A Repost: Nothing Funny About Today

first posted February 15, 2014 ...

My sister Jeri lost her battle with cancer a year ago today.

It wasn't shocking, but it shocked me.

It wasn't scary, but I'm scared.

She wasn't alone, but now I feel lonely.

My sister, my big sister. My very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My sister, my big sister. We were very different, so very different. She was gregarious and out-going and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, almost petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My sister, my big sister. She could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

I remember the day she called, with that call.

She was in the hospital with pneumonia and woke up around 4:30 AM, bored to tears. Since she lives, lived, sorry, that'll take time, in California, she knew better than to call anyone there that early, but then she remembered time differences, and how it was 7:30 in the morning at my house, and the phone rang.

We talked about her being sick and how she was feeling better. She told me stories of the ghosts that people said wandered around the hospital; and we laughed. My sister is kind of that hippie love child mother, and we talked about the ghosts and we talked about her kids and how her youngest had recently shaved the side of her head. We laughed.

We talked about growing up together and the things we did together. We talked for over an hour and then I heard the nurses enter her room and she said she had to get off the phone so they could do their work. I said I loved her, and she said, as she always has, that she loves me, too.

About six hours later, the phone rang again at my house, and I saw it was her on the line, so I picked up and said, 'Hey.'

'I have cancer.'

Cancer. Cancer. She asked that I call Dad and let him know because that was one phone call she couldn't make; she started to tell me more, but then she began to cry, and I tried to hold back the tears.

'Don't you start,' she said.

I said, 'Too late.'

My sister has cancer. My big sister had cancer. But now she doesn't, now she's safe and free and doesn't hurt and has her hair, and might be sitting with my mother right now, talking things over, and reminiscing some. That makes me feel a little better.

She did everything she could to beat the cancer; she studied treatments, did chemo, and even did radiation, but, as our family knows, all too well, cancer creeps up and around and over you. Last fall, after undergoing radiation she decided that was enough; she wanted to enjoy the time she had left and not be in hospitals and be sick; she wanted to be.

My sister, my big sister, and I have like minds on death: there is no fear of it, though there is also no anticipation for it. But there is a sense that it's part of our journey and, naturally, a necessary step. I learned in a college psych class that death and dying is actually harder on the living, on those left behind, than it is on the dying person, and I saw that first-hand when my mother was dying.

I'm feeling that hardship again. But I want to think of the good things about my sister today. I want to remember the fun and the laughs and the jokes. I shared this story once on my blog, but I’d like to tell it again ... it's one of the lessons my sister taught me:

We are only fifteen months apart, age-wise, and were very close growing up. We went to grade school, junior high school, and high school together, and though we had some of that 'don't look at me' attitude while in high school, it was always nice to see my sister walking the halls.

This is the story of a basketball game, and a pair of high school mascots. Our high school team was the Cougars and there were a pair of Cougars who stood on the sidelines during football and basketball season, riling up the crowds, playing with the cheerleaders and generally just having fun. One of the girls who was a mascot couldn't make the game one night and asked my sister to take her place; when the other girl begged off, my sister asked me.

I said, 'No.’ I did not draw attention to myself; as a young closeted gay boy, I stayed in the shadows as much as I could, but when my sister asks, sometimes it feels like an order. And so I thought about it; I thought it might be interesting to step out of my comfort zone, though in those days we had no idea about comfort zones and such. I just thought it might be fun to not be me for a while. So, I relented.

The costumes were big, furry, heavy, hot, but we put them on and off we went to the game. I kept my cougar head on all night so no one knew it was me, but it gave me the chance to act in public like I wanted to act, and not like I thought I should. I learned that it was okay to be different, to march to a different drummer, to act the fool, to have fun for fun’s sake … to not care what people thought about you.

Still, it was a lesson that took a while to stick; there were other lessons that needed to be learned first, like accepting myself, coming out, and allowing others to accept me, too, but for those couple of hours on a Friday night in November, 19fumphity-fumphy, I was my one true self. Under a fur covered head, yes, but my one true self. And so my sister taught me that it was okay to be yourself, because she knew who that fool in the cougar costume was and she still loved him, no matter how he acted.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

I've been thinking about more of those times … thinking about the lessons my sister taught me, and this is another one of them .....

My sister joined the Air Force many moons ago and began moving everywhere. Spain and Germany; Delaware. I think New Mexico was in there, too. But soon enough she came back to California where the family lived and we got to see one another more often.

Still, she was a mountain girl, living in a small town in the foothills outside Sacramento, while I lived smack dab in the middle of our Capitol City. We were quite different; she enjoyed gardening, I enjoyed nice dinners with good wine; she was garage sale, I was Macy's. She was married, I was gay. Different.

