I want to warn you in advance that this post will likely be very long. A lot has happened in the last four months. I have wanted to post an update here for about a month, but everything was too raw. I’ll start by going back to the end of the summer.
I lived with my sister Heather over the summer, nannying her three children while they were out of school. Those months very hard for me in many ways, but it’s a time I will forever treasure. Heather was the sister who always understood me and my struggles the most, and she was always ready with a listening ear and a silly reality tv show to help take your mind off things. Over the summer, I got to know her more deeply than any other time in the past.
When September came, and the kids went back to school, my wanderlust took me on an unexpected trip through Oregon with a group of strangers, and up to Corvallis. Shortly after arriving, I found a job I loved, a church I adored, and a local house of prayer that I was eager to get involved in. The next two month were fun and challenging. I finally felt I’d found my niche.
That all ended the night of November 18th, the day after my one year anniversary of graduating from Mercy. On the 17th, I felt extreme amounts of unexplained joy, peace, and contentment. I had a smile on my face the entire day. Even dealing with grumpy customers didn’t put a damper on my mood. That was the last time I felt joy.
The next day, I was inexplicably gloomy. I’ve often heard people mention having sour days, hours, or moments leading up to the death of a loved one. Unexplainable periods of sadness or a sense of foreboding. I often wonder if this isn’t some kind of spiritual battle leaving physical traces on our physical beings. I have no doubt that people can, and often do, feel the effects of spiritual warfare. Is this the explanation for the phenomenon? I can’t say, but that is a working theory of mine. And it seemed to be so in my case. But more on that later.
After a long day at work, I noticed I had several missed calls and a voice message. I decided to wait until after the walk home to listen to it, and I’m so glad I did. After arriving home, cold and grumpy, I called my sister Melissa without listening to her message. Had I listened beforehand, I would have been warned something serious was up from the sound of her voice. However, I hate listening to voice mails and called her blindly.
I was not ready for what I heard. My world changed with the words “they weren’t able to revive her”. Turns out Heather had had a bad migraine all day (she got migraines often) and called my dad to pick her up from work. Leaving out all the details, she had a brain aneurysm and collapsed in her bathroom. When Melissa told me the paramedics couldn’t revive her, I felt like I was falling backward into nothingness. I felt numb and confused and overwhelmed.
I was alone in my apartment that night, as my roommate was out of town for the weekend. That was the longest night of my life. I cycled between feeling completely numb, sobbing uncontrollably, and yelling in my mind that it couldn’t be true. I spent the night curled up on my bed, unable to sleep and unable to reconcile this new reality.
I don’t think anyone is ever really ready for the death of a loved one, but some situations are harder than others, I think. For example, if my grandmother were to die today, I would be heartbroken, but I would also feel relief. She is old, she has dementia, and she’s locked inside an Alzheimer’s ward at a nursing home. She thinks everyone’s out to get her and that she’s being held against her will (which is technically true) and I would love to know that she is in heaven happy and whole and free.
But my sister was only 32. She had three beautiful, intelligent children. She had no life threatening illnesses, was sound of mind, and no one could have anticipated her death. I still go back and forth between feeling absolutely numb and feeling weepy and overwhelmed over nothing at all. And there’s so much about the death of a sister I didn’t know about beforehand. There’s so much you have to do after a person dies. And how do I respond when someone asks how many siblings I have? I was asked last week and I, out of habit, responded that I have six. I instantly felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
I know some people get mad at God when something like this happens. I didn’t. But recently, I’ve found myself having moments of anger at Heather. I know this was not her fault, her doing, or her wish. But I still occasionally have a thought like, “How could she just die and leave her kids here all alone?” I know it doesn’t make sense, but so much about this whole situation doesn’t make sense.
I always thought I’d be the first sibling to die. God knows I tried often enough. And I assumed if I didn’t intentionally do it, something else would like my prescription drug abuse, the bulimia, a self-harm accident, etc. I never could have comprehended that Heather would die first, and so young. Again, I know it’s silly, but looking back I guess I felt that being a single mom somehow gave her immunity from death. I have to admit, after struggling for so many years from issues that could have easily killed me at any moment, it’s frustrating that it was Heather who died. It makes me feel like what’s the point in taking care of myself if, in the end, anyone can just drop dead in their home?
Death makes no sense in that way. I know a woman who has battled anorexia for over 30 years and is still living. I know a girl whose battle with anorexia lasted only just over a year before it claimed her as another victim in its clutches. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to why or when people die. One single mother raises her three children, sees them off to college, cries at their wedding and again at the births of her grandchildren, lives well into her 80′s and becomes the beloved great grandmother. Another single mother dies at 32 and never gets to see her children graduate middle school, let alone college.
I think that’s one of the hardest things for me right now. All the things Heather should be involved in, but won’t be. Shortly after her death, her 7 year old daughter had a school play. The next night, her 9 year old daughter had an orchestra recital. Heather missed both of these. The first school events of innumerable more to come that she won’t attend. We just had our first Christmas without her. Our first New Year. In 9 days, her son turns 11. It will be his first birthday without his mom. Next month her youngest turns 8 and it will also be her first birthday sans mommy. This will be the first whole year without my sister.
While it’s easy to say I should celebrate the time I had with her, or to think about the fact that she’s in heaven, happy and having a blast, all I seem to have the capacity to take note of is the absence. The lack. The hole that’s been left. My nieces sometimes get up in the middle of the night in tears wanting mommy. My 7 year old niece told me I look like mommy. She said she wants to go back home and live with mommy again. I want that too. I wish so much I could restore all these three have lost. My nephew asked me if I would teach him to draw. His mom taught me to draw many things when I was little. She was so creative. She would make paper dolls, build doll houses (complete with furniture) from cardboard boxes, create games. When I was a child, it seemed she was always coming up with some exciting new idea. Her whole life, what she wanted the most was to be a mommy.
Heather loved the novel “Little Women” and always likened herself to Jo. When she was a teen, she was always writing something new. Always reading. Always dreaming. She kept hundreds of index cards with names she liked for use in her writing. She introduced me to the internet, video games, and Star Wars novels. So many of the things I love, I love because of her influence. So much around me reminds me of her. I’ll be honest, the longer it goes, the more the numbness wears off, the less I seem able to cope with it all. So many times a day I find myself wishing that somehow I could go back in time and prevent this. But I am not a time lord and I have no magic Tardis to take me back, to warn her to go to the ER. I am stuck here in this linear, side-scrolling life. I need to figure out how to start jumping before the stage pushes me off the edge.
The thing is, now that she’s gone, I don’t find myself wanting to remember her. I know that probably sounds terrible, but it’s true. After she died, my mom put a picture of her up in the living room so the kids would have a picture of mommy to look at. I hate that picture. Every time I accidentally see it, it’s like an ice-cold dagger straight to my heart. My mom found Heather’s old “My Book About Me” that she filled out as a child and then went back at different ages and updated in the margins. My mom placed it up on the lip of the China cabinet. Every time I look at it, it reminds me of how much I looked up to Heather when I was little, and of all the things we did over the years, of all the times she made me feel special. And I can’t handle that.
I know this is probably the same avoidance that landed me in Mercy in the first place, but I feel like if I don’t avoid the pain, don’t push down the memories, it will all tear me apart. I feel like a dam with little leaks that I keep trying to plug, all the while fearing that sooner or later, the pressure will be too much and everything come rushing out and it will overwhelm me completely and pull me under.
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