She’s in hospice now. My sister. Not a genetic sister, but a deep, deep sisterhood that is going to last a few lifetimes or twenty.
Blond, gorgeous, always eating the right thing for the most part, but not so religious about it to be obnoxious. Big in the church, she even married a minister who is also a therapist for crying out loud.
I can’t remember what all she did, does there, but she got ordained a deacon or something and was always talking to people all over the place and it being about healing.
Not a slouch. Never, ever, ever a slouch. Suzuki piano teacher, oh, the list goes on and sounds like the resume of a very busy hamster.
I always see her, blond hair waving in the wind. We were driving home from her birthday weekend. She’d rented a cabin in the woods with her best buddies. I remember having to go for a walk because I was tired of one of them and she got mad at me for leaving, but it sure beat what I wanted to do.
And we drove home, and she told me of anyone, it meant the most that I’d come. I was floored, touched. When I think of moments in my life, I can always still feel that one. Not understanding why I’d matter so much, but so glad I did.
We stopped at a park and walked and she told me more of her story. It wasn’t an easy one for sure. I just wanted to hold her, send in all the love I felt to make sure every drop of that pain went away.
She was telling me about how she was becoming a hospice worker, and all the training and how she’d been trained to listen. That she was taught to SHUT UP, hint hint, so people would talk. She always had to be the big sister, one up. I always was the little sister, slightly annoyed at that one.
She chided me gently for spilling my guts at her get together. Honestly, this is evil of me, but I was bored. I was tired of hearing philosophy and wanted to know what really happened in these wonderful women’s lives. I knew there were some great stories in there.
My way of getting that to happen is to be my usual spill the guts idiot, then to shut up and listen. I’ll never be a pro, but darned if that doesn’t work like a charm every time.
I spilled. It was a whole weekend. Not like a three hour party and here I am getting serious while I’m playing with an orange balloon and drooling on the cake. There was enough time to get juicy.
I remember one woman’s jaw dropping. I think I was mentioning being sexually abused by my mother. I forget. I don’t drop that one often, but it is as G and S said, "Calculated to provoke remark." . I do remember her saying, to Cheryl, “Can anyone survive abuse like that and be normal?”
Hello, I’m standing here?????
And Cheryl in her “Oh, I’m a hospice worker now” official la di dah suit, said, “No, not really.”
Hello??
What the heck is normal anyway? And what the heck am I? Hello? Standing here already???
I have work I love. I adore my kids, and they don’t seem to want to kick me anywhere it hurts. I even get along with my pretty much insane wasband. What is normal????? I have my ups and downs, but I’m usually pretty happy. I remember a wonderful therapist I had who helped me get there saying that when she first met me, she noticed I would tell her bizarre stories that happened to me, then I’d laugh at them.
She thought it was a defense mechanism. But, as she saw me and got to know me, she realized I just realized how absurd it all was and enjoyed the show.
Well...maybe that’s not normal, but I’ll keep it. I’ll do the work, but it’s also pretty darned funny.
I admit, I resented that comment, interchange. But, I treasured then how the trust was up and we all started being more honest.
Cheryl shared with me on that walk. I treasure it to this day. The trust. What’s a few ego bumps when your sister shares her heart?
Then we stopped, I forget why, it was something pretty to look at, and I took her pic, her smiling as her beautiful hair blew in the wind on the side of the road. That picture is on my cell phone, one phone after the other, and I look at it and pray for her.
And now she has cancer. What a stupid thing to have. Did she ask me first?
I have been horrible.
Admittedly, I’ve been sick too, had my own near death experience, literally, and just one thing after another. But, I’ve been a bad sis and haven’t been to see her.
It’s weird. I’ve been so there for others. My voice teacher’s lover, Don. I was there for him almost every day. I’d read him our favorite book “Towards Serenity” by Rusty Berkus It’s a picture book with beautiful short blips about healing and the resolution of grief. “Weep what you must weep, not only for this loss, but for all losses you have sustained in this life.”
We’d read, stop at a page, talk about what it brought up for us, laugh, cry. I remember him taking my hand and saying, “My own minister can’t really talk to me about what’s going on. Thank you.” My heart, God I loved that man.
And here I am, my own damn sister. I pray for her, send her energy work, and I just don’t freaking want her to be sick. I’ve been good at accepting life on life’s terms. Damn good. Not this one. You screwed up Life, annoying as this woman can be, I know, but you screwed up and if you don’t fix it you are going to have to deal with me and all my Irish.
What the heck is this? And why the heck am I being such a creepazoid little sister? I’m being the kind of family member that we tried to avoid when it came to family of choice.
Cancer? Cheryl? That’s the sort of thing I’d think she could say knock it off and it sure as heck would listen. Not the way my sis would go. No, if I were writing the plot here, she’d be presenting a workshop at some big place and go for a balloon ride and the balloonist would just forget to come back. Cancer? No, big balloon, way, way up, her heart painting the clouds. Her delighting so much at all the colors, she doesn't realize she didn't come back.
Well, I am going to go see her soon. I want her feeling one up again, that hair in the sun, that smile....that together freaking person that can eat one piece of birthday cake and not feel guilty and not want ten more.
She’ll tell me I need to charge more for voice lessons so people appreciate me. I’ll just shrug and think of how appreciated I feel and yet, okay, she’s probably right, she usually is, but I’m set in my ways.
Of anyone, I don’t know why, of anyone, she can’t be sick. It’s just freaking annoying. Miss I ride my bike three times a week and I only eat this or that and oh I don’t care, just not her.
Crap.
But, Lord, hair, no hair, able to ride a bike, able to just lie there and smile that darned I know God, I’m on His mailing list smile....she’s so beautiful.
She can annoy me, I admit, and I thank God for that, because that’s part of what makes her my sister like no other. And my God, she is beautiful. I am so proud.
