IT’S THE HOLIDAYS, the season to make lists. I had planned to write about that, as in what’s on my list/what’s on Margaret’s. But in The Sister Project’s first week online, so many of you emailed and commented about another topic that I’m moved to take it on here. The topic? Missing your sister at this time of year.
In just these few days, Priscilla wrote of reading to her sister as she lay dying; Melissa shared the story of her sister who was lost in an automobile crash. Lalita remembers her fourth sister as “a star in the heavens,” saying, “She remains a little girl while the three of us grow old hanging on to the edge of the earth, feeling enormously blessed.” And there have been others, each with a story of loss to share.
As I’ve said, I teach memoir. In each first class of a session, I listen to each student’s chosen personal essay topic. In every class, someone will choose to write about someone who left, about loss.
To get the topic going, I might ask the writer to simply make a list of what the person took with them when they went, because when people leave us, what they take tells us if they are going for good, going for show, or merely slinking off to someone else. Saltshakers are a good indication that he has not got someone else lined up. Taking only a sandwich tells us first that she’s hungry, and has little more than tonight in mind.
And we all know what he takes when he or she is leaving for good. Because it has happened to us, and it is in the list of what he took that the tale is told. That’s what makes the story truthful, as well as what makes it yours: What did he take of yours, what of his, and how do you define those, divide those, when at one time those lines were blurred by the smudge of love?
But people leave in different ways. In one first class, a woman sat stiffly, her arms crossed in front of her, dark bangs slammed right down to her brow. When it was her turn to reveal her topic, our exchange went something like this:
“I’m not even sure why I’m here.”
Uh-huh.
“My best friend just died.”
Oh. Oh dear.
“And I’m not writing about that. Nope. Got nothing to say. Too soon. Three weeks ago. Cancer.” She exhaled and unfolded her arms, and I exhaled, and we sat. All I could remember was the inutterable grief it was to lose my friend Susannah and what it is I did.
“Were you there when she died?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you live far away or nearby?
“Three hours away. I got the call.”
“What did you pack?”
“What?”
“What did you take with you?”
The next week she came in with a list. Actually it was three lists:
- What I brought.
- What I heard.
- What I said.
Under each were five mere sentences, 15 in all. And I hope she reads this post and sends the piece for you to read. It’s a wonder.
What about you? Have you lost a sister, blood or otherwise? While each hurt is unique, it carries within it its own identifiers that when shared, help us all to sort through grief, especially in this time of plenty.
Have a list? For some of us it would be what we drank or ate at the time, for others what we packed, perhaps what we prayed, or scribbled down, or maybe what we cook at the holidays to remember her by. I decorate my cookies with my friend Susannah’s panache; were she here, she’d be at my counter with me, covered in nine colors of royal icing.
Have you lost a sister, or a sister-friend, whether to distance, disagreement or even death? Write your list. It would be our privilege to see it.
_______________
Postscript: Artist Elsa Mora lost her older sister, though still living, to the dark maze of schizophrenia 10 years ago, a loss that inspires Elsa’s work even today. Read her story in the TSP Galleries.
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At M.’s request, here is my list. I believe this is the original, first draft, though I’m sure there were edits. There was just no other way for me to begin tapping into or expressing the mountain of feelings surrounding this experience. It’s been just over four year now, and I am still turning her death over in my mind, finding new reflections from it and coming up with more questions./ joely j.
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What I Brought
1. A copy of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s “So Far.”
2. Three sticks of Buddhist incense that had been hand-delivered to me from Japan by a former lover.
3. A single change of clothes thrown without thinking into a canvas bag.
4. A week’s supply of Zoloft and Ativan.
5. My journal.
6. My marijuana pipe.
7. The turquoise necklace Mary brought back for me from Scottsdale.
What I Heard
1. Gale saying very solemnly, “Be prepared,” bowing her head to me as I walked toward the dining room where Mary was lying in her rented hospital bed.
