Grieving the dead is complicated. Here's how you can help someone experiencing loss. NPR Morning Edition
Orenstein spoke about the complexities of loss and how people respond in the moment in a Morning Edition interview with Michel Martin. We reached out to Orenstein in the wake of the pop singer Mariah Carey losing both her mother and sister on the same day. Carey's mother was 87, according to public records, and lived in an assisted living facility in Florida. Her sister was 63 and in hospice care in New York state.
After my brother died, I felt guilty when experiencing joy. I'm learning to let go of that. Business Insider
The first time I felt true joy in the months after my brother Ben's death it was followed by a wave of depression that I had never anticipated. I hadn't felt joy, true happiness, in so long that I didn't think those kinds of highs were even possible. Then, when it happened, it was as if I had finally made it to the top of the tower of terror, only to plunge back down again.
Coping with the Loss of a Sibling, NPR’s Life Kit
Check out this interview with Annie and NPR’s Life Kit on sibling loss.
This Memorial Day, Ask Me About My Brother, TIME
Before my brother Ben was killed in Afghanistan in 2009, Memorial Day was one of my favorite holidays. It meant parties with friends and family, all of us excited by a long weekend and the promise of summer ahead. The fact that Memorial Day was also about violent and traumatic loss was a more abstract and theoretical concept—until the year those losses included my big brother with the contagious giggle and the drive to serve.
I learned to ask for what I needed at work—and ended up being hired while in labor
February 2018 was not my best month. At 32 weeks pregnant, I tripped on a curb while crossing a busy intersection in Manhattan and instinctively put my arms out to break my fall and protect my growing belly. As soon as my right wrist hit the light post I heard the snap.
My Brother Was Killed in Afghanistan. He Became Real to Me Again in Quarantine, TIME
our weeks after my brother Ben’s funeral in 2009, the Army returned his belongings in carefully packed boxes, some still caked in sand and dust. In one was a black velvet bag with a black ribbon that contained the items he’d held in his pockets that day: an Altoid box that I had decorated and filled with family photos, and a poem by Brian Andreas that was read at our brother Sam’s wedding. He’d laminated the poem with Scotch tape, and though the edges were frayed and ripped, miraculously it was still legible.