Dear Amy.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 2 Comments

A counselor suggested I write you a letter. The thought had never even occurred to me. That should tell you everything you need to know about how I am doing. In a nutshell, I am in survival mode. My brain has quit working in its’ normal ways. Things that should be natural are not. And, I’m so tired. Like on a whole new level that I never knew existed. I look at the years stretching in front of me and I’m not sure what to do about them. I don’t want to waste them, but how do I not when you won’t be there? You won’t. We can’t go on our trip to New Orleans and ride a swamp boat. I can’t pick out your Christmas presents. I am, no longer, a big sister. This is the point where some well-meaning lady with tissue crammed in her bra would tell me, “Of course you are. You’ll always be her big sister. She’s still with you.” Honestly? I want to punch that lady. And the one that says God needed you and that you’re an angel now looking out for me. A ton of really terrible things have happened since that morning so if you are looking out for me you’re doing a shit job. Sorry not sorry. I still get that life is as much magic as tragic but I don’t know how to operate safely within it. For three years we talked on the phone constantly. We maneuvered our way through every crisis. We found a way to be joyful in the middle of your hell and then it was all taken away. Because of stupidity. Because of an accident. Because of nothing that was relevant to your fighting spirit. It didn’t even wink at how hard you fought. The times you squeezed in a walk between throwing up. How much the sheets on your bed hurt your skin. How jubilant you looked on the day you shaved your hair off. I feel like the way you went should have nodded its head at all of that. It owed you some respect and you got none. And I am so, so, so pissed about that. I’m pissed that our last conversation was so great. Was that a gift? Bra tissue lady would say yes. But it was also a knife in the side. It hinted at a different future. The one where you beat cancer because the horrible treatment worked. It was working. How do I square with that? How do I put my hand in life’s hand and continue forward in good faith? I think it might mean me harm. I don’t trust it anymore. It might as well be a clown grinning at me from the grates of a sewer. (That one was for you.) And so, I’m stuck. Stuck because I don’t want to waste the fact that I’m still breathing. I actually saw a red-headed woodpecker the other morning. The boys are still hilarious and naughty and growing. The holidays are coming. They will come. You still won’t be here. I’m just not sure how to handle this sissy. You know how we always talked about how things can either make us bitter or better? It was our mantra through dad, through mom, through everything. This time is different. I can’t find a toe hold for this making me better. I just want to throw a fit and change it. I don’t want it to be. To have happened. To be real. I hate this version of the story. I hate that your tennis shoes are in my plastic box where I keep seasonal shoes. They are too big for me. I can’t wear them. I refuse to throw them away. They were yours. The Eeyore I gave you the last day I saw you is on my nightstand and your ashes are on a shelf in my closet. Richard still has the mints we found in your purse. He hides them behind a picture in his office and thinks I don’t know. I know. All of it is yours. It holds a reality that was yours. I can’t and won’t accept that it’s gone. And even through all of that I am doing what we have always done. I’m dealing. I decorated for Halloween. I only cry when I am alone because I don’t want to be a bummer. I question whether I need to be doing better by now. I question why I am doing as well as I am. I replay you asking me for one more hug over and over and I stay angry. And then, I try to pep talk myself out of the rage. “Come on, take a breathe, focus on the good.” Oh my freaking hell, I am the bra tissue lady. She really needs to be punched. I don’t know sissy. I still love God. I still trust His character. But I don’t understand why you went through so much to be lost to something so stupid. I don’t know what to do with my hurt and frustration. I want everything to be different. Maybe that is the best sentence. I want. So so much. And so many things. I still send you text messages even though they come back green. I send you funny clips on Instagram because I want you to see them. I tell my phone to call you and then hang up. And, I cringe every time I say I need to call my sister and Richard doesn’t have to ask which one. I know we had our rough spots. I was a dink in high school. We were very different personality wise, but it turns out you were my familiar. My safe spot. A north star that made it all make sense. I spent decades protecting you from everything I thought might hurt you and it turns out I missed one. The most dangerous one and I lost you. And I’m really sorry. I wish I could go back and never leave you. I’d be there in that shiny neutral room and that horrible morning would never happen and I would yell at everyone. Full on it would be a Sally Fields moment. Full on. But then, I would be forced to realize that I don’t know where everyone would be then. That the good things that have happened wouldn’t have. And I know you would love the good things. There are bingo games and decorated refrigerators. There’s a cute house that the boys visit and Tinkerbell loves that. I have no choice but to accept that good things have happened in the last 6 months. Really good things. That kills me. I don’t want good things to come from you being gone but they have. If it were up to me, this year, the leaves wouldn’t change colors, nobody would carve a pumpkin and the world would run out of new recipes, but that won’t happen. Everyone is just living. And having new babies and buying groceries. And I have no choice but to witness it. To understand how wonderful warm little hands are and good friends and chilly mornings. The stupid bra tissue lady would tell me I need to enjoy all the good things for both of us. No kidding braniac. I know that. Honestly, I’m not sure I could help it even if I wanted to. Couldn’t help it because we are a matched set. Two Raggedy Ann dolls, two quilted housecoats, a prom night who needed someone to do the makeup, the opposite end of a couch when there was a Sisters marathon and the only other person who knows how good that veal parmesan was. I have to experience it all for both of us because we always have. It’s our default. How I do that without you is where I’m at today. I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m just glad I answered your call that morning. That one of the last things you said to me was, “I love you sissy.” A gift and a stab in the side. Which brings me full circle. I just have to live in this weird place and do my best. Better not bitter. Ride the swamp boat and answer the phone. I’m trying.