2. The old-woman rasping of Mary’s breath.
3. Her husband’s surprised-sounding sobs.
4. The mechanical ocean sound of the oxygen tank.
5. Jeanne’s musical voice telling her daughter how honored she was to have been her mother and that it was OK to die now.
6. The moist crackle of fluid settling in Mary’s lungs.
7. The familiar, precious echo of Mary’s speaking voice breaking through her unconscious attempts to cough.
8. Thunder approaching with heavy boots and an empty sack slung over its back.
9. The release of rain on the leaves and earth outside the dining room windows.
10. The grinding of the hospital bed motor as we lowered the mattress after Mary had left us.
What I Said
1. On arriving, entering the kitchen to meet the crumpled faces of my friends standing there, “Oh, is she getting ready to spread her wings?”
2. “You have led an amazing life — you’ve done so much, we will all remember you.”
3. Whispered to Mary, when we were alone, “You are standing in front of a gate to a beautiful garden and the key is in your hand. Open the lock and let yourself walk inside. The sun is shining there – go, go, go.”
for Mary “Mesa” Kittle, dear friend-sister
Welcome, Joely: We are blessed with your offering. Thank you.
Reading it again, all these years later, I am still amazed.
O, my. I’m too full for words. Need to gestate for a bit, I find myself whirling between thoughts of my friend-sister Jean alive and struggling just a year ago and my gene-sister Bridget always at my shoulder who “left” 45 years ago. Thank you for this.
Really amazingly powerful – the structure, the words, the noticing even though your heart was breaking. Thank you for sharing it. – E
Welcome, Maureen: The idea that you have someone always at your shoulder is such a gift to me, who sometimes exhausts myself wondering where they went when they left. Simply repeating a beloved’s gesture or, in my case, making her cookie recipe keeps her close. I wonder how others do this, particularly now, at the holidays. Please keep visiting.
Hello, Elissa: I have always believed that life is lived in the small moments, even during the biggest, most difficult events. Noticing the details seems to me to be a key ingredient is moving through the experience. It certainly is for memoir writing. And since writing can be so difficult, a list can help. A simple list. Have you got a list to share?
I have three blood sisters and three sista-friends. They are equally precious to me for reasons both similar and different.
One of my sista friends is in hospice. In the words of sista-friend Margaret, “cancer sucks”. She is not the one in hospice; she has waged her own war with cancer and I wonder sometimes if she looks at our friend and thinks, “why me? Why am I battling this thing better than she is?”
Our west-coast sista flew in last week and we all went to the hospice – and Claire was so deeply medicated that she hardly recognized us. So we sat in her room and talked to her, around her, through her. We talked about bosses we despised, men we loved, and trips we had taken – most especially the trip to Mexico last year – where we flirted with mobsters, snagged a suite overlooking the Pacific and, on the drive back to San Diego managed to make friends with an elephant whose circus caravan was stuck in the same traffic jam as we.
We hugged each other so hard at the end of Claire’s bed, thinking we were saying goodbye.
West-coast sista went back to see Claire a couple of days later and found a perfectly lucid Claire sitting up in bed and eating the dreadful food. She spent an afternoon talking with Claire, who is now up and making phone calls, wondering when we’re coming back to visit.
Life is a strange thing. We had said goodbye, and now we get another chance.
Loss will come, and closure is a double-edged gift.
Welcome, Kerry: While you getting another chance is assuredly your best gift of the season, you writing this for us is ours. Thank you. It’s never that the gift of sisterhood is a gift beyond words. Quite the opposite. The gift of sisterhood deserves every word we can type, write and speak.
Happy holidays, sister.
