Chapter 2: My Sister, She Left Me.

I’d only been away from home 3 days shy of a month when my dear sister passed away.

My mother and a few other family members drove up to tell me the news. It was by far the worst and yet most love-filled moment of my life.

So, yeah, I was devastated, hurt, angry, confused. All the emotions that come with loss and grief.

Days after her death, I was commemorating a birthday. I tried to organize a “happy” occasion where we could all celebrate my sister as well as my 28 years. Sadly, no amount of chicken wings (I’m now only an occasional vegetarian, by the way), beer or birthday cake could make it better. Saddest birthday ever, for sure.

I spent a week at home with my family to reflect on my sister’s life (I don’t like to say “mourn the loss” -- it’s just so...depressing) before returning to school. After discussing things with my mother, it was determined that, though very soon, going back to my new place in DC may actually help with the healing process. I was restless that first night back; my friends let me stay at their place for a night so I wouldn't feel alone. For a while I was able to distract myself with work and class (minus the frequent crying spells in bed, on the metro, in the bathroom at work/school), but soon life got really difficult and depression was painfully evident.

I was sad and irritable ALL. THE. TIME. I was mad at people for not understanding; for asking stupid questions like “how are you?” or “what’s wrong?”; for talking fondly about their siblings in front of me (a childish reaction, I know. I’m over that now). Whenever I could find the motivation to attend class or show up for work, it was rare that I could actually focus or care about tasks assigned to me. I dropped one of my courses and performed poorly on a mid-term exam. Sleep never came and I was having some wicked headaches.

Worst of all, I was a panicky, anxious mess. Sometimes it got so bad, that I lost the ability to speak. Imagine me, the chattiest Cathy there is, unable to say anything. My mother once thought I was having a stroke when, over the phone, I began to stutter mid-sentence. That event landed me in the hospital. It’s scary when your mind and body are so out of synch. The attack happened somewhere in Maryland. I took what seemed the longest bus and metro rides ever to the hospital near campus. Once my feet were back on land (er, pavement), I practically ran to the emergency room.

I couldn't figure out which window/desk to go to for registration after walking into the waiting area. The room was small and dim. It did not help my nerves whatsoever. When I went back through the sliding doors to ask a couple of security guards for assistance. I opened my mouth and again the stammer took over. They leaned in and squinted (as if to better read my lips???), but still nothing intelligible came out. I touched my throat and shook my head “no” to inform them of my speechlessness. A security guard escorted me back into the waiting area, instructed me to take a seat and handed me a clipboard. All I could do was write on an intake form:

“panic attack? can’t talk. sister dead. call mom.”

He dialed the number I gave him and waited. Ashamed of my behavior and unsure of what to do, I looked down at the floor. A man next to me (the waiting room was too packed for me to have any privacy) said, “It’s alright to cry, sweetie. Just write it down, they’ll help you.” And they really did. Shout out to those amazing hospital employees (nurses, docs, security, etc.) for excellent care.

I was moved from the ER waiting area to a triage unit. No more stares of confusion and pity like before (imagine, all you wanted was some antibiotics or an x-ray when a teary-eyed girl comes into the ER all distraught and speaking gibberish). This time there were patients, staff, EMTs and policemen tending to some kind of business. Thankfully no one was really paying me any attention and I was able to sit, catch my breath, gather my thoughts.

A lady with an oxygen tank and house shoes touched my arm before asking, “you OK sugar?” (Actually, it was more like, “sugah.”) I shook my head yes and waited for a nurse to take me to a small, depressingly yellow room box where I spent hours on a plasticky lazy boy (I was exhausted and in need of sleep -- a bed would’ve been nice). A PA, nurse and psychiatrist asked their questions and ran their tests. I felt exposed though I knew they were just trying to help.

It was determined by these professionals that the transition to a new place and the shock of my sister’s death had possibly led to post traumatic stress disorder. Well, I already knew that. I wanted them to tell me how to fix it. I said no thanks to an overnight stay in the mental health center. I also said no thanks to prescription drugs. I did, however, take their advice on a simple and rather cheap sleeping aid: Benadryl.

The sleep issue was kind of worked out and I began to meet regularly with a counselor and psychiatrist.

I was still sad.