“Just do it.”

~ yellowlamplight ~ 4 Comments

I have sat through hundreds of sermons in my lifetime. Memories flood back of getting a pointed glare from my mother, of pantyhose sliding, of dust floating in the air and, always, a sense of belonging and peace. The memories are thick and warm, but I have to be honest and admit that I only really remember two sermons clearly. One was a preacher who stood at the front of the congregation and ate half of a lemon. I remember him coughing and spluttering and my parents laughing at his antics. I remember the message was that no matter what life brings God can make it sweet. He used the other half of the lemon to make lemonade and passed out a few little cups to folks in the front row. My family of seven was, of course, in the very back row and got none. The other sermon I remember was a preacher talking about a friend that had gone through a messy divorce. It rocked his entire world. He was depressed. Couldn’t move on. It was affecting his job and his sleep and his health. It had been a year and another friend was giving him a stern talking to. He was telling him that it was time to get over it. To move on. He advised his friend to start dating again and to clean his new apartment and unpack his boxes. To quit looking at old pictures and to take off his wedding ring. He told him it was time to just make up his mind and do it. The divorced man listened to the well-intentioned advice. Listened while sitting on a weight bench with his head down and the sounds of people lifting weights around him. When his friend was done he stood and motioned for him to take his place on the weight bench. Then, while his friend was laying there he looked down and said, “I’ve decided today is the day you’re going to bench press 315 pounds. Just wait right there while I add the weights.” His friend jumped up and said, “Are you crazy? I can’t bench press 315 pounds!” He looked at him and said, “Come on just make up your mind and do it.” His friend blustered and sputtered and said, “That’s not just something I can make up my mind to do. I don’t have the strength. I’m not there yet.” The divorced man answered, “Neither am I.” To this day, that sermon still sticks with me. Especially when someone is going through something and I want better for them. Want it to be over. Want to turn the page for them. But never more than lately. I wish I could lay down on that bench and handle grief like a jacked guy that can bench 315 pounds, but I’m not there. I’m still stuck in a sad apartment with unpacked boxes and empty take-out containers. I wish I could speed up the process. Move ahead a few steps. Instead, I just have to live it as it comes. Day by day. Two steps forward and five steps back. It’s the crazy things that punch me in the gut. Yesterday, it was an old email chain. It went on for days and it was just us being dumb about a blue purse she bought. I will tell you that we were/are (?) two funny chicks. I laughed out loud while reading it and then cried for all of the blue purse emails that will never happen. For all the late night phone calls about movies. For all the book recommendations and recipe exchanges and traditions held. For the loss of my baby sister. I’m really not sure how God is going to take me from sucking on a lemon to drinking lemonade, but I have to trust that He will. And I have to feel what I feel. The whole time Amy had cancer, we talked about her journey like a bear hunt. That silly thing you do with kids to teach them about prepositions. We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it. We can’t go around it. We just have to go through it. Right now, I’m going through it. If you love me, please be patient. Don’t try to rush me. If you read my blog, hang around. Eventually, my blue purse sense of humor will return. Right?