Whoa. Joely, I know why you were in that class: because you are clearly meant to write, and to write about the important things, and to do so beautifully. This post, and its comments,f form an amazing sequence of stories….
well. i am here because my dear friend and sister in spirit paige orloff told me to check it out, knowing i would cry. and i am. joely’s list is so powerful–because it is in those details, of knowing what you and your beloved friend shared that all the beauty emerges. i lost one of my best friends this summer to cancer and it rocked my world. BUT, she gave me so many gifts in those final hours i feel that she changed my life in ways i never, every could have anticipated. being there was one of the great blessings of my life, despite all the pain and tears. i feel i did experience something mystical and powerful. and i just thank god i WAS there, by her side, holding her in my arms until she started slipping away…
Hello, Paige: It is remarkable, isn’t it? Joely’s list changed everyone who heard it that first night she read it, and continues to change us now. Grasp the details and you might see the truth. It’s a great lesson, especially in these fast-paced times.
Welcome, Hilary: The beauty emerges and is universal because, I think, her details are ours, as well. She does not place this experience out of our grasp; she puts it right in our arms. Thank you for visiting, and for your story. Telling our tales binds us up and binds us together. Please visit us again.
Wow… Joely… you took me right back. Maureen, I like the image of your sister at your shoulder. I like to think that my sister-friend Stacey lives in my heart. She left 4 years ago at Thanksgiving and it’s still a mystery. It took her a long time to go so I have several lists. The things I took to MD Anderson Cancer Center, the things I took to the hospital, and the things I took to her home when she finally went home for good.
In Judaism, there is a saying, “Memory is the key to redemption.” People also say, “May her memory be a blessing.” For me, it’s hard to find any comfort that someone is gone. So I have chosen to keep them with me instead. I keep them all with me in my thoughts and my actions and then they are still here. And as long as anyone who remembers me is still here after I am gone, then everyone who I remembered is still here as well. It’s not perfect…. but it’s something.
Thank you maureen, elissa, kerry, paige, hilary…marion… for reading this over with me. Old losses prepare us for the ones to come, and provide blessings in their own ways. Loss teaches us to develop the grace and ease we need to let go when we must. But loss also shows us what is important to embrace and celebrate. Right now I feel embraced by, and in return embrace, each of you women. Namaste!
When my half-sister died at 93, her daughter had a list:
“If Mother could have chosen, she would have died on Friday and been buried on Saturday so as not to inconvenience anyone because Mother never wanted to inconvenience anyone. And she did.
If Mother could have chosen, Paul and Ray (sons) would have been with her when she died. And they were.
Mother asked for a closed casket. If we’d known she would ‘look so good’ we would have left it open for friends’ viewing. ”
But they didn’t.
I write sometimes about my experiences when I was privileged to attend the dying, other experiences around deaths in my family and rarely, of the death of my adult son in a senseless accident.
Notes from the Dying
Welcome, Chris: That memory is the key to redemption is as gorgeous a truth as I’ve heard. Thank you. It is a wonderful thing to consider as we write memoir, as we live, and as we love and lose those we love. Please keep visiting with us.
Joely: I feel that embrace.
Nell Jean: That your sister’s daughter had a list and you shared it with us is the next in this bounty of unexpected holidays gifts. Thank you.
i’ve lost important people before i lost her, one of my birth-sisters but her leaving hit harder even than mother’s passing.
i could not physically be with her through her cancer treatments. Just could not do it. Living 3,000 miles away made it easier to justify. But. What i could do, what i could give her, was time to tell the truth when she needed to. i could talk with her and listen to her in ways i know that no one else was able to. The distance gave me the freedom i needed so that i could truly be with her every time we spoke, several times a week. If i had been too close, i would have been sucked into an old place of fear and loathing of hospitals and doctors that would have robbed me of the one gift i had to give. We both knew this…it hurt us both at first, but as the phone calls began piling up, and the conversations got richer and deeper, we both decided it was OK. i’m glad she could be generous that way. And that she needed what i could give.
