The Long Goodbye

There are days when I’d like to yank my heart from my chest, stomp on it and tell it to stop. Stop throbbing with hurt. Stop stealing my joy and stop sucking the energy out of my already weary body. Fortunately, those days are rare, but every now and then my grief over Sissy’s suicide creeps up on me when I’m not looking and bitch slaps me. On both cheeks. And then grabs hold of my heart and squeezes. Until I can hardly breathe. It’s been two months since Sissy died, and things have slowly gotten better, but yesterday was one of THOSE days, and it made me wonder how long these intense bursts of sadness will continue to sneak up on me.

If I had been paying attention I would have seen it coming. For about a week now, every time Teen Angel and I have made the nightly trek to Sissy’s house to feed her cat and sort through a few boxes and drawers I’ve felt somewhat frustrated by the mess there. There’s just so much stuff to go through. Every piece has to be touched, and every thing you touch rips the scab off an old memory. Some good. Some bad. It’s intense, and it’s slow. It’s up to Mama J. to make decisions about Sissy’s belongings, and it’s just been too difficult for her to process more than a little bit at a time. She has her own grief to deal with, so I understand, but the selfish part of me has wanted to get the packing over with quickly. Walking into that house night after night looking at the stacks of boxes that seem to shuffle around the room and go nowhere has slowly worn me down. I’m tired of looking at it. Tired of dealing with it, and I just want to be done with the whole overwhelming job of disposing of Sissy’s things.

We’ve had a handful of auctioneers visit the house and give us estimates on selling the contents. Some were expensive. Some didn’t want to handle it the way we wanted to, and one just rubbed us the wrong way. However, yesterday the gentleman who showed up was kind. And knowledgeable. And reasonable. He was sympathetic to our situation, and Mama J. hired him on the spot. And he started hauling stuff away immediately to sell at his auction house. We won’t even have to endure a long day of watching strangers ramble through Sissy's house and bid on the things she called hers. Hubby called me at work to tell me the news, and I was overjoyed. I couldn’t wait to get home and see the progress. “Finally,” I thought. “We’re getting somewhere.” By the time I got home, changed clothes and shoveled down a tuna sandwich the auctioneer had come back for another load. He was picking up the big pieces of furniture and had left gaping holes in the piles stacked in each room. He had already cleared out much of the mountain of cardboard and plastic containers in the garage. I introduced myself and told him I could hug his neck, and then I walked into the house. And fought not to fall apart.

I wasn’t prepared for the emptiness of her bedroom or the slice of pain that seared my heart. The wave of grief caught me by surprise and literally took my breath. All of this time I had wanted the stuff to go, and now that it was I couldn’t stand to see it leave. “Why?” I wondered. “Why is this bothering me now?” and after pretending to clean a closet away from the watchful eyes of everyone else I fought for composure and answers.

I think it’s because this really is goodbye. Even though I had watched Sissy’s depression overtake her life and suspected for months she wouldn’t live to her next birthday, I guess a tiny, irrational part of my heart held out the false hope that she didn’t really jump from that bridge. That the coroner was mistaken, and it wasn’t really her in that closed casket. That she would call from Vegas or some far away place and tell us it was all a mistake and she had really run off to find herself. She would beg for forgiveness and ask someone to pick her up at the airport and we would laugh with relief over her latest adventure. That tiny little part of my heart surrendered last night, and hobbled out the door with her bed, dresser and sofa. Hubby and I stood at the front door and watched the trailer pull away with the remnants of Sissy’s life, thinking the same thing without having to say it. We stood there silently, communicating with our hearts the way people who have been married a long time do. I have never felt so united and yet so alone at the same time.

The garage that was full just two days ago was suddenly too empty to look at. I took a quick picture of it when I left because I felt an unexplainable reason to capture the moment.

The auctioneer will be back tomorrow to pick up everything else, and the house will be stripped to its bones. The essence of Sissy will be gone from there, and the emptiness will echo between the walls and repeat in our hearts. The sister I had for nearly twenty years is gone. I am finally going to have to end this long goodbye. I will carry her in my heart for the rest of my life, and some days that spot will hurt. Most days it will warm with pleasant memories of the way she used to be. I know this because yesterday was one of THOSE days. Today was not.

