Living Without My Big Sister
My older sister and I were both named after our grandmothers. She, Rebecca, and me, Kathryn. Becky and Katie. After that, our parents ran out of grandmothers, so they had to get more creative naming our two younger sisters. I always treasured this part of myself, the name that goes back and back, connecting to the many women who carried it. Mothers, daughters.
My sister Becky died on May 14th, 2018. She was sick for a long three years with aggressive cervical cancer, and my life became bifurcated: there is my first life, the person I was before Becky was sick, and there is my second life, the person I am after she died. Those three years of her being sick live in their own intermission, a surprise horror movie, where she dies and the rest of us live on but die in our own ways. Anyone who has lost someone close to cancer knows what this is. Anyone who has had to watch helplessly while hope vanishes knows what this is. A vision of a skin and bones figure on a bed who could not be my sister but was my sister, and then nothing, gone forever. It hurts now as much as it ever did, if I let myself think about it for more than a moment.
I was a new person in many ways after my sister died, but most profoundly, I became a mother a year later. My baby was due in June, but my water broke in the middle of the night a few weeks early. It was Mother’s Day. On the way to the hospital, in the dark, I prayed to Becky. I said please, not May 14th, the same day she died. I cannot bear to lay the weight of all that grief on a tiny baby. But our little girl came out quickly, a mercifully short delivery. It was May 13, 2019. I held my beautiful baby girl in my arms, and I cried for joy and for sadness both.
Love is the greatest force in our lives, it is our greatest happiness and it is what hurts the most. Becoming a mother in the shadow of my greatest sorrow showed me many things. It showed me the strength that I had. It showed me that grief does not have an ending point; rather it is something that makes a space in your life and lives with you day to day. It showed me that grief, although we dread it, is neither good nor bad, and you can make peace with it in your way. You live with it, because it is there, and because you must live. So, you live together.
I had my baby girl, and then another baby boy soon after. By that point, it had been a few years since Becky had died. Every night, my husband and I took turns lying down with the kids to get them to sleep. They never did take to being left in the crib to put themselves to sleep, you had to be there. We didn’t mind. This would take maybe an hour of being still, there in the dark next to a tiny child, listening to them breathe softly, waiting for the moment you can tiptoe out of the room. You know the pattern of the noise they make that lets you know they are really asleep. A sleeping baby can sometimes sound like a soft musical sigh.
Hummmm.
Hummmm.
They were so beautiful, my babies, I sometimes felt overwhelmed with love for them. My heart would ache for them, but they would be right in front of me. Being a parent can be like that. In those quiet hours of the evening, my mind went to a story — to Rebecca. I wrote my children’s book line by line in my head that way, polishing it like a precious gem. I had to put something to words that spoke to everything I felt; I had to write the grief out of myself because I needed to learn to live with it.
But I could not write about Becky directly. I think you can tell even by reading this essay that my sister’s death is still an open wound. Instead, I looked to the name itself. Rebecca, a name passed down here and there, until you go as far back as the 18th century, where you meet the Rebecca of this book. Her name was Rebecca Lombard Smith, and she was our great-great-great-great-grandmother.
Rebecca was pregnant with her last child when her husband David went through the ice by Port Hood Island in March 1789. Most stories recounting this history focus on the father, David — Captain David Smith, a whaling captain. The tragedy of his death is the feature of the story, that he should meet his end in such a devastating way. But to me, it is Rebecca who stands out. It is Rebecca who lives on and raises the children, on a small island off the shore of Cape Breton, all alone. There are many lines of descendants from this family of six sons and one daughter, but mine is from the daughter. It is the mother’s name that came through in my family. It is the mother’s strength I saw in my sister when she fought to live with everything she had in her. It is the strength I found in myself, when I had to.
When Becky was sick, I lived in a house in the village of Port Hood. I could see Port Hood Island out the window. It was lonesome out there among the waves, especially in winter, for no one lives there full time anymore. I was still in Port Hood after Becky died, when I became a mother. I used to look at that island and think of Rebecca. Her children survived, every one of them. My sister’s story ends with loss, but Rebecca’s ended with hope, for all the loss that she endured. I could write that.
I used to strap the baby to me and take the dog, and we would walk as far as I could before my back started straining (baby carriers never did suit me well). It turned out that “as far as I could” was about as far as a place they called the Old Protestant Graveyard and back. This is where Rebecca Lombard Smith is buried.
This is the inscription on her stone:
Here lies the remains of Rebecca Smith who was
born in Truro NEW ENGLAND with her husband
CAPTAIN DAVID SMITH who was lost on the ice
back on Port Hood in the year 1789. Who died on the
30th November A.D. 1821 in the 76th year of her age.