Feeling like an evil hero.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

My little sister died.

I never thought that would be a truth in my life. That I would be here without her. I knew she had cancer, but I believed every single person who told me she was going to beat it. My family, her doctor, my husband. Especially my husband. He’s my favorite person in the world and his eyes crinkle at the corners. How could I not believe him? And, it was with that confidence that I advised her throughout her cancer journey. So many phone calls and texts and visits. Yesterday, on her birthday, I wanted to get back to what we said to each other last year on that same day. So, I scrolled through our texts. It took me two hours to get back to last year.

“Should I pay this bill or buy myself some new sheets? They are my favorite color.” “Buy the sheets!” I would reply. “I have this weird pain in my side. Should I call my doctor or give it until morning?” she would ask. “Do you have a fever? Did they mention weird side pain as a possible side effect? What is your gut telling you? If it’s not setting off alarm bells wait until morning. That is what I would do. We don’t want your doctor to hate you. It’s 3 a.m.” I would answer. “Do you think it’s ok if I skip Christmas this year? I promise I’ll do it big next year.” “Of course it’s ok! You can do whatever you need to do to get through this! There’s no right or wrong way to survive. By the way, I sent the sheets.” And so it went for that year and the one before it. My little sister asking me for advice and me giving it. Giving it because I loved her and I didn’t want her to have to decide anything. I could not take the cancer, but I could handle the decisions. Make her non-responsible for any wrong choice. The first sheets were awful and she hated them, but it was ok because I sent them. She hated the tea kettle too and the over night bag. I fixed it all. More than once she said to me, “I don’t know how I could get through this without you.” And I answered, arrogantly, “You don’t have to.”

The Bible says pride goes before a fall. My God is that true.

When the day came that she called me and said she was scared to go into the hospital I handled it with my much called-upon confidence. “Don’t be scared,” I told her. “It’s really not that bad. They bring your food to you and you can push a button and someone will be right there. And they give you warm blankets when you feel crappy. Staying in the hospital will be the least awful part of this whole awful experience. It’s kind of like having parents again. I’ve done it lots of times. It will be fine.” And, she believed me.

Even worse? I believed me. I actually let my guard down. I got her checked in. I went down and bought her a stuffed Eeyore because that is what big sisters do for little sisters. I went back to her room the three extra times for hugs that she requested and I left her there. Alone. Worse? I relaxed a little. There were trained professionals on watch. I could afford to nap on the way back to Texas. I could play my music while I slept. I could not take my phone in the bathroom with me in case she called. I started to really believe my crinkly-eyed husband.

And then, my phone rang. I had just talked to her that morning, so I expected a question or a funny story. “I turned my tv up and can’t turn it down and it’s on Judge Judy.” “Someone just asked me if being bald is fun?” “Can we go to Salem next year for Halloween?” “Gross, good grief, and yes!!! Let’s!” is how I would have responded.

Instead, it was a nurse telling me my little sister, who believed me when I said being in the hospital was going to be ok, had fallen. Fallen and developed a brain bleed and a neurosurgeon would be calling. After that, it was a rushed trip back from Texas and three long days in the hospital. It was Eeyore coming home with me and a funeral where people took home Halloween decorations and pie. And now? Now it is just life without her. Which is infinitely less interesting and fun. And, forever, heart breaking.

