I was co-facilitator at Hospice in Whitehorse, Yukon, for a group of children whose losses included friends, sisters, and brothers…but mostly mothers, fathers, and especially grandparents.

Each Saturday the group opened with candle lighting and then we’d go around the room and each child and facilitator would say their name, their age, who they lost, something special about that person, and then have a quiet moment of memory reflection to feel the love-light inside.

When it came around to me I heard myself saying, “My name is Melanie and when I was twelve-years-old my brother-in-law died and he was very special to me. And when I was twenty-seven-years-old, my oldest sister died and she was a great friend.” Each week as I said this and reflected, I felt I was touching a very raw part of myself.

It was also at this time that I sometimes left my infant daughter at home in the care of her father. I began to notice that each time I left her behind, I felt devastated and fearful that I shouldn’t be separating from her.

Also during this time I found myself thinking a lot about my brother-in-law, Larry, and trying to remember what it was like when he died. How did I respond to his death? I couldn’t come up with much. I know Larry had meant a great deal to me. I remember following him around and wishing he were my brother (before my sister, Marlene, married him when I was seven) and looking forward to his hugs and smiles after he read me bedtime stories. I adored Larry and I remember the last thing he said to me was that he was going to teach me how to dance. Of course, that never happened because he died shortly after.

As I thought about it, I realized Larry had given me more affection than some of my own family members. Slowly a connection was becoming clear to me. My feelings were becoming even more intense. The children’s grief group was bringing to the surface all the grief I never shed for my brother-in-law. What shut me down even more is the fact that I had never been allowed to go to Larry’s funeral. And nobody had talked much to me about what had happened when he died. I just remember Marlene being completely distraught. No one comforted or supported me and I had kept the confusion, the pain, the sorrow and loss inside because I never knew “the whole story”. My only attempt to express my feelings was a story I started to write in school…and never finished. That’s probably why, after my sister Cindy died, I had to research her life and death and eventually compile it into a detailed story of understanding for myself in order to heal.

In my next Blog I’ll share how I dealt with those long-ago feelings that surfaced because of the children’s group.

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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