This stone was erected to her memory by her sons
Lewis
Parker
David
I remember thinking Wow, 76, she lived a long time… She lived a lifetime more than her husband… I wonder if it was unusual that her sons wrote their names here, too?… Looking around, I didn’t see any other stone with that kind of personal touch. I don’t have an answer for why they did it, I never will. But to me it seems to be saying, “This is our mother. We loved her.”
Sometimes we ache so much with grief and love that we need to put it to words. I felt connected to these people who lived and died hundreds of years ago. I felt my tie to them as something true. Then I would turn around and walk home, with the dog trotting beside me and the baby strapped to my chest, asleep. The little sound making time with my steps forward.
Hummmm.
Hummmm.
Kate Beaton was born and raised in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada, where she still lives with her family. She began creating webcomics under the name Hark! A Vagrant and quickly grew a large following. Her books, Hark! A Vagrant and Step Aside, Pops, are New York Times graphic novel bestsellers, and her graphic memoir, Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands, was on former President Barack Obama’s 2022 list of favorite books, movies, and music and named a New York Times Notable Book. Her new children’s picture book, Rebecca, comes out tomorrow. “My initial reaction to Rebecca was awe,” says Connie Hsu, publishing director of Roaring Brook Press. “My brain began to think about all the usual ‘rules’ about picture book publishing. Here, the main protagonist is an adult, the book is about loss, and two people die in the book! But I just had to publish it.” Find the book here, if you’d like.
P.S. More on grief, including how to write a sympathy note, how to talk to kids about death, and 17 reader comments on loss.
(Top photo by GS Creative/Stocksy.)
Tags: grief
Comments
80 commentsSo sorry for your loss of your sister. I know I had an older sister that I lost as well three years ago. Now it seems like forever, but it took me a long time to move forward after she left. I still grieve for her and maybe I always will. She was my soul sister, my mentor, my idol. I cherished her very being in my life. I’ve moved on some, but going to her old neighborhood still brings back memories I can’t refuse, deny or adjust to – it is harder some days than others. My best friend happens to live across the street from my sister’s former house. It is hard sitting at my friends at Thanksgiving and my sister is no longer with us! Very hard. I understand your pain. May God bless you and keep you and your family safe! Donna
sobbing. wow, what a beautiful writer you are. Letting go and making babies and grief is, wow, feels like a STAT cesarean. My 4-year-old is learning new words, and my dad, who had a bad stroke, is losing all of them. He’s so truly vile to all of us in our family. He is me in middle school; I pretend. He let me steal a prenancy test from BI-LO grocery in 2001 and never told a soul when the manager called him. He’s a feminist underneath it all. And I’ll love him even when he’s cussing me out. Sending so much love to you. Keep writing. I cannot wait to read all your books. xoxoxo
“Those three years of her being sick live in their own intermission, a surprise horror movie, where she dies and the rest of us live on but die in our own ways.” – This is exactly what it feels like. It has been 27 years since I lost my husband, and it still hurts as much if I let myself think about it. I feel seen, thank you.
Tonight my daughters wanted to read one of our favorite books, The Princess and the Pony. As I opened the book I’ve read many times, I had to pause and take a breath at the dedication: “For my sisters, Becky, Maura, and Laureen” I immediately thought of this beautiful essay.
This was beautiful. The way you describe grief is so relatable.
Another fellow Nova Scotian here, and I hadn’t heard of Kate Beaton until now, but I will now be looking to see if I can support her work. What a beautiful writer.
A heartbreaking, beautiful meditation. Thank you. ❤️ (For other readers who haven’t seen it, Kate has also created a beautiful filmed version of this essay, available here: instagram.com/kate.beaton/reel/DdmvW5ETl4I or on her Patreon — patreon.com/katebeaton — which, incidentally, is a great way to support her work. I’m not affiliated, just a big fan. 😉)
I, too, had my first child about a year after a loss. It was my father in law, who was like a second dad to me. I’d known him since I was 17. I like to imagine that my son met his Tata somewhere in some “beyond” before coming to meet me. <3
This is both heartbreaking and beautiful. Just like life, now that I think about it. I recently learned (at age 71) that my Great Great Grandfather died in a Virginia battle during the Civil War. He left behind 13 children, the youngest of whom was my Great Grandmother. As near as I can tell, they never met; probably not that unusual for those times. My Great Great Grandmother was left to raise those children. The fact that I am alive now suggests she was at least partly successful. I know very little about her siblings. But I made it, thanks to her — and surely others. I am deeply sorry to hear of the author’s sister’s passing. Life can be brutal, but your continuing love for your sister is one of life’s gifts. I’m glad it is such a steady presence in your life. I wish you Peace. God bless.