And, it’s me. The resident evil hero that gave bad advice. The worst advice. I should have told her to never trust anyone in a hospital. To keep her wits about her at all times. To call me every five minutes to keep me apprised of what was happening. Mostly, I shouldn’t have left her. Ever. I should have just climbed in her bed and lived the entire experience with her. She could have called me from the next pillow. “You’re snoring and I really need my rest for tomorrow.” “Do you think I could have the better pillow tomorrow night and the first shower?” “You’re drooling on Eeyore and he was supposed to be mine.” We would have worked it out. We’re sisters. Were sisters. How is this real?

So, yeah, I’m having a hard time. A few things are keeping my head above water. First, I’m out of the advice business. At least important advice. I think I would still tell you if your outfit is ugly, but maybe not. Maybe I’d let you rock those stripes and plaid. I sleep with a stuffed Eeyore and might from now on. My sweet husband understands and so should you. And, yesterday, when I searched through those text messages to see what I said to my sister last year on her birthday I didn’t find any. Instead, I found a couple of photos of Halloween decorations and fish planks. That was because she was here. We spent her last birthday together. I spoiled her rotten. Bought her everything she asked for, took her to her favorite place for lunch and made sure she knew her big sister was on watch. That I could steal her birthday from cancer and give it back to her like it had always been. Her and me having fun.

Thank God for that.

This man.

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

This man was there. He was there in the doorway of our bathroom while I talked to a faceless doctor about what had happened. He was there as we rushed out our back door leaving a mess and our dogs for our friends to deal with. He was there at the one stop we made. Coffee and a bathroom break and a bag of cashews. He was there as we pulled up to the giant hospital with the polished floors. The endless elevators, the numbered doors and then, finally, her room. He was there as nurses and officials wandered in and out spewing words. He was there those long sleepless nights that stretched on and on. Styrofoam cups full of ice water and numbers on a screen. Uncomfortable chairs and machines beeping. He was there those early hours we sat cross legged on the hearth of a giant fireplace. Scrambled eggs and tears mixing as we tried to eat something. He was there as the sun broke that last morning. Impossibly beautiful and out of place. He was there after the machines stopped beeping when more officials came. He sat with me at a shiny table while a nice lady clicked through options. Options? His hand was in mine. He talked for me when I couldn’t and hugged me when I shattered. He was the best friend anybody could ever ask for and the only protector I needed. He was my husband. I thank God and will every day for the rest of time that it was him beside me. This man.