But this story isn't about that; this is the story about the day she taught me how to say I love you. See, I was good at writing those words on a card, or signing them at the bottom of a letter, but I wasn't too keen on saying them out loud for whatever reason. 

But, one day, many years ago, she called to chat — my sister loves to chat on the phone and I loathe it ... yet another difference between us — and we talked about all kinds of things, from what we were doing to what the world was doing. At the end of the chat, as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

And I said, Thanks.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant to say Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it? So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all felt we just didn't have to 'say' it. 

Add to that the idea that I also thought, subconsciously, at least back then, that I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't; what parent wants a gay kid? No matter how much you love them, as a parent, you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'son' that had been expected.

My sister, however, thankfully, thought differently. Just saying I love you so easily and simply, without force, made me realize that I was worth it.  And I thank her for that. See, after that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

Now, I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. And, I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me, but it got easier and more natural.

And, I think it helped push away some of the Old Bob who might have been fearful of love and being loved. I think, having my sister teach me that lesson made it all the easier for me to tell Carlos I loved him, and to hear him say it back to me, and to keep telling him and telling him and telling him.

I always knew my sister loved me, and I always will know it, it’s just that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

So while today hurts, for so many reasons, I want to think back on the laughs. The time we had a party at our house while Mom and Dad took David to a baseball game and how they never caught on; at least until we told them, years later, after the statute of limitations was up.

I want to think of my sister who was a wonderful mother, to four wonderful girls; she instilled in each of them her independence, her sense of self, her sense of worth, her joy, her love.

I want to think of my sister with her husband, Tom. It took her a while to find him, but when she did it was the best thing she ever did. No one made my sister as happy and loved and comfortable and peaceful and filled with life, as Tom.

So, I'm gonna sit for a while and think about the last time we were all together and stood still long enough for a picture. I'm going to laugh and smile, and feel loved, and feel love ...

For my sister.

Nothing Funny About Today ....

My sister Jeri lost her battle with cancer last night.

It wasn't shocking, but it shocked me.

It wasn't scary, but I'm scared.

She wasn't alone, but now I feel lonely.

My sister, my big sister. My very first best friend; I loved her from the moment I was born, and I imagine she'd say she loved me from that second, too, even if I was 'the new baby.'

My sister, my big sister. We were very different, so very different. She was gregarious and out-going and had tons of friends and was always doing something. I was shy, almost petrifyingly so — my mom used to joke that I didn't start talking until I was eighteen — and I had just a handful of friends.

My sister, my big sister,. She could be as stubborn as a mule, and had quite the temper, while I always tried to please, and be the nice one, and not draw attention to myself. We were as different as night and day, and as thick as thieves.

I remember the day she called, with that call.

Less than a year ago, she was in the hospital with pneumonia and woke up around 4:30 AM, bored to tears. Since she lives, lived, sorry, that'll take time, in California, she knew better than to call anyone there that early, but then she remembered time differences, and how it was 7:30 in the morning at my house and the phone rang.

We talked about her being sick and how she was feeling better. She told me stories of the ghosts that people in the hospital talked about; ghosts that wandered the halls. And we laughed. My sister is kind of that hippie love child mother, and we talked about the ghosts and we talked about her kids and how her youngest had recently shaved the side of her head. We laughed.

I had recently asked if I could use a picture that I have of her in a project that might see my novel published at long last. It’s one of my favorite pictures of her, wearing a blue flowered dress Mom made for her. I want it on the cover of the book; I actually used the picture as a way to describe a character in my book that, while she looks like my sister and acts like my sister and has some of the same adventures with her younger brother that my sister had with me, she is not that sister. My sister is much nicer, and sweeter.

We talked about growing up together and the things we did together. We talked for over an hour and then I heard the nurses enter her room and she said she had to get off the phone so they could do their work. I said I loved her, and she said, as she always has, that she loves me, too.

The phone rang again at my house, about six hours later, and I saw it was her on the line, so I picked up the phone and said, 'Hey.'

'I have cancer.'

Cancer. Cancer. She asked that I call Dad and let him know because that was one phone call she couldn't make; she started to tell me more, but then she began to cry, and I tried to hold back the tears.

'Don't you start,' she said.

I said, 'Too late.'

My sister has cancer. My big sister had cancer. But now she doesn't, now she's safe and free and doesn't hurt and has her hair, and might be sitting with my mother right now, talking things over, and reminiscing some. That makes me feel a little better.