Here I am at 8:31 a.m. just before starting to work, crying because I lost my younger brother to cancer 3 years ago in May and grief is still “an open wound”. I miss him dearly. Beautiful post. I am going to buy the book.
Well, make me cry before 10 a.m., why don’t you? Sisterhood is beautiful.
Kate, I have been such a fan for many, many years and I am so excited to read this book. I think of Becky often, having read much what you published about her while she was sick, and after. The echo of your family names through time and place is beautiful and I am so excited to read this book. Also, my daughter, partner, and I would like to thank you for King Baby and The Princess and the Pony, two all-timers in our home.
thank you for this gorgeous essay – and these “sisterly” comments – rubbing shoulders with others in the land of grief makes it feel less dark. <3
Thank you for sharing. I have a younger sister and we lost our mother this year to cancer. She was our entire universe. I feel like this is the first time I’ve related to someone else’s words.
Kate, I’ve loved your work for what feels like half my lifetime. Maybe it has been. I just wanted you to know that I am a stranger to your family but I think often of your sister, and I’m sure I’m not alone. Her memory, through your loving words, will not fade, even for those of us who did not have the gift of meeting her. Thank you for sharing your grief and your eloquence with us. I’m already on my way to order Rebecca. Take care, friend.
Such a deep and moving essay. Thank you.
It’s totally fine—I felt like sobbing today anyways. What gorgeous writing.
This quote from Andrea Gibson (who has been featured on Cup of Jo before? I think?) helps me so much when I am missing those who have passed from this earth. I sincerely hope it helps you too: “My love. I was so wrong. Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am. It’s Ok. I know that to be human is to be farsighted. But feel me now, walking the chambers of your heart, pressing my palms to the soft walls of your living. Why did no one tell us that to die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they are still alive?”
What a beautiful piece-I love that she doesn’t tie everything up in a bow. It hurts as much as it ever did, and life still keeps moving. The part about her praying to her sister that her baby not be born on that date hit me so hard, with the visceral, sad panic that she lets us see. Thank you for this.
Thank you, Kate, for putting the reality of sorrow into words for us. I find the line, “and the rest of us live on but die in our own ways” to ring true, deeply. I’ve been navigating a tragedy that isn’t a physical death and have found that in this case as well, much of life feels “before” and “after.” Sorrow has had a softening effect, and so learning to live with an external loss alongside this death within my own being is something I have both grief and gratitude for. Ordering your new book now. Blessings.
*Unexplainable feeling of loss
Not to take from the enormity of the deep pain of the physical loss of a sister, there is also an explainable feeling of losing a sister when there is a fallout and there is no longer a relationship and yet she is physically still here. I have had this happen to me and the pain is honestly indescribable. How do you tell people that you don’t speak with your sister and have lost something you once had and have to face this reality every single day? I would love to hear if other women here have had this happen to them, and perhaps a future feature story Jo? I just find this topic so interesting and sometimes find it hard to express my roller coaster of emotions.
I have a very close friend who has this difficult situation. She has lived with it for a such a long time that when I met her, I didn’t even know she had a sister. I think part of how she handles it is being close to her nieces. She made it clear they were important to her, and the nieces have maintained a close relationship with my friend. It is heartbreaking, and I am so very sorry. There is always hope that things will change. I hope for reconciliation for you, one day.
Co-sign: Also interested in the grief of estrangement and how people navigate.
I’ve read that psychologists call this “ambiguous loss”. It’s hard to navigate grief and the lack of closure at the same time. I’m so sorry.
This happened to me with my brother, and it truly felt like he died. Sometimes, I found myself thinking it would be easier if he had because the grief of losing someone who was still here but chose to lose me was so confusing. We’ve since mended things, but there will always be an awkwardness between us, I think. We were so incredibly close growing up, and I don’t think we’ll ever get that back.
Thank you so much for sharing.
Congratulations on your book Kate! Thank you for telling us about your beautiful sister and the inspiring women in your family!
I love Kate’s work and this was.so beautifully written
<3 Beautiful story
Thank you to Kate for continually sharing her heart and life with us. Always looking forward to her work. Thanks to CoJ for featuring this beautiful story. The comments are touching my heart, too, as usual. Thank you, all!
