It was my sister. Our middle sister. Her life, her death. It's a long story; I don't know if I can tell any more. The memory of that time and space is a closed attic room. Perfectly preserved yet nearly forgotten.
The air up there is musty and full of dust. If I think quietly about it, I see the things that burned the hottest: the fan in her apartment window, her comforter in the tub, and the smell of her blood baked onto the floor. The radio. The mug. The lingering scent of her body. The color of her skin. The contents of her stomach. The photo of her children.
When my sister died, I lost who I was. She had been my sister, my best friend, my worst nightmare, my whole childhood, and, in many ways, my own child. I loved her, and I hated her. Untreated mental health issues turned into an addiction. The addiction turned her into something not entirely human and complex to love but hard to give up on.
It makes sense in hindsight that the TA for the cadaver lab who ID her sister's 4-day rotting in the July heat body, flesh falling off her face where she had fallen, the one who cleaned the apartment stepping over the blood-smeared floor and chunks of her sister's hair, had a complete mental break down. Not metaphorically, but literally.
The Me of before was going to be a doctor. I spent 18 hours a day surrounded by the chaos that is the carousal of life in the medical theater and never wanted it to end.
The Me, of now, barely tolerates the 5-hour shifts at the gym. However, the Me of now is a far better person than the Me of before. Kinder, softer, more aware.
My sister's death pulled me down so far that the world outside my head stopped spinning. Any life that comes to a crashing halt leaves casualties in its wake.
I remember the silence. I remember looking out at the world from far away. I remember the nightmares, the hallucinations, the weight of not knowing what the dead knew. The sadness that she died alone and for days no one knew. The guilt. The irrational fear. The questions.
By the following Fall, she had guilted me into enrolling her in a cooperative nursery school. With my grants and stipends, we could afford it. So I wrote a letter, and she was awarded the first full-ride scholarship they have ever given. By the Winter term, I was their first-ever paid Director.
She was the one who returned us to society. This is one of the many reasons my life is built around hers. I never intended to return. She gave me no choice.
In many ways, I am lucky. I already surrendered. Everything on this side of it is extra. I see life as extremely bittersweet. The beauty in sadness is there is always contrast.
A loss means you had something to lose in the first place.
I won't pretend that I am completely recovered. When the phone rings, a small part of me still thinks it might be her. I don't feel like she could have died; that seems impossible. That can't have happened to her. Maybe she was never real.
There are nights when I have to switch my partner's side of the bed because I am afraid she is waiting for me. I have triggers: flies, fans, smells, red nail polish, white mountain bikes, a specific beer...
It wasn't until this year that I looked at a Beach and saw something I had never seen before. She actually reminds me of my sister. My sister is the person I most fear my children (and hers) becoming. But Beach reflects the best of her, or at least what she could have been.
She, too, had been a gymnast. It is mainly the little things: the eyeliner, the lean build, the scrunchies on her wrist, the way she stands, the way she dresses, and the big hair.
I last spoke to my sister on a Monday, the last week of July. I don't remember much of what was said, but she told me she didn't want to die. That she was going to stop drinking, and I laughed at her. I laughed.
Someone in her building saw her on Tuesday, and then nothing until the landlord, responding to complaints about the smell, found her dead in her bathroom on Friday. He called the police, and the police called my parents. Who in turn called me.
The moment I was told is a fault line that divides my life: before and after. Some of it was awful, but some were sweeter than I thought life could ever be.
Death is part of living. And to be honest, not everyone is as lucky as me. Death gave me a chance to start over in a natural disaster sort of way.
Slowly. So slowly.
For better or worse, I will never be who I was before. I'm not sure how much I trust myself. I prefer to be alone for long stretches. Being surrounded overwhelms me. I still hold things in my head I can't say out loud. I live with a level of anxiety that would surprise you all.
But the person I am, the one I returned to the world as, was driving the canyon road on Tuesday afternoon. The road that my sister used to drive.
Beach was my passenger, her window slightly down. Summer was pressing in, and the world was a swirl of gold, yellows, and slow-moving semi trucks.
"Mom, if I died today, I would be okay with that. I have had a good life. I think it is because I am happy- does that sound stupid? It's not that there aren't things I want to do. It's just that I have done a lot in my life already. Even if I died tragically, my life would not have been tragic. My life is good."
The Me from before never could have raised a child like this one. The Me from before would have been too busy to be there.
The Me before death came into my life. I didn't know how important the little moments are.
The person I am today tightened her grip on the steering wheel and double-checked her mirrors because that Me knows how fragile life can be.
She was the one who returned us to society. This is one of the many reasons my life is built around hers. I never intended to return. She gave me no choice.
In many ways, I am lucky. I already surrendered. Everything on this side of it is extra. I see life as extremely bittersweet. The beauty in sadness is there is always contrast.
A loss means you had something to lose in the first place.
There are nights when I have to switch my partner's side of the bed because I am afraid she is waiting for me. I have triggers: flies, fans, smells, red nail polish, white mountain bikes, a specific beer...
It wasn't until this year that I looked at a Beach and saw something I had never seen before. She actually reminds me of my sister. My sister is the person I most fear my children (and hers) becoming. But Beach reflects the best of her, or at least what she could have been.
She, too, had been a gymnast. It is mainly the little things: the eyeliner, the lean build, the scrunchies on her wrist, the way she stands, the way she dresses, and the big hair.
I last spoke to my sister on a Monday, the last week of July. I don't remember much of what was said, but she told me she didn't want to die. That she was going to stop drinking, and I laughed at her. I laughed.
Someone in her building saw her on Tuesday, and then nothing until the landlord, responding to complaints about the smell, found her dead in her bathroom on Friday. He called the police, and the police called my parents. Who in turn called me.
The moment I was told is a fault line that divides my life: before and after. Some of it was awful, but some were sweeter than I thought life could ever be.
Death is part of living. And to be honest, not everyone is as lucky as me. Death gave me a chance to start over in a natural disaster sort of way.
Slowly. So slowly.
For better or worse, I will never be who I was before. I'm not sure how much I trust myself. I prefer to be alone for long stretches. Being surrounded overwhelms me. I still hold things in my head I can't say out loud. I live with a level of anxiety that would surprise you all.
Beach was my passenger, her window slightly down. Summer was pressing in, and the world was a swirl of gold, yellows, and slow-moving semi trucks.
The Me from before never could have raised a child like this one. The Me from before would have been too busy to be there.
The Me before death came into my life. I didn't know how important the little moments are.
The person I am today tightened her grip on the steering wheel and double-checked her mirrors because that Me knows how fragile life can be.