She did everything she could to beat the cancer; she studied treatments, did chemo, and even did radiation, but, as our family knows all too well, cancer creeps up and around on you. Last fall, after undergoing radiation she decided that was enough. She wanted to enjoy the time she had left and not be in hospitals and be sick; she wanted to be. Quality of life over quantity.

My sister, my big sister, and I have like minds on death: there is no fear of it, though there is also no anticipation for it. But there is a sense that it's part of our journey and, naturally, a necessary step. I learned in a college psych class that death and dying is actually harder on the living, on those left behind, than it is on the dying person, and I saw that first-hand when my mother was dying.

I'm feeling that hardship again. But I want to think of the good things about my sister tonight. I want to remember the fun and the laughs and the jokes. I shared this story once on my blog, but I 'd like to tell it again ... it's one of the lessons my sister taught me:

We are only fifteen months apart, age-wise, and were very close growing up. We went to grade school, junior high school, and high school together, and though we had some of that 'don't look at me' attitude while in high school, it was always nice to see my sister walking the halls.

This story is about a basketball game, and a pair of high school mascots. Our school team was the Cougars — not like the cougars of today, aging women who date children, but real cougars — and there were a pair of Cougars who stood on the sidelines during football and basketball season, riling up the crowds, playing with the cheerleaders and generally just having fun.

One of the girls who wore a mascot costume couldn't make the game one night and asked my sister to take her place. The other girl also begged off, and, well, my sister asked me.

I said, 'No.’ I did not draw attention to myself; as a young closeted gay boy, I stayed in the shadows as much as I could, but when my sister asks, sometimes it feels like an order.

And so I thought about it; I thought it might be interesting to step out of my comfort zone, though in those days we had no idea about comfort zones and such. I just thought it might be fun to not be me for a while. So, I relented.

The costumes came, big, furry, heavy, hot, and off we went to the game. I kept my cougar head on all night so no one knew it was me, but it gave me the chance to act in public like I wanted to act, and not like I thought I should. I learned that it was okay to be different, to march to a different drummer, to act the fool, to have fun for fun’s sake. To not care what people thought about you.

Again, it was a lesson that took a while to stick; there were other lessons that needed to be learned first, like accepting myself, coming out, and allowing others to accept me, too, but for those couple of hours on a Friday night in November, 19fumphity-fumphy, I was my one true self. Under a fur covered head, yes, but my one true self. And I learned, from my sister, that it was okay to be yourself, because she knew who that fool in the cougar costume was, but she still loved him, no matter how he acted.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

I've been thinking about more of those times since my Dad called with the news; thinking about the lessons my sister taught me ... and this is another one of them .....

My sister joined the Air Force many moons ago and began moving everywhere. Spain and Germany; Delaware. I think New Mexico was in there, too. But soon enough she came back to California where the family lived and we got to see one another more often.

Still, she was a mountain girl, living in a small town in the foothills outside Sacramento, while I lived smack dab in the middle of our Capitol City. We were quite different; she enjoyed gardening, I enjoyed nice dinners with good wine; she was garage sale, I was Macy's. She was married, I was gay. Different.

But this story isn't about that. This story is about the day she taught me how to say I love you. See, I was good at writing those words on a card, or signing them at the bottom of a letter, but I wasn't too keen on saying them out loud for whatever reason. 

But, one day, many years ago, she called to chat — my sister loves to chat on the phone and I loathe it ... yet another difference between us — and we talked about all kinds of things, from what we were doing to what the world was doing. At the end of the chat, as we were saying our goodbyes, she said, All right then, I love you.

I said, Thanks.

Thanks? That was my response to my sister saying I love you? I mean, I guess I meant Thank you for loving me but that isn't really the correct response either, is it?

So, as I tend to do, I sat there after that phone call and wondered why it was so hard for me to say those words, and I realized that I come, came, from a family that didn't really ever 'say' the words. We showed our love; we knew we were loved; I guess we all felt we just didn't have to 'say' it. 

Add to that the idea that I also thought, subconsciously, I didn't deserve to be loved because I was the 'different' one; the gay son. I mean, my parents knew I was gay, and they were fine with it; they loved me. But I’ve always wondered if they ever hoped that I wasn't; what parent wants a gay kid? No matter how much you love them, as a parent, you realize their lives would be easier if they weren't gay. So, I felt loved, but at the same time, unworthy of being loved because I wasn't the 'son' that had been expected.

My sister, however, thankfully, thought differently. Just saying I love you so easily and simply, without force, made me realize that I was worth it.  And I thank her for that. See, after that conversation, and after my introspection, I listened to what she was saying: we all knew we were loved but she wanted us to hear it. And that made a huge difference.