Fine, Thanks

“How are you doing?” It’s a question we get asked often these days by folks who know about Sissy’s suicide. My answer varies, depending on the mood I’m in at the moment, but usually I tell them something like, “I’m fine, thanks. Thanks for asking.” I soften it a little because people don’t really want to know how we’re doing. Oh, the ones who we’re extremely close to want to know and can stand the honesty when you lay your heart in their hands. God bless them. The others wince at our pain and really just want some sort of reassurance that we’re doing alright because they can’t bear the details of our grief. And that’s okay. I understand. Really, I do. There’s something about this kind of grief that’s a little more intimate and raw than the pain you feel when someone dies of a natural cause. It’s a little TOO intimate for some people.

The truth is, we ARE doing okay. We hurt tremendously, but each day we smile a little more than the day before, and each day feels a little more normal than the day before. Each day brings a new emotion. First, there was numbness and disbelief. Then came the anger. Anger that she could put Mama J. and Papa T. through this at such an old age. However, my anger drifted away as we began to sift through Sissy’s belongings. It’s such an intimate process, reading someone’s private papers and sorting through their finances and treasured items. Each thing I’ve touched or read has given me a better understanding of how the depression took over and destroyed her life. She started dying the day her son died nine years ago, and I just can’t be mad that she chose to finally end her suffering. I know she didn’t do it to hurt us. She just wanted the pain to end.

We’ve only begun to dispose of her belongings. Because Mama J. and Papa T. are not physically able to take care of that task, it has fallen to me and Hubby to do the bulk of the work. It will take weeks to close her accounts, clean out closets, box up items for an auction and prepare her house for sale. Some of the boxes we have to go through contain keepsakes that Sissy saved when her son and husband died. We don’t look forward to that. We try not to think about how much has to be done because it gets a little overwhelming. In fact, we try not to think too far in advance about any of this because it is so difficult. Mama J. and Papa T. need a lot of care right now. Their pain runs the deepest of all. To bury two children and a grandchild in the last two decades is almost more than they can bear. They are managing, but they are very fragile right now.

An emotion that keeps drifting in and out of our souls is guilt. Should we have done more? Could we have done more? What if? I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had. We keep reminding ourselves that we did the best we could. It was Sissy’s decision, not ours. My emotional barometer clicks over to sadness most of the time now. Not extreme sadness. Just a dull ache that things did not end better. That our relationship with Sissy was rocky near the end. I hold onto the memories of the good times. The dinners and trips together before her mental illness turned her into a person she never wanted to become. I’m especially grateful that Christmas 2007 with Sissy was such a wonderful time. It was the first time she was able to celebrate Christmas with us since Chance’s death in 2000. I hold onto the memories of her smiling and laughing amid the twinkling lights and colorful packages.

Those memories will sustain us as we slog through this grief. We will prop each other up and try not to tear each other down with our emotions. That's a big danger for the family members affected by suicide, you know. We have a long journey ahead, but our days are better now. We’re looking forward to the fun that summer brings: swimming, concerts and parties with friends. We have a party this Saturday with old friends, and we will see Willie Nelson in concert Memorial Day (11th row!). We have plenty to smile about, and we will be okay. We’re fine. Really, we are. And thanks for asking.

Back to Normal

What is normal? I'm not so sure anymore. Nothing about this year has been normal so far. From the ice storm to the eighteen day power outage and Sissy's unexpected death, 2009 has been one big stressful surprise after another. Frankly, I'm pretty tired of being in the running for the Suckiest Year Ever Award. And while things have felt kind of surreal lately, life does go on, and things are slowly falling back into place. Yesterday was a little better than the day before, and today was slightly better than yesterday. The school bus pulled up the street this morning at 6:40. The electric bill came right on schedule and Bitchiest Clerk Ever was still serving up sandwiches at Subway. There is security in the routine. That's why preschoolers will watch the same video over and over without tiring of it. There's something comforting in knowing what to expect, and I take comfort right now in the rote. It feels good to go back to making dinner instead of dipping up a neighbor's casserole. I look forward to going back to work tomorrow. And running on my lunch hour. And taking Teen Angel to work. And watching a funny show on TV. And giving the dog a bath. The routine is what pushes us to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving when we don't feel like it. It's what puts us in the position to accept the laughter when it finally comes bubbling up unexpectedly. It's why I took time out today to buy mama's Mother's Day gift, to put a roast in the crock pot and to clean out the refrigerator. It's how I will find normal again. While I'm not sure when or how normal will get here, I'm pretty sure it's going to sneak up on me. And that's one surprise I will enjoy.

