We could not have been more different.

Scott was shy, introspective, intelligent, athletic, and artistic. I was social, loud, chatty, and forever wanting to join every sport, club, and activity possible. Scott got straight A’s. I was a dependable B student unless it was a subject I really liked. He kept a close circle of friends and loved hockey. I wanted to be friends with everyone and go to ever party.

We squabbled constantly.

He made it very clear that I was not to speak to him at school because he didn’t want anyone to know we were related. I was even banned from attending his hockey games because I cried when people scored on him or when parents from the opposing team yelled at him.

Typical sibling dynamics.

But beneath all of that, Scott was quietly protective of me.

When I was eight or nine years old and some older boys started picking on me while I was riding my bike, Scott suddenly appeared out of nowhere and chased them away. Of course, afterward, I was told not to tell anyone he had helped me.

That was Scott.

As we got older, he became one of my quiet sources of support. During difficult periods with my parents, he would come into my room and talk with me gently, offering encouragement and advice without judgment or attention.

He always showed up when it mattered.

Thanksgiving weekend in 2010 was the last time I saw him healthy.

As I was leaving our family gathering, something felt off. Maybe it was my nurse’s intuition. He sat beside me that evening, which was unusual, and later came outside while I was leaving. I remember feeling deeply unsettled, as though he wanted to tell me something important but couldn’t.

Instead, he simply told me he would see me at Christmas.

A month later, Scott told us he had colorectal cancer.

I went to see him immediately and brought my boyfriend—now husband—with me. Scott spent three hours grilling him like only a protective older brother could. But underneath the humour, I knew something was wrong.

After his surgery, Scott called me almost every day. He wanted reassurance, information, and someone safe to vent to. As a nurse, I felt increasingly certain that he was not recovering properly. I insisted on coming to see him, but he wanted life to stay normal for his wife and nine-year-old son.

I never made it.

On December 3, 2010, Scott died unexpectedly in the emergency department in Kingston, Ontario. He was only 48 years old.

The shock was overwhelming.

He was supposed to grow old with me. We were supposed to help care for our parents together. Instead, in an instant, everything changed.

At his visitation, hundreds of people came to say goodbye. At one point, I overheard someone ask who I was.

When told who I was another person replied:
“I didn’t know he had a sister.”

I quietly laughed to myself because I knew Scott would have loved that comment.

I have learned there is something unique about sibling loss.

People often ask:
“Were you close?”

Sibling grief can become disenfranchised grief—grief that is real and profound, but not always fully acknowledged. Attention naturally goes to parents, spouses, and children, while siblings quietly carry the loss of someone who shared their entire history.

A sibling knows the versions of us no one else ever will.

For years, I carried guilt.
I should have gone sooner.
I should have pushed harder.
Why him and not me?

Over time, I have worked hard on that guilt.

I cared for our parents in the way I believe Scott would have. I have honoured him through memorial golf tournaments, tribute posts, a memorial bench and plaque, and videos remembering his life.

We will never grow old together the way we were supposed to.

But I choose to believe our bond continues.

Somehow, in some way, I believe Scott still experiences this world through my eyes.

And until we meet again, I will carry him with me.

Always.

Because every loss matters.