"Your body may be gone, I'm gonna carry you in.
In my head, in my heart, in my soul.
And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both live again.
Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Don't think so. " 

- Modest Mouse

Chapter 1: Re-Education

After leaving my beloved college town, some amazing friends and a dreadful job, I did my best to adjust to moving back home where a great family and job awaited me. It wasn’t easy going back to the people (mother and sister) who raised me to be so driven and independent.

You see, I’m the baby. Spoiled to the core. It’s all that nurturing and lovin’ that make me who I am (real “wind beneath my wings” type stuff). My sister was about 13 years when I was born, so I sometimes felt like an only child with her as a second parent to my mom. They brought me up to be a thinker, to question everything. More importantly, they always insisted I learn to make my own way in the world. To this day, Mama constantly tells me, “God bless the child that’s got his own.”

Being co-parented by my mother and sister wasn’t always a breeze. My sister and I often butt heads as we tried to figure our sister-sister and caretaker-child roles. Boundaries were murky. So, when I got “my own,” I made great strides to show the world that I could do it all and that I could do it all alone. I somewhat distanced myself from my mother and sister. I still spoke with and saw them regularly, but I never hesitated to remind them that “I’m grown!”

During my undergrad days, my sister began to face a number health issues. I was able to ignore some of her struggles while I was away at college. When I returned home last summer to prep for graduate school, I could no longer ignore her or be in denial about what was happening. Almost a stranger, she had not been herself for quite sometime. She wasn’t happy and she rarely spoke. It was hard to bear witness to that. Though she wouldn’t give much insight on her health problems or changes in mood, I did what I could to offer support. I would lay in bed with her. Sometimes I’d talk, maybe tell a joke or gossip. Most times I’d just be still. Sometimes you don’t need words to express love. I believe that in our own way, my sister and I reconciled the differences between us. I was thankful for the healing and for the time to show gratitude to someone who had always taken care of me.

Initially, returning home made me feel somewhat like the little girl who always needed approval or feedback before making a decision. My family and I worked on our relationships with each other, though, and we all became more comfortable with my new “adult” self.

I didn’t have long to reflect with my (re)new(ed) family. After about 6 months in my hometown, I moved AGAIN. This time to a city (Washington, DC) way larger than what I’m accustomed to. I welcomed the challenge. A new city, with new people and a new graduate program would be just what I needed to really “get my life together” - a journey on which I always find myself.

My sister wasn’t up for the trip to DC, but she helped me pack and made sure to wake me up on moving day. She also hugged me goodbye before waving me off. It was my mother and an uncle who helped me with moving in, etc.

To say the least, the transition was tough. I didn’t really know anyone and it was hard getting back into college mode. I did my best to grow my social circle and develop better study habits. It wasn’t all loneliness and work, though. I became fast friends with a few classmates and spent as much time as possible exploring my new home. School work was becoming a breeze as well. And that’s all within the first month.

So, nothing really to complain about. I was adjusting. Nothing I couldn’t handle, until...my sister died.

(it rained that day)

 

Preface

This is the introduction to what I’m calling “_________.” OK, so there’s no title. I couldn’t think of one that worked and after talking it over with my “literary guru” over at Thinking Edits, I’ve decided that a title isn’t needed.

Quite a lot -- and I do mean a lot -- has taken place since my last post so the next few entries will serve two purposes: 1) catching up (‘cause it really has been too long) and 2) moving on (there’s some stuff I need to acknowledge, work on and move through, OK?)

To refresh our memories, this More With Less blog journey began as I was leaving what I once thought was my “dream job.” Though an ideal position, it was not in an ideal environment so I resigned and applied to graduate school. More With Less is a way for me to chronicle my attempts to live a simple and fulfilling life.

Now back to “_________.” This collection of entries will be brought to you in seven parts:

• Preface
• Chapter 1: Re-Education
• Chapter 2: My Sister, She Left Me.
• Chapter 3: (Mis)managing
• Chapter 4: Tomorrow Is My Turn.
• Chapter 5: All The Wrong Places.
• Afterword

To best sum up the mood felt during the experiences I write about, each “chapter” will end with some quote and/or media (photo, video, song, etc.).

I like to think of this as confessional journaling. Kind of like confessional poetry, just not poetry.

One last thing I’d like to note. While I could never hold a candle, flame or flicker to these two, I am inspired by Anne Sexton's frankness and Zora Neale Hurston's moxie as I write these.

So here goes.

“Like your oldest friend just trust the voice within” - Christina Aguilera