Big Sister
My Big Sister passed away a week ago
today. She died on the first anniversary of Gord Downie’s passing at five
minutes to one. It was a glowering October afternoon, with sullen clouds
twisting perfect autumn colors into a seasonal knot outside of the hospital
window.
It’s all a blur. The whole day, the
moment life left her, the weeks she spent in hospital while we conferenced with
our doctor trying to make sense of what was happening inside of her body and
her brain. We didn’t expect this outcome, to lose her. We held on to the hope
that we’d finally get some answers
and figure out why her body was rebelling against her. Once something started
to work, a medication, a treatment, whatever, something else broke down and
then she did and before we even had a
minute to think, she was gone.
My Big Sister was my first friend. I’m
the youngest of six kids and she was next in line, ten years my senior. I
learned a lot from her at an early age, first to walk and then in later years
to stand on my own two feet and do what I wanted without the worry of what
others might think. I wish she had followed her own sound advice. She always
worried. And, because she did, she often made mistakes. She protected herself
so much that sometimes she missed the good stuff. If only she’d known it was
good stuff. But then, she was only human. Aren’t we all.
My Big Sister taught me how to shave my
legs. I used to sit in awe of her with her basin and soaps and razors, watching
the sharp edge nip the flaxen hairs from her skin, “soft like a baby’s bum” she’d say. As you can imagine, I was nowhere
near as graceful as she was the first few times. I had cuts and scrapes to
match the ones I’d gotten wiping out on my bicycle. It wasn’t until she taught
me how to curl my hair that I’d gotten the hang of it.
My Big Sister was there for me when I
was curious about the birds and the bees. She took out a book and read the
whole thing to me. I winced and squirmed from looking at the diagrams but she
told me with a maternal calm that there was nothing she showed me I’d ever need
to be ashamed of, especially when it was time for my period. I got mine when I
was in grade 5. It made me so sick I failed the easiest language arts test in
the world. I was wearing my favorite pink jeans. I almost passed out. When the
school bus let me off at the end of my drive-way I bolted straight into the
house, whizzed right by my Mother in search of my Big Sister. She calmed me
down and reminded me what I needed to do and where to find the ‘supplies’. This of course was all to Mom’s
delight. She never knew quite how to broach the subject of ‘womanhood’ with me.
My Big Sister took me on my first
adventure. I grew up surrounded by woods and in Cow Bay. I thought driving just up into Eastern Passage proper for a treat at the store was a
big outing but once we moved out of the sticks and into the Passage she took me
on the bus all the way to Halifax. It blew my mind. We had a routine: Dairy
Queen on the corner of Spring Garden and South Park Street for cheeseburgers,
fries and Peanut Buster Parfaits (hold the peanuts – yes, I know, weird), two
bookstores, the Black Market, and then to Sam the Record Man on Barrington
Street. There we discovered three incredible levels of every genre of music. We
fell in love with it all, together. Her early taste leaned toward Bay City
Rollers. I thought they were pretty lame compared to my love for the Jackson 5.
But, then we discovered Duran Duran; New Romantics with a sound we couldn’t
resist, a band with glamorous style and splashy videos and influences that
opened up the world to both of us. We quite literally wallpapered our shared
room with their posters and pages ripped out of every teen/music magazine you
can name. We devoured every tidbit, every clip on TV, every note. We got
interested in the fashion world and the art world. My Big Sister was quite
enthralled with Warhol as a result of our love for Duran Duran and went on to
amass a stunning collection of books and things related to him. Finding Duran
Duran was our cultural education. And, it was what cemented our bond even with
ten years between us. From there until our adult years, we were thick as
thieves. All the trips and concerts and conversations and laughter and
collecting – they all shaped me and were some of the happiest days of my young
life. I’d give anything to go back and relive one with her.
My Big Sister lost a big part of herself
when our Dad died. Despite their often tumultuous relationship, there’s no one
on this planet she loved or trusted more. She made us promise, that if something
were to happen to her, we had to let her go so she could be with him. We
encouraged her in every way we could think of to reconsider. She had always
said even before she got sick that she would never want to live in a hospital
bed, kept alive by tubes and machines and things. She was an incredibly claustrophobic
person but she also said that if she couldn’t live fully and functionally, one
hundred percent participating in the world, she’d rather not. It’s a tall order
for a woman so young to enact a strict do not resuscitate order. When she
landed in hospital back in early September, that very thing kept me awake at
night but I convinced myself it’d never come to that.
I lost my Big Sister. Someone or
something in the universe out-maneuvered my hope and all the fighting we did
for her to try and help her get well. Someone said that God needed her now; he
had other work for her to do, important work. I like to believe some version of
that is true. I wish I knew. What I do know is that for all of the pain and
anguish she endured this past year; especially during her long exasperating
stay in a Dartmouth hospital, she slipped away surrounded by love. So much of
it that when I think of those who were in the room with me, holding her hand,
giving her permission to free herself, it makes me want to curl into a little
ball and cry for days. And yet I remember this: it is a privilege to grieve. It is an honour to feel so much heartache, all
this hurt because I loved that much. We loved that much.
My Big Sister was there for me at my
beginning and I was there for her at her end. I am lucky. I’ll be lost without
her, likely for the rest of my life. But there are songs and photographs and
memories and people and places and things that will keep her right beside me,
inside of me, until some force in the universe sees fit to task me with
important work. She’ll save me a seat and show me the ropes. That’s how we
roll.
I miss my Big Sister with every fiber of
my being. I always will. But, that she was my
Big Sister and we shared so much is a gift. It’ll never stop giving.
In propinquity,
Nic
PS – It goes without saying that in the
days and weeks and months ahead I’ll be working through this loss in poetry. Once
the shock wears off I know the words will come and I welcome them.