This country.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

I had a few more blogs I wanted to write about our road trip. Some food stops we made. A quirky place called Carhenge–definitely hope you look that one up. I really wanted to write an entire blog about where we ended our trip. My husband’s brother and his wife’s. They were our people when our kids were young. We got together for all the fun holidays and spent minutes and hours and days loving each other’s kids. Ate countless dinners together and melded in a way that can’t be undone. Walking into their house after that long trip was like coming home and shedding years all at the same time. They were just another piece of that crazy, road trip week that was perfect. I wanted to do all of that, but my youngest grandson got sick and I spent a week rocking that little man and wiping his nose and taking some weight off his parent’s shoulders. So, I didn’t get my last few blogs written and I thought about trying to squeeze them all in today, but I wasn’t feeling it. And, it was very important me to get this last road trip blog done before the election tomorrow. So, here’s the thing. We need tomorrow to work. To do its American thing. No subterfuge. No violence. No funny business. Just American citizens standing in line to vote. Minutes. Hours. Days. Whatever it takes, because it’s that important. It’s that important because America is kinda a big deal. I’m not saying she’s perfect. Of course she’s not. Neither are you. Neither am I. None of us are. But, as long as there is freedom there is the opportunity to get up every morning and try again. To fix what’s wrong. To make things better. And, America is not the guys in suits or the women either. The ones on TV. The ones so sure they know better than everyone. The ones that are trying to turn us against each other. You know they are. ( Did you read any of the comments under your family’s posts on Facebook the last couple of weeks? Or years?) No, America is Annette in Kansas and the quiet motel clerk in Wisconsin and all of the people painting their barns red in Iowa. It’s the crowds at Wall Drug laughing with their family and drinking drinks and making memories. It’s the guy who sold you carpet last week and the waitress serving you enchiladas tonight. It’s your Uncle Paul and the lady giving piano lessons at the church. Tomorrow, take a minute to look at the people around you. Really look at them. See if you can see America. The resolve that made those men hang off the cliff so we could take our families to Mount Rushmore. The dedication to work a not fun job with a cheerful heart and kindness. The courage to run into a scary moment instead of away from it. That is America. I’ve mentioned before that I spent many years living in a place where hurricanes happen way too often. Because of that, I learned that the folks who offer to row in and save you when your house is flooding and you’re on your roof are your countrymen. The people who show up with food and gift cards and a shovel when you need it most. So, when you pull that curtain tomorrow, vote your conscience but don’t drink the kool-aid. Don’t let TV people change how you feel about your fellow Americans. I might be in line with you. Seriously. I didn’t early vote. I was busy with that sweet baby boy that I love with my whole heart. I want him to grow up and be a part of this great experiment. I want that young girl from Ukraine to come back in a few years for another summer job. And, in four years, I want to be standing in line to vote. Minutes, hours, days. Whatever it takes. Maybe, by that time, we will have all wised up to the TV people and they, with an appropriate air of meekness, will be rowing their boats to make things better and not just stay in power. After all, in America, every morning is another opportunity to try again.

Y2K

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What major historical events do you remember?

Lots and lots and lots and how forward of you to ask!! However, the one I’d like to revisit is Y2K. Y’all, I went so far down the rabbit hole on that one that I’m both gratified and horrified by the memory. I bought books on the subject and implored my computer programmer husband to read them and then got a ridiculous amount of angry when he assured me he had an adequate grasp of the subject. I begged him to withdraw all of our money from the bank, to buy a gun and move our little family to the mountains. The fact that I had no clue which mountains seemed irrelevant. However, thanks to my husband and his gentle patience we did none of those things. Instead, we celebrated New Year’s at home and took a picture of our daughter as the new millennium rang in. The next morning as we made pancakes and poured syrup from one of the three gallon jugs I had bought I ruminated about how glad I was that we hadn’t gone over board like some people. My husband, to his credit, did not laugh at me. At least not out loud. I will add that the sky is falling folks never got me again. I learned my lesson. I made it through numerous hurricanes, the pandemic and the last few elections and have not had a single crazed thought. This is not to say I don’t still make sure I’m always prepped and ready. Turns out the third jug of syrup tasted as good as the first.

A cabin with crunchy snow and a red corduroy chair.

~ yellowlamplight ~ 3 Comments

What’s the biggest risk you’d like to take — but haven’t been able to?

The chair would be a cheery red with a chenille pillow placed just so. There would be a roaring fire and, other than that, silence. In one corner, a gleaming table would hold my lap top. Not a desk. The space isn’t that specific in its use. Other people rent it for a ski getaway or family Christmas. I, however, paid Daniel, the slightly too friendly proprietor, for two months up front. I cleared my schedule and said no to people I’ve never said that to before. I am here to finish my book. It’s happening. Me and my novel just moved to the top of the list. My list anyway. This is the risk I dream of taking as I write tiny snippets between appointments and buying lettuce and school plays. My grandchildren’s but still important. It’s all important. Can’t quite figure out how to pretend it’s not. So, until my cabin with crunchy snow and a red chair, I will revise chapter three early on a Sunday morning and fix that paragraph that is bugging me in the parking lot of the dentist and make all the opening nights of school plays and answer prompts like this.

The kids call.

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What are you most proud of in your life?

