When my mother had a recent medical crisis, on my way home from the hospital nearly in tears, I called a first cousin.
I was overwhelmed by a grief that felt new and heavy. I reached for someone who loves me and my mom, someone who has been in our family for longer than I have. She was kind enough to answer and stay on the line. She listened, was empathic, and said the right things.
After we spoke, I felt I still needed more. So, I called my aunt. Similarly, I felt heard, empathized with, and truly supported. While the conversation left me feeling better than the one with her daughter, somewhere in the middle of that conversation, I became aware of a particular ache that her kindness could not reach.
Neither of them was Tony, my only sibling.
They did not grow up watching my mother and father argue over who was more stubborn. Ironically, both of their stubbornness played a significant role in the delay to seek medical care. Neither my aunt nor my cousin shared the particular mix of exasperation, understanding, and tenderness that comes from being raised by the same person.
They couldn’t finish my sentences about what my mother is like, laugh at exactly the right moment, share a sarcastic quip, or be quietly furious alongside me in the way that only a sibling can be. They tried which helped, but it was not the same.
This is not a criticism of my cousin or my aunt. Rather, it is a statement about what siblings and sibling relationships are.
Siblings are the people who know our parents the way we do, from the inside of the same family, from the beginning. They share early memories, understand the dynamics and roles within the family system. They do not need the context explained. When a parent gets sick, a sibling would be the person who shares the weight of it, practically and emotionally, in a way that no one else quite can.
For surviving siblings, that person is simply not available. Not because they would not come. Because they are gone.
What I did not fully understand until my mother’s medical crisis is how specifically and sharply sibling loss reappears in moments like this. I had lived with Tony’s absence since February of 2020. And while I have understood grief to be an everchanging shape, I discovered a new dimension of it entirely as I navigated my mom’s health.
I only have one sibling, and now he is dead. I share this not to center my own experience, but because what is true for me is true in some form for every surviving sibling: the significance of a sibling’s death does not lessen because other siblings remain. The one who is gone is still gone, and caregiving has a way of making that absence impossible to ignore.
Caregiving was never supposed to be a solo act. When siblings grow up in the same family, there is an unspoken assumption that the weight of aging parents will one day be shared. The phone calls to doctors. The appointments, the decisions, the research into what comes next. The 3 a.m. worries about what is going to be required of you. Siblings divide this labor, not always equally, but they divide it. When you are the only surviving sibling, there is no division. There is only you. And for those with living siblings, the division of labor shifts and becomes heavier shining a light on the sibling’s absence.
Underneath the exhaustion of this is a fear that is harder to name.
The fear of being abandoned through death and of eventually being “the last one standing” gives way to fears about being forgotten, losing the sense of the past that grounded you, and wondering whether you cannot survive all of it.
These fears are not irrational. They are a clear-eyed look at what sole surviving means. And it deserves to be acknowledged rather than rushed past.
Dr. Kenneth Doka coined the term disenfranchised grief to describe losses that go unacknowledged and unsupported by the people and systems around us. Sibling loss is already a significant disenfranchised loss. People assume that because we are adults, and because we are not the deceased’s spouse or parent or child, our grief is somehow less significant.
Add caregiving to that, and the invisibility compounds. You become the person holding everything together while carrying a loss that most people around you have already moved on from, or perhaps never fully recognized in the first place.
What I want surviving siblings who are caregiving to know is this: what you are carrying is not one grief. It is at least two, layered and entangled, and they do not come apart cleanly no matter how much you might want them to. My parents could argue for hours over who was more stubborn, and neither would concede. Grief, it turns out, works the same way. The grief of sibling loss and the grief of a parent’s decline are both certain they have the right of way. Both refuse to yield.
The grief of what should have been shared is real. The grief of watching a parent struggle without the sibling who would have stood beside you (or at least answered the text or call) is real. The gap that your cousin’s kindness, your aunt or uncle’s support, your friend’s sympathy, or your spouse’s love cannot fully fill is real. It is not a reflection of what those people failed to give you.
It reflects who your sibling was and what they cannot be replaced in doing.
You called someone. Someone answered. That matters.
And you still had to hang up the phone and do this alone. That matters too.
Both things are true. Both things deserve to be held.