We had always checked in frequently with each other, before the diagnosis, but mostly with “I’ve got something really funny to share with you” type of conversations that left us both in tears with laughter. We were mostly good that way. i’m honored to report that not only did she and i find ourselves able to talk about “when you are there and i’m still here”…but i also…just hours before she left, told her a joke that i knew she would absolutely love…and that she laughed her true laugh even though it hurt like hell.
“So, Cheri,” i said, “i’ve got a joke for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup….You know how they say ‘you are what you eat?’
“Yes….”
“Well, then i’m afraid i’m fast, cheap, and easy.”
Four and a half years later, i still cry a lot that i can no longer pick up the phone and talk with her. But i also smile a lot knowing i heard her laugh…for real…just before she left.
Welcome, Zephyr: Ah, humor. I’m so glad you brought that up. The gift you offer is enormous – that reminder that even in the darkest times humor is appropriate, necessary and oh-so-useful. Imagine all the people who felt the eensiest bit of shame for having handled something with humor – until they read this. That great liberator: humor. It worked at the deathbed and it works beautifully here, in the retelling. Thank you. And please keep visiting.
My little sister, the Itch, is excited. It seems that our Mom’s death has freed her up. She volleys some unthinkable news toward me.
“Hey Bro. We might be moving soon. South.”
No. Not now. Too soon. Feels like death. My thoughts scurry to take cover.
She isn’t dying, of course, she’s leaving home.
My thought, ‘Please don’t leave me, Itch.’ comes out as, “Excellent. Now I’ll have a warm place to visit.” But I can’t muster any snap.
“Indeed my brother, come anytime.” She’s gleaming.
When November rolls around and the cold rain beats the dead leaves off the maple tree near my driveway, I think of a warm, distant place. And that thought has to sustain me until I visit someplace warm. My sister, apparently, needed warmth, and distance, sooner.
But it’s all too soon. And “might be moving” translates to “am moving”. I slam on a composed face, a happy, good for you face, yet this news creates an uncertainty which wears on me like dead weight, clumsy and unmanageable. My father is dead. My mother just died. My sister is moving. Moving. But she’s here, smile on.
When Dad died we rallied together, buddied up. Then Mom got sick and we carried her through birthdays and anniversaries, holidays and hospital stays. Then finally we moved her into my sisters’ house. Her children laid down with her on her deathbed and helped her to die. I thought that after all that we would coalesce, unify, and finally coagulate to form a loving scab we could all pick together.
Mom passed in late July. “Let’s wait a year before we do anything,” my sister insisted. And we agreed. Change too soon might be a drastic and irrevocable mistake. The wound was fresh. Still, by September, Mom’s estate was settled. We kids were alone together now, Mom’s business done.
October brought my mother’s ashes home. Itch’s tone became urgent and unyielding. “It’s time. We’re looking for a place in Charleston, just south enough. I’m so ready.”
“Why not take your time? Check up and down the coast. Rent for while. Maybe pick a place with a direct flight.” I winked. I asked her about the urgency of the move and, like the Hallelujah Chorus, all she could sing was “I’m so ready. I. Am. Soooo. Ready.” By January her husband had gone to Charleston and the house was on the market.
With all the emotion I’d felt around losing my parents, losing her was more than I could stand. She was tired, I knew, from the caretaking. We all were. She had taken the brunt of the duty, being a nurse, and seemed weary. I just thought I’d have a little more time with her.
Her house sold in February, and against big brothers advice, she bought a place in Charleston and her urgency became my sadness, squared. She’s planning a March move, just eight months from Mom’s death. I have been missing her she announced she “might” be moving. She’s my go to. My only little sister. The girl I’m most proud of. Whose house is my Christmas. She’s my listener and my compass. And I harbor a chancy resentment that keeps me from going over to see her more often. Like I need to avoid contact because contact means closeness and closeness breeds hugs and hugs will be in Charleston when I need them and Charleston is a planet away when you just need to see your little sister. And I don’t know how to get from planet to planet. I want her on my planet. In my backyard, around my corner. I just want another cup of coffee at her kitchen table.
