That’s My Sister, All Right

“I‘ve got some bad news about Teresa…” my brother said.

That isn’t what you want to hear when you pick up the phone, and he let me have it right away: my sister, just three years younger than I am, had been feeling poorly for a while and chalked it up to lactose intolerance. That wasn’t it. The scan showed a large lesion on her liver, and the blood work done included a marker for liver cancer that was “off the charts.” More than that, nobody knew. She wasn’t even going to have another test, no medical intervention of any kind except for painkillers.

I staggered around my hotel room in Albuquerque, reeling from the news. When I had mostly composed myself, I dialed her number in Austin, the same one she’s had forever. It was true, of course, although she sounded almost upbeat, speaking of the “great adventure” to come, regretting only the effect it would have on other people. There wasn’t much else to say, other than to give her my support and promise to come visit soon. I hadn’t seen her in five or six years, much too long, but Austin wasn’t all that far away. “That’d be nice,” she said.

“Nice”? Dear God. Here’s what I wrote four years ago after calling her on her birthday:

I remember when T. was born. I was three years old. My mother had come down from Middletown, PA to Chestertown, MD so my uncle could deliver the baby. The old man was overseas on occupation duty on Iwo Jima and Okinawa. He and the other officers lived in quonset huts and all had “maids.” It was cold and gray in Chestertown, and there wasn’t anything to do except walk outside around the house. I remember that someone, probably my grandmother, told me I had a baby sister, and I remember that my father wasn’t there. I think I was glad to have a sister, whatever that was. It was pretty lonely for this three-year-old in ‘48, and I wanted someone to play with.

When my father came back, T. was nine months old. [Sigh.]

Sometimes I wanted to nuke all traces of my DNA, and by not having kids myself, I more or less succeeded. T. didn’t have any, either. My younger siblings, farther from the source of original sin, allowed themselves the pleasure, but at least the name will die and peace will come.

I’d like to think I’m done with the past these days. It’s like an empty peanut butter jar: you see it, but there isn’t any nourishment. The present moment is all we have and ever did. Remembering this and how much I love my sister, I stopped by the florist today to have late birthday flowers delivered.

The day before I left Austin almost 32 years ago, I was so wrapped up in my own fear and pain, I hadn’t gotten it together to drive across town to say goodbye. That afternoon T. showed up at my place on her own, eyes red from crying, to make sure I didn’t get away without a hug…

She always does things her way, nothing new in this. Maybe as a result of her not “fighting” whatever’s happening, the cancer will get bored and go away. I can’t imagine life without her on this earth, but this isn’t about me, is it?

In a week or two, I’ll be on the road to Texas. Stunning how our roles are now reversed, and what this life demands.

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