Aftermath-Picking Up The Pieces
Dad had been diagnosed with Paranoid Schizophrenia, in a time when mental illness was loaded with stigma, and seen as a deficit of character. Every single person encountered had an opinion, not only of mental illness, but also and especially about suicide.
The funeral came 5 days after he died.
The morning of the funeral, Mom found out she was pregnant. I can only imagine how alone she felt, and how immense the future was to her at that time. She lost everything she loved. She would lose her freedom again, and move back in with Grandma and Grandpa. This had been her shot, and it was ending.
My other younger sister was old enough to be walking around. She spent weeks just walking around saying “Dada dada.” She was so heartbroken and confused.
My brother went into “man of the house” mode, as though he needed any more power. He also stepped up and helped my mother significantly. So did I. (Thinking of it now, I’m struck by how many times my mother had to hear how amazing it was that her kids stepped up so much. There are all kinds of things like that, that people point out because THEY want to feel better in the situation. If you put yourself in her shoes, what she heard over and over again that it should make her grief less. It did not make her grief less, but it did make it harder to process.)
Everyone came out for the funeral, and there were all of these compulsory behaviors that seemed so empty, but everyone acted like they did something. It was so confusing. Lots of grown ups talked about hell.
How could my dad be going some place that I wasn’t even allowed to say the name of around my grandmother?
We finished up the school year, and Mom sold the house. In June, my Grandparents came out with the horse trailer to load up. My grandparents took my younger sister and I with them, leaving my mom and brother in Indiana to finish closing on the house.
My younger sister was not an outgoing or friendly baby. She only liked her own people, and of us, I was her least favorite. She would not allow Grandma or Grandpa to hold her, or feed her, or bathe her, or put her to sleep. She was just a little over one year old, so she wasn’t sleeping through the night.
It took another two weeks for Mom to close on the house. I barely slept, and only took two showers during that time. Grandma said that she’d be happy to take her, and she wasn’t afraid of a crying baby. My sister didn’t want that, and she had lost her entire world and absolutely everything that had ever made sense to her. I couldn’t hand her over.
A Hero Narrative and an Empty Hole
I will say that caring for my sister during this time became a story that everyone loved to tell. Finally, there was a positive narrative in which I was the hero.
I became the Baby Whisperer, not just for my sister- but also my cousin who was the same age. (My mom and aunt had a habit of getting pregnant at the same time. My cousin was 6 weeks older than my sister and they were both pregnant again.)
I also went profoundly numb.
Nothing made sense after dad died. Going back to life seemed so ridiculous. There was just this void that built up inside of me. Feelings were a liability, and they hurt, and they give other people a way to hurt you. The feelings I had before I went numb were inconvenient. They were immense and people had no patience for them.
I trained to be Mom’s labor coach. I had been through the classes with her and Dad for the first birth. I would have to be Dad this time. Mom and I actually got pretty close as a result.
When my youngest sister was born all of those emotions hit me at once. I was no longer numb, but very very overwhelmed.
The baby gave us something joyful to participate in, and it seemed like this was the way forward. My mom and I developed an intuition between us and we worked like a team that didn’t need words. She was no longer dripping with disappointment all of the time.
I loved that baby with my whole heart.
Survivor Literacy 
What do you think?