She’s leaving tomorrow in the Hyundai. Her, the two cats and some remnants of the house.
“Gonna try and do it in sixteen hours.”
“Hey Sis, how about I help you drive down?”
She turns and smiles, throws those big warm arms around me and whispers, “Road trip.”
Welcome back, Paul: In your first comment on the site, http://thesisterproject.com/roach/side-dishes-lets-write-it-all-down/#comments, you threatened to tell us stories about your sister. We’re so very glad that you’ve offered this one up, here at the holidays, about another kind of loss. Lovely. Please come back soon with more.
The best one yet. (Yes . . . the writing ;-)
Welcome, Weezer: We’re delighted to have you here. We agree: The writing in Paul’s piece is a marvel. So glad you think so, too. Isn’t it wonderful to have a man tell us about his love for his sister? We love this. Thanks for coming by. We hope you’ll be a frequent visitor.
Well I be the sister—imagine my surprise, first that i got here to this site and to the blog( whatever that is) and then after about a half hour of searching found my brother in print. my brother writes great stories he gets the emotions, i am the sister of the facts. i’m crying away dripping on the keyboard afraid i’ll short circuit the laptop that delivered the best gift ever. how cool is this.. my brother is writing about ME. i’ve been in his stories but never THE story.
I’m the sister who moved 5 times and never got out of my zip code. from kindergarten to college and 25years later all in the same place. my life happened in and around the borders of new scotland ave. i guess it was a shock that i was sooooooo ready. could i really leave? when do you get to start living your own life? if my kids could take what they’ve learned from the teachers in our family couldn’t i make it too?? so the adventure started and as they say here in the south “it’s all good”. i wished for warm sun, blue skies, color, outdoor life and energy. woohoo i got what i wanted!!!!
the hard part, the place where i try not to go to, is missing everyone. i still like the anonymity, i can go anywhere and no one knows me. but some of that is the problem. i miss the kids, the thought of them coming “home”, the bro’s and coffee(usually bad) at the kitchen table, the stopping by and beeping, the hugging because you can, the checking in.
Christmas doesn’t feel too good this year. perhaps it’s my fault that the together everybody brunch isn’t on for the morning, that we will all be in our little spaces wondering what the hell happened. hey, you know that may be true for the christmas day only, waaay too much pressure. even at our best we didn’t come close to a hallmark card moment. so i have thrown it out to the bro’s.. can we have christmas on new years and get everybody to be there? new traditions may be happening, who knows.
yo bro this was waaaaaay better than shopping!!!!! if you were here i’d be hugging you in the warm sun on the driveway, where you just sit around and the best things happen. love you……..lil’sis
Dear Lil’ Sis: Welcome. Yes, your brother is writing about you and we think it’s gorgeous. Hoping your holidays are merry and bright and full of brotherly love. Please visit again.
well, well. there’s my sister in blogland. never would have guessed. thanks for doing the work to find this. treasures are always worth looking for, and you know i know where to find you..
Hi again, Paul. Welcome back. We wonder what other little sister stories you two might share. For instance, what are your holiday soundtracks? We’re taking notes here: http://thesisterproject.com/roach/my-own-holiday-soundtrack-fresh-from-the-oven/
Hope you’ll tell us what’s playing down south as well as up north.
So it’s Friday night and I’m chomping down a pbj with a glass of milk that my dear husband left for me on the kitchen table a half hour ago. My beloved sister Eleanor was buried Tuesday morning – her long siege of Alzheimers over. Sitting in the den last Saturday morning, it crossed my mind that one day the phone would ring and my niece would announce that my sister was dying or died. A second later the phone rang and my niece said that Eleanor was going but not gone. Bill and I spent the day in her room at the nursing home watching, waiting, praying and reminiscing with my nieces and nephews. Eleanor passed an hour after we left, her children and grandchildren at her side. I’m sad but have no regrets. I visited often and brought her cookies. I made it through “Silent Night ” at mass and had a peaceful Christmas with children and grandchildren. I’m not sure though what to do with the blue sweater I bought her for Christmas but wore the matching pink one yesterday. Maybe my sisters at the SisterProject will have a few suggestions.
