Boundaries and Grief: Lessons Along the Way
Processing loss, finding rhythm, and focusing on life’s near-wins
My brother Patrick would be turning 55 today, an angel number, some say. I like that idea and believe it. I don’t need to know some things are true to believe them.
Siblings help us mark our own ages.
If they’re older, they help you imagine your future.
If they’re younger, their milestones and markers remind you of your own past ones.
Patrick and I have birthdays 4 years and 4 days apart.
Our other two brothers’ birthdays are 5 years and 5 days apart.
Teddy and Stuart celebrated their winter birthdays together at the start of winter. Patrick and I celebrated ours at the end of summer.
Life has a natural rhythm that seems to keep on and on until it doesn’t.
It’s been almost three years since Patrick passed away. This past year has felt different than the first two.
On the one hand, it does get easier (which might make you feel guilty for “moving on”).
And on the other hand, it doesn’t always, especially on some days (which can also make you feel guilty, as if you should have moved on by now).
I’ve felt both. But I’m learning to let go of any “rules” to feelings. I try to feel what I feel (no permission, explanation, or reason needed). But that doesn’t mean other people need to feel all my feelings. That I’m very much working on too. I was reminded of that by my youngest son last fall.
Patrick’s death anniversary falls near my youngest son’s birthday. For the past few years, our mom’s been having memorial Masses for Patrick nearby in Plain, WI, where his ashes are buried. This year, my family didn’t attend the memorial Mass.
Grieving is different for everyone, even loved ones. In part, because we’re different people. And importantly, we each had different relationships with the person. For my mom, losing a child is like no other loss.
For me, I need to be a mom to my son first. Patrick gave me this reminder.
Last fall, my youngest son heard me talking to another parent after school about upcoming plans for Patrick’s memorial Mass. Then, as my son and I walked to the car, he asked me, “Why do we have to keep talking about him?”
As soon as we got in the car he started crying and saying he couldn’t really remember Patrick anymore. When he got home, he ran to his room (shut the door) and into his closet (shut the door). There’s something about being behind two closed doors that feels essential sometimes.
Gratefully, I still can hear Patrick’s voice, prodding me back in the game if I’m on the bench too long and reminding me to tend to what matters most now. That particular day, he scolded me to let him go and forget about the memorial—“Just celebrate the boy’s birthday.”
The loss of Patrick is different for my youngest son than for my other kids. Patrick is his godparent. His middle name is Patrick. And he’s heard lots of people tell him he looks like Patrick did as a kid (because he does).
I wonder now if it’s ever good to name kids after relatives. My middle name comes from my Grandma Marie. I grew up feeling annoyed by how a shared name was almost like having a fixed label of who I’d end up being, just as I was trying to become uniquely me.
Since then, I don’t talk about Patrick around my kids as much. I don’t call my youngest by his middle name Patrick, breaking from the tradition of calling my sons by their middle names. I work on maintaining boundaries, keeping my feelings to myself when there’s no reason my kids or others need to know them. I fail at times, but being perfect isn’t the point. Giving breathing space is.
Boundaries are always hard for me. It’s not just that I didn’t learn them. I learned they were bad to have with people on your “side.” And I learned how to build fortresses against people who weren’t. Finding a space between takes ongoing effort, and it’s so easy to backslide into habits that harmed more than helped. There’s no permanent fix to the problem. I can feel when I start slipping back and need some support to get back on track, so I can move ahead with the life I have.
This is my favorite childhood picture of Patrick. I love seeing his childlike sense of curiosity about the natural world, which he never lost. It was taken at the Crane Foundation in Baraboo, WI, in the late 1970s when our Uncle Konrad worked there. I barely remember visiting. Patrick helped fill in my early memories in the way that older siblings often can.
“The mosquitos were really bad so the fishing ended early but the cabin was really fun. We picked prairie flower seeds, mushrooms and spent time with the birds,” Patrick wrote to me in an email from 2020 I just reread. We spent a lot of time reconnecting and reminiscing during the early pandemic days.
Patrick wrote that his memories of visiting the Crane Foundation were tied to his first reading of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield book.
“Treat possibilities as probabilities.”
This partial quote1 is one of the many commonly quoted from the book, which overflowed with idealism in a Victorian-era, privileged perspective kind of way.
The quote could mean opposing thoughts depending on whether the possibilities were positive or not. On the positive side, the quote sounds like a “power of believing” sales pitch or coaching talk. On the flip side, it sounds like a warning: “If something bad can happen it most likely will.”
I’ve spent too much time in both places.
Death is a probability that’s certain. And I’m one year away from the age Patrick died. I have no reason to think I’ll die soon, but there are no guarantees on when, only probabilities, not certainties.
What’s grounding me now (after a teary few hours this morning, which I did not expect to have) is thinking about good probabilities, ones that are close to happening but still not quite there.
What are some near-wins I can help make happen?
Those last miles or final few inches often get forgotten. Attention moves on and momentum becomes taken for granted. It’s shocking how often low-hanging fruit gets ignored. I want to spend more time in that quadrant this next year, treating positive probabilities as possibilities.
Life has a natural rhythm that seems to keep on and on until it doesn’t. Sometimes it needs a gentle push and a nudge, again and again, to keep on going, until it’s someone else’s turn and time to move on.
As I focus on more good things to help move ahead, I know I’ll end up moving too, discovering a new rhythm for the moment, and in whatever moments I have.
“The most important thing in life is to stop saying 'I wish' and start saying 'I will.' Consider nothing impossible, then treat possibilities as probabilities.” - Charles Dickens
I agree with the first sentence, but the second one is way too grandiose for how I’m feeling. I like this better:
Treat hopeful probabilities as possibilities, then do what you can to build momentum.
Happy birthday to your brother's memory, Daphne.