“It’s just a day”–my sister’s 17th death anniversary. I can tell myself over and over, and my mind can almost believe it.
But my body says differently: It’s not “just a day;” it’s Shannon Day, & I will always make sure you remember.
It’s painful to remember. And sometimes it’s joyful. Most of the time, it’s a tangled blend that’s heavier on the pain.
It hurts to think that 17 years ago, on the 17 of October, at this very time, Shannon was already gone; and yet pregnant me was settling into my car, heading through Flagstaff, AZ, and sitting at a light, waiting to turn left.
Oh what a metaphor that would become for our lives in so short a time! Left turns. 180 degree turns. Long halts and steep climbs. So many twists and turns happened when she died.
Not only did I lose my closest sister, my best friend my whole life since she was born when I was 16 months; we lost an entire family.
Shannon’s husband, Rob, had died barely two months prior of melanoma, at age 33. I’d shortly learn that Shannon had died that very early morning in her sleep, the result of an overdose of alcohol and acetaminophen, at 31. I instinctively knew their two boys would become our new sons. I instinctively knew that not only were Shannon and Rob gone; their whole family was gone.
We lost the family that was about to be for my husband and me, too. I’d give birth to our baby girl in just three weeks, and what would’ve been our bravely chosen number of 4 children (2 sons 2 daughters) would become six children (4 sons, 2 daughters), a family forged from loss.
I wonder now:
Why am I’m writing all these details of Shannon’s death (which an autopsy eventually ruled a suicide)?
Why aren’t I writing how much I miss her, how sad I still am and always will be that none of us have her here, how much I’ve wanted her with me these past years through too many other losses, and especially through my seemingly unending journey through breast cancer, chronic, and mental illness?
Why aren’t I writing how mysterious grief is, how elusive and yet how eternally present?
Why aren’t I writing the words I woke up to in the he early hours of this 17th anniversary of the 17th of October: “I just want to talk to her. I miss her so much it hurts”?
The body remembers & speaks these words without sound.
The body wakes me at her time of death in the middle of the night, early this morning, and suddenly I’m searching for her autopsy report—the one I couldn’t bear to read until the 2 year anniversary of her death. Suddenly I’m sifting through letters and trinkets in the sunflower-covered box I keep in my closet of her things, of Robs things, of things, I realize at one am and two am, their sons, now 23 & 27, should be given. They’re old enough, but are they ready? Am I ready?
I don’t find the autopsy report, but instead find a card Shannon had kept from me. In it, I apologized that it had been a while since we’d spoken, reminding her I was there for her, that I was aware she’d been struggling, and telling her “I hope you know how important you are in this life”—like a prophecy I didn’t even know at the time had any potential to come true.
And that’s when it hurts the most–right when I realize the significance of those words today. She was so important in this life, so needed, so loved. Yet her struggle to feel these things was real and probably like a weight upon her until it drowned her in wine and loosened her mind, and she didn’t know what she was doing until it was too late, until she was gone from her body, until she was free.
Now the weight is mine. Is ours.
Like a phoenix from the ashes, we created a new family, this beautiful and love-filled family, bonded forever not only by legal adoption papers but by surviving tragedy, too much tragedy. This would only be the beginning.
As I remember now, and write, I suddenly hear: “I hope you know how important you are in this life,” as if a whisper from Heaven, from Shannon, from my former self.
I too have felt that weight of my body, of cancer and chronic and mental illness, of a body I seem to be dragging around at this point, hoping it will come to life once again. It’s the weight of a war-torn country that breast cancer, then ptsd, and now autoimmune disease & medical grade anxiety and depression, have bombed until the “me” I’d finally found after going from “Christi & Shannon” to “mom of 6,” to finally simply “Christi,” was obliterated.
I wonder as I sit still in my robe in my warm bed on this chilly morning and type furiously all these thoughts in my mind, emotions in my body, feelings in my soul, to get them out of me.
Who am I since breast cancer made me have to be a reluctant warrior?
Who am I now that so many complications, 15 major surgeries, amputations, transplants, and near death moments have left my body continually on fire and attacking itself through Mast Cell Activation Syndome (MCAS), Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (EDS), and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), leaving me without basic abilities that have always been “me”?
Who am I without Shannon? Without “Christi”?
I will not succumb to the same fate.
I will hear myself and I will believe that Shannon, and God, led me to forsake sleep for a middle of the night treasure hunt—one I didn’t even realize I was engaged in, but now I see was necessary for me–and remember Shannon today. I will know she knew I loved her, I was there for her, I did what I could, and let go of any stains of guilt about her being gone.
It was necessary for me to feel today that she is now looking out for me, and for our family, that God is watching out for us, and that together, they’re using my own words to speak the words I need to know today:
“You matter in this life, Christi.”
“You survived cancer for a purpose in Me”.
“You are so loved and needed…no matter how you look or feel or are. Your physical body is but the test of life, and one day you too will live pain free, filled with Love Divine, and knowing you fulfilled your purpose, because I (Shannon) & Rob & our children, and I (Your God) will be welcoming you home, singing your praises.”
A reminder to anyone else who needs it on this Shannon Day: “You matter and are needed in this life”.
You do.
You are.
If you or someone you love is struggling with your mental health or suicide,
please text or call the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: 988.
Or visit: 988Lifeline.org
Leave a comment below, and let us know your questions, thoughts of support, and/or experiences with loss, grief, and healing.
5 Responses
That is a lot. I am so sorry for the loss of your sister and brother-in-law. Oddly enough, my sister was severely depressed, an alcoholic, anorexic and in pain. She wanted to go, and the universe gave her an out. I am visiting her the 2nd day in the hospital, and she died the next day. Ther’s a
saying- “it went the way it was always supposed to go” but a break would be nice.
A break would be nice for sure. That sounds like a very hard loss. Quick, and sudden. Sending hugs.
I lost my mom and sister 31 days apart 2 yrs ago. I’m crushed and can’t find a balance. My sister left behind a child, a life, a future. To process the loss is overwhelming and it is consuming me mentally.
That is so much to have to go through at once. I am so terribly sorry for both of these terrible losses. Processing loss like this can take so much mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually. It can help to have someone to walk you through, if that’s possible. I’m sending love your way.
This post really touched me—thank you for sharing something so personal and heartfelt. Grief anniversaries can bring back a flood of emotions, and your reflections reminded me how important it is to allow ourselves to feel and process those waves, even years later. I’ve also been exploring resources on grief and healing lately, and I found some really compassionate insights on PsychologicalHealing.net that align with what you shared here. It’s comforting to know that there are safe, supportive spaces out there for those navigating long-term grief. Thank you again for your honesty and strength.