannot; you help educate beautifully. Your brother and entire family have helped so many in the past year, and your ability to turn the inconceivable into a positive is something we are so grateful for.
Hi I’m a friend of Eric’s. I identify with so much of what you do eloquently wrote about. I lost my step daughter in 2013 and my best friend of 28 years in 2017 to suicide. The 1st year I felt like was the worst but each ‘ trip around the sun’ is not easier just familiar. Thank you for sharing your experience. Personally I found the more I spoke about my experience the more I gained acceptance. Hugs and prayers 🙏❤️🙏
Kat-As always your words have touched my heart. May your family find peace and continue to heal. Sean will always hold a special place in my heart as well as you and Kevin.
Thinking of you Kat with s full heart. Thank you for sharing your heart and thoughts of love and sweet memories.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, emotions and love for your brother. You shed some light on me and I thank you. XO
You didn’t need the P.S. Sean always knew and still knows how much you love him. I remember the day he came home from the hospital, his 1st day of first grade, his 4th grade basketball team … and the smile & hug he’d give me when he saw me on campus. You’ve written such a beautiful and authentic tribute to your brother. I’ll never forget him.
That was just beautiful. You articulate your feelings of love so well. I’m sorry for the pain that you and your family have been through and continue to feel.
Absolutely beautiful Kat !! I am crying reading this Beauty !! You strength through this loss with your brother is absolutely amazing !! Your brother is right next you in spirit but, this time he is guiding you Beauty !!! While you are expecting and while you are tackling the challenges of Motherhood !! Don’t forget that Beautiful !! <3
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