A Sibling’s Perspective
By Michelle Linn-Gust
When I’m out early in the morning on what I call a “runwalk” with my dog Chaco, I try to
savor the long shadows and the birds singing in the early morning hours. I also make an
effort to stop and smell some flowers. Occasionally, these feelings bring me back to the
months after my sister Denise walked in front of a train 10 years ago. I was in Colorado
Springs, a thousand miles from my Chicago area home, doing my journalism internship at
the United States Olympic Training Center. It might have been a million miles away from
my support. My family and friends wrote many letters and I called as much as I could from
the “five minute phone” at the registration desk on the OTC campus. Still, I was alone.
I remember one Saturday night shortly after dinner, how I had such a need to get out. I
was restless. I craved openness around me. I headed out for a walk in the surrounding
neighborhood and looked to the west where the sun was setting over Pike’s Peak. Having
come from the flat Midwest, the mountains created such a feeling of solace for me. I could
see peace in the rugged rock and dirt that jutted out from the ground for miles.
Yet I couldn’t believe my sister would give all that up. She’d been to Colorado Springs
before. In fact, we were there twice. Mom had taken us when she’d worked for the old
Midway Airlines. The perk to that was the airline travel we loved. Denise had the same
feeling in the mountains that I did. How could she forget that?
I searched for answers. How could my sister, who I thought valued life more than I did, just
let go two months from her high school graduation and two weeks from her 18 th birthday?
Life was her oyster.
In the years following her death, I would come to understand she didn’t see it that way. She
couldn’t. She was in so much pain, coping with her depression, bulimia and rape. All she
could think about was ending her sadness and hurt. At 17, I’m sure she wanted to know
why this big black cloud hovered over her. Hope for the future wasn’t there. What many of
us didn’t understand was how she couldn’t feel how much we cared for her. She was hurting
too much to reach out. Sixty days, she told herself, I can live 60 more days, but I can’t live
60 more years.
When she walked in front of that train though, she had no idea how much her death would
alter my life. Where I had thought the world was my oyster at 21, with my sister’s death
that changed. For a time, Denise took away much of my hope for the future. I trudged on
because I had to, because the world didn’t stop when she died. It hurt that she took half my
childhood memories with her though. How could she leave behind Koala Kenny and Raggedy
Ann who we’d had so much fun with over the years? It was Denise who could remember
every detail about family vacations and things we did, even the stuff I’m not too happy to
share, like the night before she died when she reminded me that I used to call my hair “my
golden locks.” I had no idea she was saying goodbye.
It wasn’t perfect and I had to cope with that after she had died. I never told her I loved her.
I put tape down on the floor in the room we shared for 10 years, even thinking it was nice
of me to tape her off a path so she could get in and out of the room to her half. As I would
begin to travel down my grief journey, one I’ve decided is a giant cornfield you can never go
around but must go through, I realized it was Denise who could tell you more about me
than probably anyone else. We’d spent so much time together as children and no one can
erase those almost 18 years we had.
The hardest part was driving to the funeral, watching all the cars go by, knowing they were
all going on with their lives, yet ours had halted. We were short a person in our family and
she wouldn’t be coming back. In time, we would start removing things from her room,
dividing some up between the three of us surviving siblings, our parents and a few of her
friends. People thought it was odd that I would wear the winter coat that she left in her
locker that March morning, rather than taking it with her to the train tracks. They didn’t
understand, I knew, and they couldn’t stop me from being comfortable with my decision.
That black coat was bought with my discount at Eddie Bauer, a job Denise got me for my
college Christmas breaks. In some way, I could keep her alive and I had every intention of
finding all the ways I could.
Denise will always be my sister. When people ask how many siblings I have, I tell them that
one is dead. If they’re uncomfortable with that, I know it’s not because of me, but rather
something they haven’t dealt with in their own lives. I won’t let Denise be forgotten.
I coped by writing and talking. My journal entries reflect my first real journey through the
loss of a loved one. I thought that grief would only last a short time. I didn’t realize it would
be a long journey of finding hope, that life can be good again, that there is a future. I had to
struggle and cry and scream to see that. I was mad that she hurt my family. I was angry
that she took something away from me. She wasn’t there for either of my college
graduations or my wedding.
I had to find ways to keep her alive. While searching for information on grief, I came to see
how little was available for sibling survivors of suicide. I wrote a paper in graduate school at
the University of New Mexico about the topic. Then I started speaking. That led to my book
for sibling survivors of suicide—Do They Have Bad Days in Heaven? Surviving the Suicide
Loss of a Sibling.
So I continue to speak about Denise, relishing in the memories I have and no one can take
from me. With her story, I hope to help others where no one could help me or my older
brother and sister. I can’t have her back but I can aid others and tell them a little about her
in the process. When I’m out for those runwalks, I sometimes think about her. Taking time
to feel the world around me is even more important without her here. Her loss taught me
that. I can’t go back but I can move forward and see more hope than ever before. She’s
here with me.