It
killed her slowly and painfully. Schwannomatosis; Pretty fancy word.
Just like my
sister, it's extremely rare and never let's you forget it's presence.
Her illness was characterized by multiple tumors on nerves throughout
her body. She was in extreme intense pain all the time.
My
sister was not defined by this war on her body for which she did not
enlist.
All
the years since, she pushed all that ever knew her out of her life.
Sadly, her pain and lack of the ability to really connect deeply with
anyone left her angry and bitter. People say that “she's in a
better place”. I hope that's true.
Grief
registers as experience.
When
Death slammed the door with my big sister in tow, internally I beg
for another look; beating against the gate for another twinkle I can
cherish forever. I am living each day again and again with all the
words I should have said. Against
my consent, my grief is woven within a global pandemic panic. We are
all grieving for something right now; a loved one, our freedom of
movement, our security, our direction. If nothing else we are all
human beings being forced to get along or prepare for the
consequences.
Amy.
That
was her name. Amy Scott Herndon. She was born on June 7, 1953.
She
was, what she called herself, a tough broad.
She,
as all of us, was a sum total of all of her experiences.
Being
the oldest of three, she was the one that had to be “responsible”.
Growing
up in southern California was fun as I looked back but I was 6 ½
years younger. What did I know. I remember her in those days trying
to be a teenage go-go girl.
We
were raised by a single mother who did the best she could dealing
with the challenges of raising kids ans climbing up the ladder in the
interior design world. This was not easy for our mother for she also
was a complete narcissist. While Mom would take her swatches up and
down Robertson Row, Amy had to look after me. I became a tag-along to
her teenage world. I thought it was so cool!. She would put on my
mother's fall (hair piece), high white boots, and a mini dress she
borrowed from one of her friends and out we'd go. This was what 1967
looked like for me.
We
walked the sidewalks of Palms (Culver City), like the city was made
just for her. I felt so privileged. Again, what did I know, I was
seven. I can still hear KHJ Radio playing The Doors coming out of
Amy's little red transistor radio as she held it up to her ear. We
would end up at the gas station where she would flutter mom's fake
eyelashes at the much-too-old-for-her boy that swept the floor there.
Later
that year, Amy turned 13. My mother kicked her out of the house. Or
she just decided to leave. I felt conflicted. It was beautiful in one
way not unlike seeing a dove released from a cage. Yet, she was the
one that took the brunt of my mother's anger, belt, hairbrush, or
wire hanger....even when it was my fault. Who would protect me now?
I
heard nothing from Amy after that. The years went by yet I had not
matured. I had rewritten history to one where she left because I was
annoying and that she just didn't care. It took a lot more years
before I allowed myself to remember it without my pitying filter.
Finally
in 1980, she knocked on my door. I saw her threw the window and
marked the surreal moment it in my brain. I invited her in and she
smiled that Amy smile. I had almost forgotten. I don't want to ever
forget that smile. Her teeth were situated a certain way that was
unique to her. It was a little girl smile.
She
was talking but I didn't hear any of it because I was taking in the
totality of the pure Amy; unaffected by society or family. Her long
raven hair, tan skin, athletic build and fire in her eyes was a force
of nature. After a she saw my now, two daughters, she gave me a look
of pity like had I sold out. After that, we walked out to a waiting
VW van. A very hairy gentleman in sunglasses waved at us from the
driver's seat. The next thing I remember is waving at the van as it
disappeared down the street. My crying two year old came running down
the driveway terrified that I had left her. I felt the pull.
Amy
was always the brave one who took chances. She loved the thrill of
the adventure...not so much the everyday grind of things. As for me,
I was on a mission of my own. Mother my children the way I wanted to
be mothered and somehow that would make me whole. The jury is still
out on that.
The
next time I saw Amy was three years later after my divorce. I came up
on my own to visit her in a little town in northern California called
Inverness. It
had a small downtown area with a general store, post office, library,
two restaurants, one gift shop/coffee shop and one traffic signal.
Amy lived in a little homemade cabin, not under code,
way up in a tropical rain forest area. A friend with a house down
the hill from her rigged up electricity from his place to hers.
I
was only there for two or three days but I am so glad to have that to
remember back on – a day in the life of Ms. Amy. We talked about
everything. We talked about silly things like when grandma used to
fall asleep sitting up watching TV with her mouth open but her
dentures closed. We talked about dark stuff too. She said she felt
guilty for years leaving me there with mom. She gave me advice about
life and love. It was glorious. I had my big sister that day.
She
introduced me to all her musician friends as they sat around their
studio and harmonized CSN&Y songs. She took me a bar, the only
bar. As we walked in, all the heads turned. They all literally
stopped what they were doing to come embrace her. I wanted some of
that to rub off on me!. She was the happiest I had ever seen her. She is still there...in a happy loop in my brain. Still there.
“No-one
ever told me that grief felt so much like fear" - C.S. Lewis
Grief
isn't just about missing the person you've lost. It can make you
scared for the future. I
sometimes wonder if she is watching, and thinking…”Don’t
forget me!”. The truth is, I know she's watching, cheering,
and encouraging me from beyond the veil. After all, she's my big
sister.
