eldest daughter grief

is this thing on?

There is a griefy unspoken moment after a parent dies that I don’t think we talk about nearly enough. A particular kind of grief that belongs to the eldest daughter. *Please note, this does not exclude other birth order grief, but it has been my truth for over three decades now and stirred up a lot of opinions on my Instagram page.

This is not because we loved more. Not because our grief was bigger than anyone else’s—but because loss often arrives with an inheritance tax no one talks about. One day you are someone’s daughter. The next you are expected to know where all the important paperwork is and who needs to be called. How to keep her favorite Thanksgiving feeling like Thanksgiving. Which recipes need to be written down before they disappear with the only person who knew them by heart? Poof!

It feels like one minute you are a the first born and the next you are in charge. There is no official changing of the guard and certainly no formal training—just a silent promotion you never signed up for. It felt urgent for me to become a bridge between what was and what is when our center fell out. It was silent, but duty called.

I remember looking around after my mother died, and waiting for an adult to walk into the room and tell me what to do. It took an embarrassingly long time to realize, they were not coming. It was Mom I was waiting for, she would know how to help, and she was gone.

About a year ago, I worked with an incredible therapist. A true, old-school New York analyst. When we did some work together, she reminded me that 27 may have looked very much like an adult back when, but where were all the grown-ups? The story I had told myself for years was, it was 1993, nobody said grief or grieving. She reminded me that she was VERY much in practice back then and shame on all of the adults (her words) around us for not suggesting that we may need to talk to someone. The most secure attachment in your life and most magical of mothers was here and gone overnight with no warning, and you were tasked with picking an outfit for her to be buried in.

I recall standing in front of her closet with my little sister and debating, hose or no hose? Mom was the queen of the control top and nobody needs to be squeezed into those for the rest of creation. How about a bra? Nope, we did not think she’d need that either. We also packed her make up back for the funeral home. She was very particular about product and we made sure it was all there.

Mom had a brain aneurysm and was kept on life support until we could get to the hospital. We were told she was brain dead upon arrival. If you were my brilliant mother and brain dead, you were in fact gone from this earthly plane. They waited to see if we were in agreement that her organs would be donated. Nobody offered sliding into those hospital sheets and spending a last hug and moments with her. My sister crossed the room when she noticed the hospital drape falling and exposing her breast. I don’t recall if I kissed her. If I said I love you. I must have, We always did.

Organs?

Well, I know that after her Mom, Grandma Bosch, died of emphysema she felt strongly about helping find a cure, and let us know organ donation was her wish.

Um, sure. Everything but her eyes. I am not sure why, but it seemed wherever she was off to, she would need those. They were the most her thing about her. When she looked at you, you were loved.

And we left.

The point here is that, nobody asks if you're ready. The title simply lands on your shoulders. Lucky me to have be “in it” with my sister. And also, feeling like it was my new job to mother, protect and care for her suddenly felt urgent. She was newly out of college, had landed a major gig as the comptroller of a hotel management firm and we both felt compelled to quickly go back to work. To normal. As if there is ever a going back or a normal after a loss.

One of grief’s cruelest little tricks is taking the person you love and suddenly changing your job description. I was so eager to hold on to what was left I became the keeper of memories. The keeper of birthdays and anniversaries and family lore. I took her appointment book and wrote down all the dates. I also felt like the keeper of everyone else’s heartbreak, never truly making space for my own until years later. (Motherless motherhood side swiped me!)

Soon people around you start calling you strong as though strength were a personality trait instead of a survival strategy. The more I was praised for being strong and strong like her, the more it became my m.o.

So here is what I know from the eldest daughters I meet.

They. Are. Tired.

They are making sure Dad gets to his appointments. They have her phone and are answering texts. They’re cleaning out closets no one else can bear to enter. Fluffing up the family house and putting it up for sale. They are remembering who gets Grandma’s china and making sure someone buys candles for the yahrzeit or flowers for the funeral.

They are still mothering while motherless. Still daughtering, even without a parent. What I wish someone had told me that I tell others? You are allowed to put the box down. You are allowed to order takeout instead of recreating the quintessential Sunday supper. Let someone help you make the decisions when you can’t or don’t know what comes next.

Being the eldest daughter does not require becoming emotionally bulletproof. It simply means you loved someone whose absence tries to rearrange the family.

If this is you, I hope you hear this from someone who has walked the road too. You don’t have to earn your rest, care or help. You were never meant to be taking charge overnight.

Remember it is your job to be the little girl who lost her person. Who deserves to be the grieving daughter again, if only for an afternoon or a holiday. Notice who and what feel like nurturing around you. Lean in. Let someone carry you.

PS. Please share this with an eldest daughter.