Now, I didn’t change overnight and turn into one of those people that say I love you at the drop of a hat; it took time. And, I think the first time I said it back to her I probably choked on the words a little bit, as though they were somehow foreign to me. But it got easier and more natural.

And, I think it helped push away some of the Old Bob who might have been fearful of love and being loved. I think, having my sister teach me that lesson made it all the easier for me to tell Carlos I loved him, and to hear him say it back to me, and to keep telling him and telling him and telling him.

It wasn't that my sister loved me, I always knew that, and I always will know that, it's that she made me realize I was worth it, and I could say it, and hear it and mean it and be it. That's just one of the lessons my sister taught me.

My sister, my big sister. My hero.

So while today hurts, for so many reasons, I want to think back on the laughs. The time we had a party at the house while my mother and father took our baby brother to a baseball game and how my parents never caught on; at least until we told them, years later, after the statute of limitations was up.

I want to think of my sister who was a wonderful mother, to four wonderful girls; she instilled in each of them her independence, her sense of self, her sense of worth, her joy, her love.

I want to think of my sister with her husband, Tom. It took her a while to find him, but when she did it was the best thing she ever did. No one made my sister as happy and loved and comfortable and peaceful and filled with life, as Tom.

So, I'm gonna sit for a while and think about the last time we were all together and stood still long enough for a picture. I'm going to laugh and smile, and feel loved, and feel love ...

For my sister.

Sunday Funnies Sad

Highs And Lows

It was a weekend of highs and lows, and CostCo.

The highs were the weather, which was just lovely all weekend long, allowing for the last bits of winter to be swept away. 
Another high was the arrival of a package from my father, who is planning a move from Smallerville, Oregon to EvenSmallerville, Washington this month, and was cleaning out his house in preparation. He had asked each of his three kids if there was anything specific they wanted form the house, and was kind enough to provide a list of Mom-and-Dad items.

Now, I am not a keeper of things. I don't like having a lot of stuff, especially stuff I don't use or need, so there wasn't a lot on the list that I wanted. Except for an Anniversary Clock that belonged to my parents. I have my Grandmother's--my father's mother--Anniversary Clock, and I liked the idea of a pair of them, so Dad sent it along this weekend.

He also sent a set of Little Leather Library Corporation books that had belonged to his grandfather, my Great-grandfather, that I have always loved, along with some Christmas ornaments my mother had made over the years.

I must admit, it was a bit of a weepy feeling, seeing those things that my mother had painted, but I am going to love hanging them our tree next Christmas. It'll be a little more like having my Mom around.

Dad also sent a history of my mother's family that my Aunt Norma had accumulated and written. I didn't know a lot about my mother's family, probably due to an ugly incident in the 1940's that involved infidelity and a murder trial--I may tell this story one day on the blog--but it's interesting to read the stories about them. The funniest part was the story of my grandfather, on Mom's side, being just two pounds when he was born, and being kept warm in a shoe-box near the stove. Seriously.

Of course, having this package, with these pictures and stories, arrive the day before Mother's Day was a bit unnerving. I had odd dreams that night and kept thinking of my Mom almost constantly as we moved through the day. I've always said that, after one loses a parent or loved one, it does get easier, but it never gets better, and yesterday was one of those days that wasn't easy or better. I did get some lovely news from my Dad about an upcoming event in his life that made me smile. My father is getting remarried to a woman he worked with a local aquarium near his town, and they will wed May 21st, in a quiet ceremony in Oregon. Carlos and I will visit them in Washington sometime in August once they're settled.

It makes me smile to think, after my mother died, and I spent a great deal of time worrying about my father's survival, that he has found someone with whom to share his life. I learned at my parent's knees that all you really get in life is happiness and you have to know when to grab it. And I remember that day, nearly eleven years ago, when  I was moving from California to Florida to start my life with Carlos, when my father hugged me at the airport and whispered, 'Be happy.'

And I am, and now I get to wish him that same sentiment.

Oy, did this turn sappy all of the sudden or what? 

So, let me end with this tale: At CostCo, between his snack bites, Carlos picked out a new office chair to buy, an ErgoNomic Something-or-Other. And all the way home he kept muttering that he bought me a new chair. I quickly reminded him that he bought us a new chair because the old chair had broken.

"If a man who is over six-feet-tall needs a couple of pillows to stuff in a chair so he can see the computer screen, then the new chair isn't a gift but a necessity."

And how was your weekend?

Mom

I was reading on another blog, Blind As A Bat, about Beth and dealing with the loss of her mother. It brought back all sorts of thoughts about my own Mom, who died on 17 February 2007, after a year-long battle with lung cancer.