Thank you Katie
I’m reading this on the three year anniversary of my sister’s passing 3 years ago. Also from cancer. She was both in Detroit, Michigan but became a Canadian citizen a few months before she passed. Being in Canada afforded her many opportunities, the final one being that she could leave the mortal word on her own terms thanks to medical assisted dying. The signs are all around me on this anniversary of her passing, Signs that bring me to tears, signs that make me laugh, signs that remind me to live my life while I’m still here. Kimm is/was my best friend and I miss her and love her dearly.
This is a beautiful tribute to Rebecca. I lost my older sister, Carrie, to pancreatic cancer in 2016. It’s weird being here in 2026, seven years older than she ever got to be; I still feel unmoored without her. My siblings and I wrote our feelings about her passing on our substack, Hole in the Family, as did a few of our friends who also lost a sibling. Thanks for featuring this writer, COJ, a fellow Canadian whose books I will be looking out for.
What a beautiful and sad essay. I’m excited to read Rebecca. For anyone who wants more Kate Beaton in their life, she has a Patreon (just a couple bucks a month) and posts some lovely and hilarious daily life comics about parenting and family! https://www.patreon.com/c/katebeaton/posts
A fellow Nova Scotian! What a delight to find on CoJ.
My older sister passed two years ago to cancer and this essay spoke to me in how I feel about this grief. This line really made my heart break because it’s so real and true: “It hurts now as much as it ever did, if I let myself think about it for more than a moment.” So often, little moments of remembering her will hit me like a paper cut and other times it will feel like a massive stab wound. I often wonder what the day will feel like when I (hopefully) will celebrate the birthday that will make me older than she was. Like the author said, I hope that “You live with it, because it is there, and because you must live.” Thank you for sharing this essay, it truly touched my heart and what was I needed when I was missing my sister today and know I’m not alone in this loss.
This was such a lovely and touching read. Her writing created rich visuals as I read it. Loved this so much.
Can’t believe her bio doesn’t mention The Princess and the Pony! one of the books we wore the spine out of when my kid was little.
Just ordered The Princess and the Pony, thanks to your rec. The story looks hilarious and wonderful
Katie I’ve put your book on hold at the library. There are 18 copies coming soon and I’m the 5th hold. I like to think the other 4 before me are all Cup-of-Jo-ers who are rooting for you. My sister is Rebecca. She goes by Becky. I will hug her a little longer and send a wish through her to your sister.
My older sister and only sibling died in 2018. Sibling loss shatters you in such a unique way and is overlooked so often. Navigating aging parents without my sister has been a new wave of grief. Thank you for featuring this story
Part of grieving the death of my brother and only sibling was being furious he left me alone to manage our aging mother. I felt such guilt over this reaction, thanks for making me feel I’m not the only one.
Kerry, you are not alone. I alternate between being mad that my sister is not here to help with our parents (since she is the only one who knows them the same way) and then sad that I cannot share an eye roll when they do something annoying. I never gave much thought to only having 1 sibling growing up, but I so wish that I still had a living sibling.
Beautiful
Hi Cup of Jo writers, please do more posts like this. Thank you.
I lost my only sibling, my baby brother, to cancer in 2010. It still hurts, but I have adjusted.
I saw the title and a wave of tears erupted. Will try to read the essay later, but oh my, the title itself is one. I am very sorry Kate. A hug, if you want one.
Kate Beaton!! King Baby, The Princess and the Pony, Ducks, Hark a Vagrant! I work in a school, in Nova Scotia, and her picture books are some of our very favourites. What a beautiful, beautiful essay.
Yes! Delighted (and devastated) to read this beautiful essay by one of our treasured Canadian writers in Cup of Jo. I remember my wee daughter quoting “Princess and the Pony” with “I’m flabbergasted, flumoxed, floored!”
Another NS’ian here, our beloved Kate Beaton! I did a double take when I opened Cup of Jo this morning. This is such a beautiful essay, thank you Kate for sharing yours and your sister’s story with us.
My beloved older brother died suddenly in 2018. Sibling loss is a different kind of grief and it feels like there is less support in the world. It is brutal. This will never heal.
So very poignant. I will be looking this book up along with Ducks. Thank you for sharing your heart, Kate.
It’s comforting to hear from other people going through sibling loss. I’m also living without my older sister, Dr. Cameron Grace Estrich. Three years ago she was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer, two and a half years later she was gone. I still can’t wrap my mind around her absence. She died at 40 and here I am, 40 myself and absolutely furious she didn’t get more time. I’m learning how to honor her. I light a candle for her when I’m missing her something awful, I hold a “books and cake” birthday party in her honor for her friends and family, I make her pancake recipe for my daughter, I talk about her all of the time, I lend out books she gave me to people I trust (including several from the tremendous Kate Beaton!!). She was and still is my best friend, and I don’t think that will ever change.
