Seeing the Forgotten Mourners

Shortly after my oldest brother was killed in Afghanistan in 2009, I started to receive calls from TAPS. The first call came while I was in class, struggling to make it through yet another long day. Curiosity piqued by the unknown number, I checked my voicemail from the bathroom. A smooth, comforting voice told me that she had heard about Ben’s death and wanted to reach out. She thought that I might need some extra support. There’s no doubt that I did need extra support, but I was skeptical. Ben was my best friend and guiding star, but in the story of his death, I played only a supporting role at best. A one-line extra, most often seen in the background of large group shots. How did she know about me? No one knew about the sibling grievers. I may have been new to the world of sibling grief, but I knew we were the invisible ones. 

It wasn’t until years later that I would hear surviving siblings referred to as the “forgotten mourners,” our grief chronically dismissed and disenfranchised. Research into familial losses shows that siblings experience disproportionately high rates of disenfranchised grief — meaning their loss is not socially acknowledged or supported. This lack of validation can lead to avoidant coping mechanisms and complicated grief disorders. I was so used to being dismissed, to having my grief written off as the dramatics of a woman in her 20s, that I was skeptical of anyone who claimed to want to help me. On top of that, I was determined to direct all of my grief-fueled rage at the Army and anyone (or anything) associated with it. I saw the Army not as how Ben lived, but how he died. I was insistent that the Army had killed the most beautiful soul I’d ever met, and anyone who tried to convince me otherwise was part of the problem. They stole him from me, and now they wanted to help? No, thank you. 

The second time TAPS called, the voicemail played back the same comforting voice, the same offer of support. My rage had grown stronger by that time, as is often the case. Grief rage is a special kind of anger that can reach a level of intensity previously unimaginable. I never knew true rage until I knew grief; then, it became one of my most common emotions. And here was that call, again — another voicemail offering to help. I couldn’t believe a stranger genuinely wanted to help me. I assumed they were using me to get to my mom, and I was not about to let that happen. Ben was gone, and now it was my job to protect her. I did the thing that so many bereaved siblings do: I prioritized the emotional needs of my grieving parents and other family members and entered protection mode. No one else in my family would be hurt, not on my watch. Unfortunately, when we put the grief of others before our own like this, it can fuel a quiet grief — internalized, invisible pain that can persist for years without acknowledgement or support. I was falling deeper into the abyss of sibling loss, something no one talked about but that consumed my every thought. Once again, I deleted the message without responding. 

Undeterred, the calls continued. Every month or two, I’d see the now familiar number pop up on my phone, and each time, I would send it to voicemail. Each voicemail came with the same offer of support from the same calming voice. She wasn’t giving up on me, even though I had long since given up on myself. I was resigned to spending the rest of my life in deep grief, unable to conceive of a happy, contentful life without both my older brothers by my side. The anger slowly settled, and at some point, I could acknowledge that this woman was not, in fact, the reason my brother was killed. I could even acknowledge that she wanted to help me, not my parents. For a long time, she remained the only person outside my close circle who seemed to understand the simple fact that siblings grieve. I started to save the messages. Just because I couldn’t bring myself to answer the phone didn’t mean her calls went unanswered. Over time, the voicemails themselves gave me comfort. Simply knowing that someone cared, that someone saw my grief, was enough. 

I’m not sure when the calls stopped, but they did. She told me they would, that she would stop calling but would always be there if I wanted to reach out. I listened to that one a lot, wondering if I should finally return the call. I never did.

Years passed, and those voicemails burrowed somewhere deep in my mind, nearly forgotten but still accessible when I needed them. In that time, I started the work of writing a book about sibling grief. It was to be the book I needed so desperately — but the book that didn’t exist — when I lost Ben. I am a qualitative researcher, and talking to people is what I do; it is what I love. So, for my book, I wanted to do just that: interview other bereaved siblings in an effort to capture the full range of experiences. I was set to conduct dozens of interviews in a short period of time, sometimes multiple back-to-back interviews in the same day, and I was terrified. I’d never talked to other bereaved siblings like this, and I didn’t know what it would do to me. Would I be triggered? Would these interviews send me back into the deep, relentless grief that I’d spent years trying to dig myself out of? 

The first interview came and went, then the second, and the third. With each interview, I felt lighter. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. So much of this terrible experience seemed to be universal: feeling crushed — a reflection of the deep love we felt for our siblings — and a society that doesn’t know how to support grievers. Except, some people do know, don’t they? Those voicemails were proof of that. This was exactly what TAPS was trying to offer me: a community of grieving siblings who knew what I was going through. Those interviews became the backbone for my book, Always a Sibling: The Forgotten Mourner's Guide to Grief, providing insight into the experience of sibling loss across a range of relationship types, lived experiences, and causes of death. Without those interviews, I could never have accurately captured the experience of losing a sibling to addiction, as a young child, or with whom you had a strained relationship. On a personal level, without those interviews, I don’t think I would have been able to heal myself. Each one gave me a new insight into my own grief and a new perspective on how to move forward.

If I could go back in time, I’d beg 25-year-old Annie to answer those calls from TAPS. Back then, I had no idea that the support they were offering me could have changed everything. Perhaps it would have helped me move through my grief, rather than getting stuck in it for years. Maybe I would have learned sooner that grief is love and that I could learn to live with it. Maybe I would have met someone else who understood what it was like to lose someone in such a violent way — someone who had the same nightmares.

Even though I didn’t answer, those calls were not for nothing. They gave me comfort in early grief when comfort was so hard to find, and they remain the only sibling-specific outreach I ever received. They were reminders that I was allowed to grieve and that my grief mattered.

PHOTOS: Annie Sklaver Orenstein