My brother died eight years ago, putting an end to a three-year roller coaster through hell that still doesn’t feel real. In March 2014, my dad was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. He died that May, and six weeks later, my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. In spring 2016, my brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, then six weeks later my sister died. On September 23, 2017, my brother took his last breath.

The shock of losing more than half of my immediate family fought with the relief that they were no longer suffering. That WE were no longer suffering. Because for three years my mom and I were trapped in cancer whiplash, unable to truly grieve my dad, then my sister, because there were more treatments, more scans, more prayers.

And then there wasn’t.

The day my brother died, I spent hours walking along Lake Michigan with my husband. It was a warm day and the state park was packed with people who had no idea of the seismic shift that had occurred in my life.

It was the first time in years I felt like I could breathe. That I could sit with what I’d lost — what my family had lost — and try to fathom how everyday life would continue.

That’s when the grief arrived.

Ordinary moments would bring me to tears because I couldn’t share it with them. Movies and TV shows would catch me off guard, leaving me an inconsolable mess. The episode of The Crown when the queen cares for her dying sister had me crying so hard I couldn’t speak. My poor husband knew I was crying because a sister was dying onscreen, but he couldn’t know it was because I would never share that moment with my sister; we would never grow old together.

And yet life kept going on.

A few weeks before my sister died I asked for something in her handwriting and she replied something to the effect of, “you are not getting a tattoo for me!”

The following September, I had three sparrows tattooed on my left shoulder blade honoring all three of them. Haha, the little sister finally got the last word.

At the end of 2018, I raised a silent New Years toast because we lasted a year with no more family deaths. Life felt like it could finally move forward. Jeremy and I bought our dream house. My mom continued to travel. Both my nephews got married.

Then the pandemic swept in.

As scary and uncertain as that time was, it gave me the space to wonder what if. What if my dad told someone that his throat was bothering him sooner? What if my sister’s cancer hadn’t spread? What if my brother had taken better care of himself so his body could have fought harder?

I blinked and we marked the eighth, ninth, tenth anniversary of my dad’s death. My niece and nephews grew into adults whose hopes and dreams their mother would never witness. I celebrated more birthdays than my sister. Then my brother.

Looking back, those three years feel to me the way the pandemic feels to most of the world: a hazy blur of mundane and traumatic, of chaos and unsteady calm that slips through your fingers before you realize it’s happening.

Then it’s over and life goes on.

But we’re not the same. We can’t be. Pieces of our hearts have been severed and shattered and left in the past, refusing to follow us to tomorrow. Some days the memories of our loved ones are enough, but next week your breath won’t come and you don’t know how you’ll get through another day without the person who was your everything.

To me, grief is like a scar. It might fade over time, but it never fully goes away.

I rarely go more than a day or two without thinking of my dad, my sister, my brother. Sometimes it’s because someone new asks that normally innocent question: “Do you have any siblings?” I take a breath then drop my bomb on them, their shock reminding me of the hell my mom and I survived.

My brother was a chef, so watching The Bear makes me both anxious and nostalgic because I imagine him in that kitchen. I’m incapable of seeing a boat and not thinking of my dad, aka Captain Gary — and we have a lot of boats in west Michigan. And every time my niece shares a picture of herself online, I see my sister in her eyes.

I don’t have any sage advice to end this neatly. When the wave of grief hits, all you can do is hang on until it passes and be grateful that your love for them remains so strong that their memories can still take your breath away and leave your heart aching for them.