The Sister I Miss, The Sister I Love

Editor’s Note:

On the evening of March 4th, I was the guest of Ann Cutbill Lenane at one of her monthly Wise & Wonderful Women event to talk about Grief Dialogues: The Experience.  Along with Director Dani Davis and Death Doula and artist Lauren Seeley, I answered questions from Ann, our host on the topic of grief.

It’s my firm belief that sharing a story serves as a bridge between personal experience and shared humanity.

For the writer, storytelling can be a cathartic process, allowing them to transform pain, grief, or confusion into something tangible and meaningful. By shaping raw emotions into a narrative, they gain clarity, find a sense of control, and create beauty from their struggles. Writing provides a safe space to express feelings that might otherwise remain unspoken. It also fosters self-discovery—through crafting characters, themes, and resolutions, the writer often uncovers deeper truths about their own journey.

For the reader, a story offers connection and validation. When readers encounter characters or experiences that resonate with their own, they feel seen and understood. This can be especially healing in grief or difficult times, as a well-told story reminds them, they are not alone. Even if the story is fictional, it can provide emotional release, offer new perspectives, and inspire hope.

Ultimately, storytelling is a shared act of meaning-making—whether through fiction, poetry, or memoir, or theatre, stories help us all process our emotions, find solace, and move forward with greater understanding.

Thank you, Jen Wald, for sharing your story at the Wise and Wonderful Women event and allowing us to repost it here. 

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To my mother, Sandy, this is for you.

You were gone before I could know you, but you are in everything I am. You left behind three daughters by the time you were 30—Allyson, Andrea, and me. We grew up without you, but never without the love you gave us.

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

The First Loss, The Lasting Grief

I have carried grief for as long as I have carried memory. My first loss was my mother, taken in an instant when I was six months old in a car accident. But I was too young to know what I had lost. With Allyson, I knew.

July 23, 2011. The day Amy Winehouse died. The day our sister almost did too.

Allyson wasn’t chasing adventure that day. She was chasing music—something she had always loved but never pursued for herself. Music was woven into her life, even while running her Amagansett salon, styling the hair of celebrities, flying on a private plane with Paul McCartney. Now, she wanted to see if she had a voice worth sharing. That’s why she picked me up from yoga in Manhattan—on her way to audition for The Voice.

Then, in a massive hotel in New Jersey, in the second-floor lobby bathroom, with no one in sight, she looked at me. “I don’t feel well.” And then she fell.

I screamed. I didn’t know what to do. She was the one who knew. The EMT. The CPR instructor. But it was a stranger—a hotel guest—who stepped in, keeping her heart beating until the ambulance came. They said she had lost 20 to 25 minutes of oxygen.

Three agonizing days in the ER. Then the ICU. We didn’t know if she’d live. And when she did, it was clear: our sister had survived, but she would never be the same.

Losing Her Without Losing Her

Three sisters. Allyson, Andrea and me—Jen. We had already lost both of our parents young. Our sisters were our world. Maybe that’s why we held onto each other so tightly. Maybe that’s why we thought we always would.

Allyson and I were both single and without children. She was my partner in crime—my travel buddy. Andrea was the nurturing, caring one who first made us aunts, my most treasured role after being a sister. And then, suddenly, we had to become something new.

From the beginning, Andrea and I were in this together. We became co-guardians overnight. I was on the ground, in person, navigating hospitals and care facilities on the East Coast, selling her Montauk house. Andrea, with two young children—just seven and eleven at the time—flew back and forth, handling the paperwork, the calls, the endless battles with insurance.

Her insurance changed on August 1, and suddenly, no rehab facility would take her. For three months, she was trapped in a hospital bed while we scrambled for a solution. The only place that would accept her was two hours upstate. So we sent her there.

They taught her to eat again. To talk again. To live again. But the brain injury had changed her. The sister who built a life in Montauk, who ran a salon, who picked up a microphone to audition for The Voice? That sister was gone. The grief settled in.

Not just for her, but for everything her life had been. The Montauk house. The beach. The salon. The freedom we all had.

The Weight of It All

We became her advocates in a system designed to break people. Medicaid. Medicare. Facilities that saw a diagnosis, not a person. We fought for years to give her dignity.

And through it all, we worked. Andrea raised her kids. I held onto a full-time job. And we carried the weight of it—physically, emotionally. I didn’t realize how much I had lost myself in the process.

Then, another blow. Andrea and I discovered we had a genetic mutation that predisposed us to cancer. But this time, we had a choice. We had the surgeries—mastectomy, hysterectomy, reconstruction. And instead of grief, we felt joy. For once, we could control the loss. We were given the chance to choose life.

As of today, I’ve lost 50 pounds. I am the same weight I was on the day Allyson collapsed. But I am not the same person.

Finding Pieces of Her Again

In 2019, we made the biggest decision of all. We moved Allyson to Pennsylvania—to a community that saw her as a person, not just a patient.

And then, the biggest surprise of all: she found a boyfriend.

Except it wasn’t a surprise—it was her biggest goal. For years, she had wanted a relationship. And for the first time, she was in a place that gave her the resources, the socialization, and the opportunity. 

Her boyfriend is twenty-three years younger than her. A glimpse of the old Allyson—the one who always had a thing for younger guys. It was ridiculous. And wonderful. And so her.

She started therapy. Real therapy—something we had been searching for since 2011. She had a home, not just a place to be. And when COVID hit, we said again and again: if we hadn’t moved her when we did, none of us would have survived. It is partly said in jest, but mostly the truth.

And through it all, one thing remained.

Music.

Music and memory live in different parts of the brain, and though so much of her had changed, she still knew every word to every song. The woman who once stood in a hotel bathroom, preparing to sing for strangers, can still sing today. Even when other memories fail her. 

The Grief That Never Ends, The Love That Never Leaves

Even now, the grief ebbs and flows.

Her personality shifts. She has new fears—escalators, stairs. Her body has changed. She complains. A lot. And sometimes, my patience wears thin. 

But I stay. Because she is still here. Because I am still her sister.

Having lost both parents, I thought I understood grief. But I never could have imagined this. Grief that doesn’t come in a single moment, but stretches across years. A grief that doesn’t end, because she didn’t.

At 53, I understand now that grief is not something you get through. It is something you carry. It reshapes you, forces you to let go of the life you expected.

And yet, I have not carried it alone.

We have a younger brother who grew up alongside us in this tangled web of loss and love, and through it all, he has remained a steady presence in our lives. In addition to the strong bond we share with him, his son has brought even more joy, especially in the time they’ve spent with Allyson over the years.

A cousin who is truly a sister. Countless other cousins who are far closer than their roles suggest—family in every way that matters. Friends who have lifted me up on the hardest days. Nieces and nephews who bring infinite joy. There are healers—both those I have sought out and those who have simply shown up—who have helped me rebuild, physically and emotionally.

And there is Allyson herself, in all the ways she continues to change, to grow. Her deep, boundless love for her family. Her fierce care for her friends and caregivers. Her passion for art, for music, for beauty in all its forms. Her unshakable enthusiasm for even the smallest pleasures. She is not who she was before—but she is still here, still full of love, still uniquely and wonderfully Allyson.

Each has played a part in the “village” that has been my lifeline, helping me to curate the beautiful life I get to live each day.

Even in the loss, we keep going.

Even in the grief, we keep loving.

Even in the waves, we find our way.

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