Is it normal to feel angry when someone dies?

Yes. Anger is one of the most common and least discussed parts of grief, whether it is directed at doctors, at the person who died, at other people whose lives were not touched the same way, or at yourself. It does not cancel out the love or the sadness sitting alongside it.

Why am I angry at the person who died?

Anger at someone for dying, for smoking, for not going to the doctor sooner, for driving that night, is common even when you know rationally they did not choose it. The anger is often really about the size of the loss, aimed at the nearest available target.

Is it normal to be jealous of people whose parents are still alive?

Yes. Watching someone complain about a living parent, or simply watching an ordinary family dinner, can trigger a sharp, uncomfortable envy. It is not a character flaw, it is a measure of what you are missing.

Grief that makes you so angry

Not all of it is sadness.

Somewhere in the version of grief people expect, there is a lot of quiet crying and very little of this: the specific, disproportionate fury of wanting to put your fist through a wall because a doctor said a sentence in the wrong tone, or a friend complained about their mother being annoying two weeks after yours died.

Anger has real targets in grief, and most of them are uncomfortable to say out loud. The doctors who missed something, or did not miss anything and still could not stop it. The person who died, for the accident, for the diagnosis they ignored, for the cigarette, for leaving, even when you know none of it was a choice they made against you. Yourself, for the thing you said the last time, or did not say, or for the relief that arrived somewhere underneath the grief and that you have not told a single person about.

The anger you are not supposed to have

People whose parents are still alive get an ordinary kind of jealousy directed at them, sharp and sudden and out of proportion to whatever they actually did, which was usually nothing more than mention their mother's name in passing. This is not a character flaw. It is a fairly precise measurement of what is missing, translated into the only feeling available at the time.

None of this needs to be justified before it counts. Anger sitting next to grief does not mean the grief is smaller, or that the love underneath it was conditional. It means a person died and the people left behind are furious about it, which is a completely reasonable response to an unreasonable fact.

Anger at yourself tends to be the quietest of these and the hardest to put down. The thing you said in a bad moment years before any of this started. The visit you kept putting off. The relief that showed up somewhere in the middle of the exhaustion of caregiving, before the death, and that you have never told anyone about because it sounds unforgivable said out loud. It is not unforgivable. It is what a body does when it has been carrying more than it can hold for longer than it can sustain.

Saying it without an audience who will flinch

The trouble with saying any of this out loud to another person is watching their face manage it. Most people, hearing raw anger at a dead parent or a doctor or a jealous flash at a friend's ordinary complaint, will try to soften it, redirect it, offer a reason not to feel that way. So the anger gets held instead, which does not make it smaller either.

A Wind Phone has no face to manage. You can say the ugly sentence exactly as it sits in you, aimed at whoever it is actually aimed at, and no one will wince or change the subject. That matters especially after a long illness, where the anger has had months or years to compound and nowhere polite to go.

Pick up the Wind Phone

Say what you need to say. The line is connected to nothing: no one hears you, nothing is recorded, nothing is stored.