grief

“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.

Jillietta Macallicutta

~ yellowlamplight ~ Leave a comment

On my twenty-first birthday I was not at a bar. Or a club. I wasn’t taking shots or dancing to a band. I was in my friend’s sunny house across the street from my childhood home. There was a pan of chicken and noodles cooking on the stove and a freshly iced German Chocolate Cake waiting on the counter. If you could go back in time and look through the front window of that house you would see us there. Me and Jill. Both young. Both blonde. Both probably discussing the shocking centerfold Burt Reynolds had just done for Cosmo magazine. In the middle of all those giggles and preparations you would also see a little blonde boy who darted in and out talking about model airplanes and when we could eat the cake calling to us from the kitchen cabinet. It was a perfect hot day at the end of summer with the promise of so many good times to come. That night and in the future. It was the kind of day you hope exists for people in this world and it did. It existed for me. Because of Jill.

I don’t remember how many people came that night, or the presents I got, or even if we got a twenty-first birthday measure of drunk, but I do remember how I felt. I’ve never forgotten that. I felt like I was worth using up an entire Saturday on. Like I was worth my friend spending some of what was a single mom’s tight budget on balloons and cake ingredients and that Cosmo magazine–just so she could shock me with it and then laugh when I kept going back to take another look. And, I’m telling y’all, we laughed. So, so much. That night and many times over the years to come. About so many different things. If I could, I would catalog them all right here so you could all laugh with us. Those two young girls with life stretching out in front of them.

You would love the story of how I showed up at Jill’s house late one night and asked her to help me play a prank on someone. And, of course, she said yes. It involved intrigue and heavy lifting and mud. And, of course, laughter. When we were done, we drove back through town with the windows down and icy air blowing through her car singing some Dolly Parton song at the top of our lungs. I remember that night. It gets taken out and turned over in my mind and treasured. I can close my eyes in this moment and see her laughing from the driver’s seat. She is forever caught in the light of that open car door laughing at me and telling me to hurry before we got caught–a mischievous glint in her eye waiting to pop the clutch and get us to safety. I can see our muddy footprints tracked across her kitchen floor and I can see the steaming cup of spiced tea she put in front of me while we analyzed the genius of our prank and the impact it would have. We were sure it was the best prank ever played. I wish you could peek through that window too. It would also make you glad that nights like that exist for people. That there are friends like Jill that will answer their door late at night to help you pull a prank and then serve you warmth after. I am so lucky to have had her.

When I got married and we moved far away from each other and got really, really busy being grownups and responsible and weighted down we still found a way to stay close. To matter to each other. Then, it was long phone calls and surprise packages in the mail. Travel brochures from places I mentioned I wanted to visit. They would arrive in brown envelopes with her familiar looped handwriting printed across the front. Always anonymous except for her super-cool spy name she invented. She invented one for me too. We were going to use them when we ran away to live on a beach and be served umbrella drinks all day every day. I would send back brochures from house builders and even more travel brochures from her places. It was our way of seeing each other. Of remembering who we were before our grown up lives absorbed us. Before life and bills and being serious about things became so important. If you would have asked me then if I could ever lose Jill I would have said no.

I was wrong. I did lose her. Twice.

Once, the first Sunday of the new year to this damn, interminable virus that I hate with every tiny part of myself. And once, before that, in a way that hurts me even more. I say that because when Jill died it had been five years since I had talked to her.

How do I justify that? How do I pretend I don’t know better?

If you’ve been following my blog for even a minute you know I know better.

How could I not? My life has unfurled in a way that has taught me the same lesson over and over. I know how hot a funeral church is when you’re wearing panty hose and snot is running off the end of your nose and you just want out of there. I know that random men with pens in their pockets will always look like my dad in a crowd. I know that going to a little kid’s funeral is every kind of awful you can imagine and ironing their jeans beforehand is worse. I know that when one of your friends dies, barely a year after her wedding, you will keep the furry crown she wore at her bachelorette shower because you can’t bear to get rid of it. It will stay in your hope chest for years shedding pink fluff like it’s molting your memories. I know all of this and I still forgot. I got lulled into complacency. Into believing the awful lie that tomorrow would be a good day to check in. It’s a really crappy thing how life ends suddenly. And, almost always, when you think you have more time.

Jill and I had one more visit after we were young. I went home for a high school reunion and, even though it had been a minute since we had actually seen each other, she opened up her house to me. To my little girl. To my brother and his wife. She folded out couches and fixed breakfast and made us all laugh the entire weekend. When we left that morning I gave her a big hug and we promised to do a better job of staying in touch. And, then we didn’t. I didn’t. In the end, I should have held on tighter and sent more brown envelopes. I should have remembered who she was in that sunny little house across the street from mine. That moment when she was young, with her son running in out of the room, when the future was unwritten. I shouldn’t have lost her before life took her.

So, I’m sorry Jillietta Macallicutta for losing you before I needed to. I’m also sorry for revealing your most excellent spy name in this blog for the whole world to see. Can you forgive me for both? I hope so. One of us needs to.