The thing I’m most proud of is that my kids call. Not because they have to, or even just because they need something. Nope. They call to talk politics and to tell me about a new song they heard—most of the time I hate it but I still listen. One likes death metal and the other likes Bruno Mars—you can’t win ‘em all. Sometimes, they call me to talk about food. Food they’ve eaten, or made or bought or seen. None of us really care. We just love food. The daughter calls more than the son and I understand that—it’s the way it goes. But they both call. I lost my dad in my thirties and my mom in my forties and life as an orphan is not my fave. In fact, it’s kinda awful. But my kids make it better. Their calls make it better. And I am so so proud that they want to. That we have cobbled a close family. Now if I could just get them to call each other and their grandma I’d be the winner of parenting. That’s a thing right?

Scraps of people

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What’s something most people don’t know about you?

Something most people don’t know about me is that I will keep a little bit of them when we part ways. I’m realizing that sounds somewhat concerning, but I don’t mean it to be. I just love humans. I think it’s part of the reason I write. A need to catalog all the specimens and their quirks. I can still remember how one of my first bosses used to stand with both of his hands folded into the small of his back while he surveyed the tiny gas station he owned like it was a kingdom. I hold onto the look of surprise on my favorite teacher’s face the time I caught her smoking backstage at a one-act play competition. She was nervous we would lose and we did. Maybe she smoked a whole carton when she arrived home. The point is, every interaction I have with another person is fascinating to me. I take them all home with me and add them to my scrap basket of memories. When I am an old woman—way too soon—I will have them all to keep me company. Until then, I will use them in my favorite way to cope with this messy life—throwing words against the wall and seeing what sticks.

Mount Rushmore

~ yellowlamplight ~ 1 Comment

Years ago, I spent a 4th of July in Lubbock, Texas. I’ve never forgotten it. I was with my brother and his family and we ended up on a football field in the middle of a huge crowd. Everywhere you looked there were families spread out on blankets. Little kids in red white and blue shirts with melted ice cream adding extra interest to their cute outfits. Coolers full of plastic bagged sandwiches and icy cans of coke. Moms wearing sunglasses and carrying on conversations while keeping each child on their radar. When any kid wandered too far the dads got an elbow in the ribs and they would chase them down dodging other dads doing the same thing. Eventually when the sun set and the fireworks started, I remember stealing a moment to look at all of the faces around me. Each turned up to the beautiful display above us. The lights catching on their features and making them beautiful too. When the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ started to play, I cried. It was the most American I had ever felt. Going to Mount Rushmore affected me the same way. There is something truly magic about standing in a crowd of people looking up at those craggy faces. In being one of them. You shuffle through the little museum and hear the stories about how they made it happen. The painstaking process. You look at the pictures and tell the person you’re with, “I just can’t believe they hung off the side of a mountain!” They answer, “I can’t believe the precision. They even added the glasses!” You both shake your heads and continue reading the placards and calling out facts to each other. Every once in a while, you make eye contact with a stranger and you both shake your heads in wonder. Later in the little dark theatre, you get a lump in your throat when you hear the entire thing was a nod to American exceptionalism. A love letter from a group of men who labored fourteen years to make it happen. They hooked themselves into belts and pulleys and detonated dynamite to create something for everyone who would come after them. For me. They gave me that sunny August afternoon with my husband. The one where we got to be proud Americans. Unabashedly proud. We stopped under the flag from each state we’ve lived in to take a picture. We went in the gift shop and bought magnets and red white and blue souvenirs for our grandsons. We took hundreds of pictures from every angle and we talked about how much we love America. We talked about it a lot. She is a big messy experiment that means everything. To us. To the men that created Mount Rushmore. To the crowd of people enraptured on that field in Lubbock, Texas all those years ago. To the world. I just have to remember that as I get another text message from a politician and try to survive these last 18 days until the election. Here’s hoping that whatever this election brings it continues us on the same path that Mount Rushmore has been illuminating for the last eighty-three years.