Sending you love, Amelia.
Amelia, I looked up your sister-she sounded like an absolute force of nature, and the world was lucky to have her in it. I am so sorry for your loss.
It showed me that grief does not have an ending point; rather it is something that makes a space in your life and lives with you day to day. My heart. My father passed on April 10, 2026 from liver cancer, while I am still working my way through finishing all the ins and outs of BRCA 2 triple negative breast cancer. Your essay made me weep and smile. I am sorry Becky went through such pain. You have given her a legacy of beauty.
That’s so much, Annie, I’m sending all the vibes your way.
I’ve spent all day walking with my grief. A different grief from Kate’s, but like hers a deep one that will never leave and is tied tight to love for my children. What do I do with my pain and my hope? How do I move forward? I still don’t know. Thank you for giving my feelings a landing place with this beautiful essay.
my goodness. how brilliantly and achingly beautiful this piece is. i am so grateful to you, kate, to share this with us. what a gift. we are all holding a spoonful of your grief. or a bag of the bricks. however heavy.
My mom is down to 115 lbs now, resting in the room that used to be my office. I’m in the purgatory of caring and coping and cooking and juggling a small child, an angry husband, a withering career, and fear of the future. This will get worse, and harder, and then I will have to go on without her. Sometimes I wonder, what is the point of all this pain?
I’m so sorry, Elizabeth. That is very very hard. Sending love and tenderness your way ❤️
Oh Elizabeth- I’m so sorry, it sounds like you are deep in it now. Sending you love & hope to make it through to see what might meet you on the other side of this.
I feel you, Elizabeth. I just recently became a young widow, and have experienced other loss before this, and it just feels so unfair. Watching a loved one lose weight, lose their sense of self, and experience pain…it’s just cruel. Sending you beaming light and warmth to carry you through this horrible time.
This makes me ache. I know this feeling. You are stronger than you think you are. I want you to know that something will get you through, even when things get worse and harder. I was in this space and after my mom passed, I found a weird comfort in knowing she was “safe” from the pain, even though I miss her so much (especially right now). I don’t know how else to describe it. Not saying this is a normal feeling that brings people comfort, just that this became one of the things that helped me get through. And things will show up for you. I wish you peace and some good moments still with your mom. I’m sorry.
This made my heart ache. I will be looking for the book.
This is so beautifully written, the impacts of grief so tenderly described… What an enormous loss to grapple with. How lucky we are to have wonderful writers like you to help us navigate our emotions and reactions to this kind of life event. x
Wonderfully put, Candace.
Beautiful. I lost my baby sister at 48, eighteen years ago. She came home to me, to die in hospice. You’re never the same.
A gorgeous and heart breaking essay. Kate Beaton is one of my favourite writers, her graphic memoir Ducks about her time in the Canadian oil sands is the best graphic I’ve ever read, and I also loved her “Bodies of Art, Bodies of Labour” long essay. Canadian Kathryns represent!
She is one of my favorite writers, too! Ever since I came across the comic “Dude Watchin’ with the Brontës (http://www.harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=202). I remember reading the essay she wrote about her sister for The Cut; the fact that the initial doctor didn’t listen to her sister’s health concerns is enraging. I am waiting for my copy of Rebecca to arrive from my local library and I know I will need to read it with tissues handy.
Yes! Ducks is an amazing graphic memoir. I thought it odd that it wasn’t included in the author bio at the end of the essay.
She’s one of my favorites as well! Kate Beaton, you are so eloquent and generous and boss!
Oh I love the way you write…I love you and your sweet sisteer Rebecca…my grandparents were from Nova Scotia…I will look for your books for I grieve too…love Connie
This is such a beautiful piece. My heart is aching. I agree that putting ones grief into words does help. The pain never truly goes away but it becomes a part of your life and life goes on. As your sister would want it to.
I lost my older sister on May 22, 2025 to cancer. She was my best friend. I am still learning how to live with my grief. I am still learning who I am without her by my side. I know I will forever. What a perfect way to put it – “my first life” and “my second life.” Sending love and light to you on your continued journey, thank you for sharing.
Kelli, I’m sorry for your loss. Your sister died on what would have been my brother’s 40th birthday, had he lived to that age. It’s not easy. Sending you hugs across the internet.
what a beautiful piece by the wonderful kate beaton! don’t forget her excellent book DUCKS. it’s tremendous. thank you, kate.
yes, I was wondering why her name was so familiar to me! As someone who grew up in Alberta, Ducks should be required reading
I was going to mention DUCKS as well! So incredible. Very excited for all her work.