In theory, we all understand that death is a part of life, except we really don’t. For most of us, life begins within a standard family unit: a father, a mother, and siblings. We spend the first eighteen years or so of our lives tied to that family unit, bound by all the things, both happy and frustrating, associated with that connection.
During those eighteen years of family dinners, household chores, family vacations, visits to and from grandparents, holiday traditions, and birthday celebrations, all mixed in with a little bit of discipline and teenage angst, we rarely contemplated life without the family unit. And rightfully so. Dwelling on thoughts of life without our parents and siblings would be considered both unnatural and depressing.
Eventually, most of us graduate from high school, attend college, get grown-up jobs, and start families of our own, but if we so desire, and work hard at it, that familial connection remains. Living nearby makes it easier to maintain a connection. Still, even the distance of an overseas move can be overcome by phone calls, emails, old-fashioned letter writing, FaceTime, social media, and cross-continent air travel.
Some of us live out our days blissfully ignorant of the hovering abyss that remains when you outlive your entire birth family. Although I do not have firsthand experience with this gut-wrenching phenomenon, I have witnessed the devastation it brings.
In 1994, my husband, an Air Force Staff Sergeant, was stationed at San Vito Air Station, Italy. Although his tour of duty was not complete, the base was slated for closure, and he chose to separate from the military. We returned home to Texas. At the time, no one but God knew my mother-in-law was sick.
Our oldest son and I returned to the States in April 1994, and my husband joined us in late July. Our daughter was born that same month, a second son in May 1996. All three of our children met and spent time with their paternal grandmother, but only our oldest child has even faint memories of her, as she was gone by July 1997.
Her loss was felt immensely; family gatherings were never the same. We all tried to continue with the traditions she cherished, but echoes of her absence reverberated through our hearts.
Eventually, the family rallied to a new normal with my sister-in-law assuming the role of matriarch. It was a tough job, as she and my father-in-law often disagreed on what that role entailed. However, Terri was fiercely determined to honor the memory of her mother and stuck it out, often to her own emotional peril.
It was a bright and sunny day at the end of May 2020 when a devastating phone call once again shattered our world. My husband and I had just spent a fun and relaxing weekend at the beach with our children and their spouses. Everyone had headed home, and we were working on some household maintenance. Through the phone, I heard my brother-in-law say these words, “She’s gone.” Terror gripped my heart! Who is gone? Surely he couldn’t mean….and just like that, my husband had lost both his mother and his baby sister.
From this point, life unraveled quickly. Less than a year later, in 2021, another phone call, this one from an uncle telling us my husband’s baby brother had been found unresponsive, was on life support, and it didn’t look good. My brother graciously offered to make the trip to Georgia with my husband so he could make arrangements for his deceased brother’s return to Texas.
No one should ever have to attend the funeral of both their younger siblings, let alone officiate the ceremonies, but the tragedies didn’t end there. My father-in-law had been in and out of nursing homes and hospitals for the years preceding both Terri and Marc’s passing. By 2023, we were arranging our fourth Miller family funeral. Of what was once a nuclear family of five, now only one remains.
Grief knows no boundaries, raising its fearsome head whenever it desires. Man-made obstacles, such as Last Wills and Testaments, filing for probate, court dates, endless attestations, and all the material possessions left behind, provide ample opportunities for the dark stranger to appear.
Two years following my father-in-law’s passing, we are finally able to start the arduous process of dismantling his estate. Walking through the empty halls of what was once the home of a vibrant family, the heaviness is tangible. Voices of those who used to be echo off the bare walls, and ghosts of times past refuse to leave. Although this is not the house where I grew up, nor did I ever call it home, the memories still threaten to suffocate each time I cross the threshold.
I honestly cannot begin to imagine the heartache of losing both my parents and younger siblings, but it is a reality my husband lives with each day. Despite his deep personal loss, he continues to be an attentive husband, father, and grandfather. Some days, the grief strikes hard; other days, it leaves him alone. But the fact remains, he is the sole survivor of his nuclear family, and time can never undo the weight of that unjust travesty.
Until Next Time,
Becky J Miller
Warrior Princess