It's Moments That Defy Death - Goodbye Amy

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.