I learned a lot from my Mom, and my Dad. I learned that roles people play aren't defined; that what you do in a relationship, the part you play, can change over time. Mom's didn't just bake and be a Room Mother; they weren't just Den Mother's or on the PTA. Mom's went back to school to become a nurse so that Dad's could get a teaching degree after he retired from the Air Force.

And Dad's don't just throw baseballs with their sons. This son wasn't the best catch, and to this day I still throw like a girl. But Dad's can also take their sons on bike rides; they can go to arts-and-crafts shows; Dad's can do the dishes and cook the meal's because Mom's working while he goes to school.

My Mom and Dad are those kinds of Moms and Dads.

My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer in the early part of 2006, and my Dad did what he does best. He researched and called doctors and spoke to people. He took care of my mother every day from the time she was diagnosed until the day she died. And that is not the easiest thing for anyone to do. But it's what Dad's do; Dad's who love their wives with all their hearts; Dad's who've been married to Mom's for over fifty-one years.


Carlos and I went to see my Mom and dad just after her diagnosis. It was all good spirits and a happy visit, but lung cancer casts an ugly shadow over everything. The survival rate is minuscule; surviving even two years with lung cancer is rare. But he and my Mom went through all the tests and the chemo; losing the hair, the appetite; the sleeplessness; the days to too much sleep; the forgetfulness.

In January of 2007, my Dad asked that I come out again. He was having a tough time being on-call 24/7. And he wanted a helping hand; he wanted an ear; he wanted a visitor. I stayed for about a week, and my Mom seemed in good spirits. We had fresh crab for dinner one night and Mom went crazy over hers. We told stories and laughed; we ate, we drank, we talked. And the clouds grew a bit darker.

A few weeks later my dad began using hospice care to help him care for my Mom. He needed a break every so often. It was a full-time job with no breaks. I remember he gave me the name of the woman who handled the hospice care program and he asked me to call her. I had been asking him if he wanted me to come out and he said it was decision I needed to make for myself.

So I called the woman from hospice and spoke to her; she told me my father had been working so hard caring for my Mom; she told me he was reluctant to ask for help. I told her he was stubborn as a mule--a trait all the family shares--and she said, "I can't say that, but you can." I asked is she thought I should go out there, and she said, "As soon as she can. Your mother really doesn't have much time."

Not much time. Awful, awful words.

So Carlos and I flew out to Oregon. My mother seemed all right. Alert. Awake. Happy to see us. My sister and brother had come up from California, so we were all together again, for a while.
It seemed as though, once she had her family around, my Mom knew she could go. The next few days her health began failing. She slept most of the time, but when she was awake, she would say the most wonderful things.

My sister visited the month before as well, and she told a story of having dinner, everyone around the table and Mom asleep on the couch. With the idea of death becoming more clear, she began talking about religion. We all have our own thoughts and ideas about religion, what's right, wrong, who to believe, what to follow. My sister said something about having so many choices, what do you believe.

My Mom woke up for a moment and said, "You take all the best parts of all of them."
Another time, in that week she died, Mom was asleep on the couch, and her legs slid off to the floor. My sister went and asked if she wanted to change positions and Mom said, "I'm just going to lay hear and let them all watch me."

I like to think she was talking about the people waiting for her.

Another day, after we'd gotten a hospital bed for her, i was sitting by her side, and she looked through the front window and asked, "Who are all those people on the deck?"

There was no one there, but she saw them, waiting for her.

She died quietly and peacefully in her home. I was sitting in the living room, with Mom asleep across the room. I wanted her to go. I wanted her to be peaceful. I didn't want her to hurt, or to worry about us. I wanted her to have her hair back and her smile; and that laugh; and the way she would say, "Oh Bobby!" whenever I said something outrageous--which was, and is, often.

My Dad came out of their bedroom and went to stand by her side, and she was gone. That's a sound you don't ever want to hear, or will ever forget, the sound your Dad Makes when your Mom has died.

So, that's my Mom. I was glad to be there when she died; happy to hold her hand on her last day; to send her off with the sounds of her family and her dog, her husband of so many years. Not long after I got home from Oregon, Carlos and I decided to start house-hunting. Nothing seemed right. Too small; too far out; not enough trees. Then the realtor showed me another house, and I walked in the front door and you could see into the kitchen. I pictured my Mom, in one of her housecoats, sitting at a table in that kitchen with her morning coffee, looking into our backyard.

That was the house we bought. And I can still see her, every so often, in that kitchen, looking at my yard. I think of her every day. I talk to her every day. I cry a bit, like now as I remember and relive those last days with her. I told Beth, on her blog, that it will get easier, but it never really gets better

I miss you, Mom.
I love you.