Remembering Chance

*For those of you visiting today for a smile, I will warn you that this one is a little melancholy. But it’s a story you should know in order to understand me. There’s a challenge at the bottom, so hang in there until the end.

Many folks lost their innocence on September 11, 2001. I lost mine nearly a year earlier on September 23rd, 2000. That’s the day my 13 year old nephew died. Tomorrow will mark the anniversary of Chance’s death. Seven years ago he left us in a sudden tragic accident that has forever changed our family and the way I look at the world. The loss was enormous, the pain unimaginable and the healing, well, that’s been a slow process. Like the folks shaken by September 11th, I now know that security can disappear in a heartbeat.

I remember the phone call with vivid detail. Sunday morning. Six o’clock. The ring jarred me from bed, and I caught my breath when I saw the number on the caller ID. I braced myself for bad news because the call was from Sissy. Her diabetes ravaged husband had been to the brink of death more than once, and we knew his fate was inevitable. We had expected bad news about him for a while. We didn’t expect the news to be about Chance. It just didn’t seem possible. Chance and his best friend had been in-line skating at an industrial park when they were swept up in the run-off from a sudden rain. Both boys drowned. At first they were only missing. Hours later the dogs turned up their bodies in the water, and Sissy was introduced to a priest.

Answering the phone that morning was like hopping on a runaway train that wouldn’t stop. It set into motion some of the most painful moments of my life. Telling Hubby that the nephew he spoiled and cherished was gone. Watching Mama J. and Papa T. crumple under grief and explaining to our seven year old daughter that her brother like cousin would never eat watermelon with her again. And worst of all, trying to prop up Sissy and her husband during the worst of all possible losses, their only child.

The three hour drive to Sissy’s house was surreal. Cars whizzing by. People going about their every day business while we felt stuck in time. The news didn’t truly sink in until we arrived at our hotel and saw a news story about it on the television. Even though it was a major metropolitan city, the story was big news. Every television newscast. The front page of the newspaper. Everywhere, somebody was reminding us of the tragic nature of the accident. We staggered through four days of planning, services, homemade meals and well wishes. I cried non stop for four days. I simply couldn’t stop. There was just so much pain. Chance was the closest thing to a son Hubby and I will ever have. He spent part of his summer with Mama J. and Papa T. every year, bouncing between their house and ours. He was the only person who ever slept in our guest bedroom. Teen Angel worshipped the ground he walked on, and clung to him like glue. She would have followed him across the Mojave Desert barefoot. We loved that child dearly. The rip in our hearts was deep and jagged.

We buried him on a crisp, autumn day. As I stood in that little country cemetery numb to the preacher’s words and blinded by the sun, I realized that amidst the enormous loss, I had been given a gift by that smart, beautiful boy who had brightened our lives. That gift was the realization that life can be very, very short. It is not always what you expect it to be, and it is to be lived fully…every day…without exception. The clothes, the cars, the fancy homes really aren’t worth two figs in the end. It's not about living the good life. It's about good living. I try to practice that every day. It's why I dance when no one else does, sing really loud even though I can't carry a tune and laugh, laugh, laugh. I don't sweat the small stuff anymore. I know what tough really is, and most of my daily challenges are really not that tough when I consider how rough some folks have it.

A second gift I received from Chance is courage, courage to get out of my comfort zone. I'm not afraid to try difficult things anymore. Why should I be? I've already done the hardest thing I will likely ever have to do, help to bury a child. Everything else has to be much easier, right? After his funeral I came home and asked for a very challenging job promotion that I had been scared to ask for. I got it. I succeeded at it, and five years later, when I felt the call to a new career, I took that leap without much fear.

These two gifts were expensive, so I try very hard not to squander them. Each day I remember my dear nephew by using his gifts wisely. I will remember him tomorrow with a couple of tears, but mostly with pride for the dynamic young man he was and for the light he brought into my life. He was kind, generous and giving to others, so my challenge to you, my friends, is to help me remember him by being kind to others. I encourage each of you to commit a random act of kindness this next week, and come back and share it with me when you're done. If you're a lurker and don't want to reveal yourself, then post anonymously. It's about the act, not the name. Feel free to pass this along to your readers and challenge them in Chance's memory too. The world could use a little more kindess these days.