Had she lived, today my niece Amanda would have been 26 years old. My sister said on the phone, "I'd probably have grandchildren by now." Maybe, maybe not.
In the last few days, I've been thinking about how inaccurate the concept behind the movie It's a Wonderful Life is. The lead character is shown what his town and family would have been like if he'd died, and of course, everything is bleak and horrible, whereas his having lived means that everyone is happy, he saves the day from the villain, and an angel got his wings. I suppose it's possible that one person's death could have those kinds of effects, but the real effects from someone's death are much more subtle. I've watched what has happened to my family since Amanda died in 1993, and believe me, the changes are deep but not outwardly noticeable to someone who did not know us well.
My sister's health, physically and psychologically, has been ruined. She was once the happiest, most positive and optimistic person I knew. Everyone loved her and loved being near her. You could count on her to be the sunshine. Since Amanda died, Sally has fought drug and alcohol addiction. She has undergone several surgeries. She has existed in a black fog that lifts only now and then to reveal glimpses of who she used to be. As a result of her health, she can't work, and her family's income is barely poverty-level.
Amber, the baby sister who barely knew her older sibling before she was taken from us, has known a lifetime of hardship, of health crises, of occasionally only cursory care from a mother whose heart was just too broken. If Amanda had lived, she would have helped Sally care for Amber. After all, she was 11 when Amber was born and was already changing diapers and doing other Big Sister chores. Recently Sally said someone had approached her about arranging for Amber's care for the time (hopefully very far in the future) when Sally and her husband are dead. Had Amanda lived, Sally would not have had to worry about who would care for Amber. I know--Amanda might have said No, thank you, I don't want the job, but that's not who she was or what she was like. Her sister's cerebral palsy would have just been more incentive to her to care for her.
My mother was in rapidly failing health when Amanda died and died herself a week later, from grief and heartbreak. She might not have lived much longer anyway--or she might have lived another year or two. I'll never know.
I can't speak for anyone else, but I know my life was changed forever by Amanda's death. It would take a book, not a blog, to describe the many changes, but the biggest one is the realization that someone I loved, even a child, could die. Since then, whenever I've been pessimistic about some future event, and others have said, "Oh, it won't be that bad," some little voice inside me says, "Oh, yes, it can. It can be that bad and much, much worse. It can be the worst thing ever, and it can happen even if you're doing everything right. Just when you're sailing along, feeling pretty good about life, suddenly the bottom can drop right out of your world, and you can experience the worst pain you've ever felt, compounded by the knowledge that there is no end to it, no fixing it. That person you've lost will never be alive again. All the chances are gone. There are no making amends for any slight quarrel, no celebrations of birthdays, weddings, baby showers, graduations, no laughing over a shared memory with that person.
Amanda was a little girl, and the repercussions from her death are vast. Who knows what she would have done, what she could have been? That's not as important to me right now as what her death caused: never-ending heartbreak, less sharp over time, but no less painful. I don't care if another angel ever gets his wings. Each time I hear of a child's death, I grieve for my niece all over again, and that will continue for all of my life.
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