Best to you, Marion and Margaret!
Welcome, Eileen. Marion is away from the computer today, but I wanted to say hello, and thank you for sharing this important story here, with us.
I remember when our mother died after many years with Alzheimer’s, and how shocked I was at the contrasting feelings I had: loss, relief, and actually a lot of confusion, because it felt as if she’d already been “gone” for so long…how do you “lose” someone who’s already “gone”?
As for the sweater, I think it will want to live with the matching pink one in your cupboard or closet or drawer, and perhaps someday you will want to wear it. I know that I cherish certain symbolic items of clothing, including a sweater from a departed friend and a scarf from I gave to my father one Christmas when I was a child, and there are some days in life when nothing else (no other article of clothing) will do.
Again, I thank you for coming here to speak of this. We are honored, and extend our sympathy to you.
Dear Eileen: Welcome, sister. As my sister said, we are honored – deeply honored – to share your experience in this way, and send you our sympathy on your loss. You wear that matching pink sweater like a badge of love, sister. You wear it all over town. That’s my advice. And keep the blue one close by, ready to slide your arms up into it when you can. It will be there for you, always, ready to hug you. Thank you for sharing this. Please keep writing.
Thanks, sisters for your condolences and special words of comfort. I’m feeling the loss and relief but am having lunch tomorrow with another of my sisters (there’s four of us left + one brother) and will wear my “badge of love” sweater – the blue one is close by.
And then there was one….
My mom was a single parent of twins in the 50′s. My sister would never spend the night away from home. She lied and said she was me the first day of kindergarten in hopes to go home. As a young child, she would lie in bed with mom and twirl her hair to fall asleep. Me … I didn’t want to be home… packed an overnight bag everywhere I went. In school, I felt totally betrayed when my mother would say, I couldn’t go to a birthday party or slumber party if my sister wasn’t invited. Being a twin stifled my independence. I wanted no parts of being like my sister.
The years passed like a comet streaking across the sky and I found myself 40 years old and getting a divorce. My sister was ill with lupus, also divorced and living at home with mom. She wanted nothing more than to be treated normal and mom wanted her to take care of her. She hated being treated as if she were ill. So she moved in with me. Mother said it would last two weeks.
My sister, hmmm… how do I even begin to tell you about her. She never complained when she was sick. She worked so hard on being ‘normal’ and never asked anyone to do anything to make her life easier. She gave for today like there was no tomorrow. Everyone that met her, she touched. Not because she was mushy or sentimental seeming, she had a tough exterior. She would make snide comments and never let us see her cry. Yet, she had a way of finding out what you needed and doing that and a little more for you. She baked and she cleaned and she handled mine and all my friends disputes with everyone from comcast to verizonwireless. She made me look good and everyone who is close to me knows that I will never fill her shoes.
Ten years later… I sat beside her death bed… she was in a coma. Relatives clamored around telling me how wonderful it was that I had taken care of my sister all these years. I whispered to her that they have no idea that it was her that took care of me.
Its been two years now and I feel her presence in my life everyday. Almost a month ago, I buried my mother. When I am feeling like I think I am supposed to feel, I think that I am lucky to have had them both with me and that now they are together and with me in spirit. Ok…now for how I feel when I throw that garbage out the window… I feel alone and robbed of the two people who cared for me unconditionally. I miss them.
Dear Chloe: Welcome. That you had no idea that is was your sister who cared for you, and that you whispered that to her as she died, is an astonishing scene that will live on in every person who reads it. Thank you for printing it here. We’re deeply honored. Please keep visiting.