Grief does strange things to a man. But why is my dying sister so wise?
For weeks now I’ve been only semi-functional, a terrible handicap since I normally only manage about 50% anyway. As soon as I hit Austin, I stopped at the H.E.B. to buy some groceries. A sack of key limes from Mexico caught my eye—only 99 cents!—so I bought them, forgetting to pick up sugar for my coffee. When I finally got to my sister’s house, I proudly hauled out a huge bin of ancient family photographs I’d decided on my own would be the perfect thing to share with her before she goes. She took one look at a single page in an album, then handed it back, saying, “There’s no use looking at the past.”
Oops. Well, that’s right, isn’t it? I’d had such an intuition but ignored it. When I apologized for wasting her time, she said, “You could have asked me.” Yes, I could have, but I was too scared to call and talk to her, afraid of breaking the dam that holds back my tears. What’s a brother to do? Not be afraid, that’s what. And when I told her about the family news, the unending madness back in Tucson, she said, “I’m glad you’ve been there to handle all that. I put it all out of my mind a long time ago… it’s just not my concern!”
How does she DO that? I know one secret: she doesn’t pick up the phone… My mother and brother call me once a month or so, crying and complaining about the other, late checks, her doctors, his evil habits, all the rancid guilt of generations past. I’ve been mainlining this toxic brew for decades, taking all the punches. WHAT THE HELL FOR?!? (What am I afraid of? Actually, I know.)
Yesterday I took my sister to the library for some audio books. It was the first time she’d been out of the house in two weeks. She could barely get down the stairs and into the car, and we had to take a walker that she’d gotten from hospice. Skinny as a rail, jaundiced, and with a swollen belly, she showed me where to drive and park, all smiles.
On my own last night, I decided to walk downtown to the boisterous East 6th Street scene. It was 93° at 10 o’clock at night, and I got soaked with sweat but didn’t mind. Sixth Street was a revelation: the crowds, the noise, the unmitigated weirdness and intensity were more uplifting than any church. Live music and refrigerated air blasted out through open doors. The sidewalks were packed with locals, tourists, loonies, hawkers, bachelorette parties, tipsy professional ladies out to get tattooed, and packs of Baptists from the country. So this was where my brother plies his pedicab trade! All around was the seeming threat of unexpected vice or violence, but overall the mood was happy and chaotic. Somehow released, I mutated on the spot.
I shot all the video I wanted, and nobody cared. I walked past one gloriously sleazy bar with a female punk rock band on stage right in the window, then decided to stop and have a beer. I ambled in, saw the band was sexy but still struggling (I hadn’t even recognized the Ramones cover from their rendition) and came right back out! No one paid me any mind, and I realized that age had made me invisible…
Unseen, sweaty, bludgeoned by noise and crowds, I’d rejoined the human race. The crushing cosmic funk that flattened me for weeks was gone. Better get that booster shot, though.
(I’m going back tonight.)
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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
Great insights. She has nothing to lose. A ‘friend’ of mine came around to being decent again after she helped her little sister pass of pancreatic cancer. She said she learned a lot from her sister during that phase.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all could carry those types of lessons into our daily living? How sad we choose to ignore all the advice about Don’t look at the past, and It’s just not my concern.
Yeah, it’ll put you in a funk, but that’s not bad! Take it in!
Well, it’s better now, anyway. Dying and grieving are part of the process and unavoidable, but what I do to myself is, um, voluntary. I learn slowly, but I do learn, and the lessons are coming in fast and heavy now, thanks to Teresa.
Great insights indeed. Still, there’s much to learn from the past. Looking back isn’t necessarily bad. Insights can be gained there too, and compassion for the people in our lives (ourselves included) if we substitute understanding for blame. There’s a fine line, though, between reflecting on the past and wallowing in it. We can release it without losing it (er … that’s a trick I haven’t learned yet though).
Besides, aren’t we told that the distinction between ‘past’, ‘present’ and ‘future’ are all a construct of our minds?
Hi Carmel!
Well, our mother has the exruciating habit of exhuming everything that’s ever happened, finely crafting the layout of the guilt, and demanding that everyone suffer along with her—or else we’re “just like your father,” etc. So maybe that has something to do with my sister’s attitude!
Okay with me, for sure. I’d like to burn it all down, myself.
As for constructs of the mind, “past” and “future,” yes. The present is another beast, however, because that isn’t a thought. Whether we think something or not, the universe still is.
(Maybe.
)
Well, yes … your mother wallows in the past, and seemingly learns nothing from it – though we don’t know what goes on inside her mind.
And your sister is another matter … there’s no need to learn from the past any more (and I suspect she has done so much of that already), for her ‘future’ is in another realm.
Yes on all counts!
I didn’t go back to 6th Street after all, by the way. Just too wiped out…