Walking on Thin Ice

On this day last year, I was walking on thin ice. It was a Tuesday--a 12 hour work day--and a thin layer of ice and snow blanketed the roads during the time between my two jobs. The weather was treacherous.

On this day last year, I was walking on thin ice. I had been walking on thin ice for several months before that, actually. Thin ice, it gives way. It's a time for bracing, looking ahead, and watching every step. Anticipation and fear are involved. For those several months, I was spending the weekends watching my sister Mandy die.

She passed away around 7:00 pm on Tuesday, 1/16/18. At the time, I was working with Yuri, a gentleman I support who has Autism. I received the phone call from my dad. Don't cry in front of Yuri, he said.

The weather prevented me from high-tailing it 75 miles to my parents' to be with them. I didn't know what to do, how to mourn. So, I sat down and wrote every single thought that popped into my head. I'm a documentarian. All my writing-life, I have journaled and documented my days and thoughts. My thoughts meandered everywhere--from how often I witnessed my mother's tired, loving body bending over Mandy to comfort her, to alluvial fans. I thought deeply about alluvial fans, a fan-shaped formation of loose sediment that is deposited at the bottoms of mountains. I found their shape and texture soothing. They were proof that eventually, the rolling rocks do stop.

To be bluntly honest, I feel like a terrible griever. I haven't turned myself into a shrine of grief and mourning. I don't climb up mountains and think this is for you, Mandy. I don't see her favorite flower--the rose--and begin to weep. Anyone from the outside would never guess that I've lost a sister. And dare I say, even those of you from the inside may think that I am not grieving at all. And I'll admit, I'm simply continuing. And I'll admit, I do miss her.

With Mandy, it was as if a thin layer of ice was between us. If we both touched the same area for long enough, the ice would melt and we eventually touched and it was nice. But I don't know, maybe the ice was too cold for her or maybe I was too impatient or fleeting and our hands would lower and the ice would crystalize again. There was no malice. No indifference. We cared for and loved each other, but nothing really touched.

And she's gone now but honestly, she has been gone for more than just a year. Over several years, I witnessed her life's spiral and because of that, I learned a lot about what not to do. I like to think that because of Mandy, I know how to continue. How to take care of myself. How to appreciate. How to be more compassionate. She asked me to take care of mom. I would do that regardless of the asking, but yes, Mandy, of course I'll take care of mom.

Mandy, you're not here and as much as I would love to believe in ghosts or spirits or Another Place, I do not. You're not watching me. You're not reading this. I do, however, believe in remembering and honoring. I remember you. And when I'm 62 and have lived longer without you than with you, I'll remember you. Mom continues to be beautiful and everlasting. Dad is still silly and is very much in love with mom. Since you've passed, he has also been diagnosed with cancer. But he is okay. You have two beautiful grandchildren. Aunt Charlie got married and you had a special spot at her table. You had a special spot at the table for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think about you every day. What else do I remember...

1. How you let me scream into your belly when I was upset.

2. All your boyfriends and how I spied on you while you made out with them on the porch.

3. Hiding under your bed and scaring you by grabbing you by the ankles.

4. The pin you hung on your bedroom wall that said "One Way, My Way"

5. The oversized New Kids on the Block t-shirt you eventually gave to me to wear as pajamas

6. How you'd be in the bathroom and need a pad but I called it a "tushie"

7. How you yelled at my childhood best friend when she bullied me

8. Hiding behind your legs because I was terribly shy and especially afraid of grandma

9. Making fun of you because you took forever to get your driver's license. I was maybe seven and you were seventeen. You gloated, "I learned how to walk before you!" and I replied, "I'll learn how to drive before you!"

10. Being picked up late from elementary school because mom was with you while you were giving birth to your first-born, Aaron.

11. How you craved milk with ice in it while pregnant with Aaron

12. How as soon as you moved out of the house when I was about seven, all the junk food was gone

13. That time we walked to the pool at the Clarion Hotel to go swimming and a bee stung you in the face. I told you to put mud where you were stung, but you wouldn't.

14. All the hairspray you used

15. All the sequins on your shirts

16. About a month before you died, you were given your deodorant and in your medication-induced delirium, you put about a week's worth of deodorant under each arm pit

17. How much you loved McDonald's quarter pounder with cheese

18. Talking to you through the wall at night when I couldn't fall asleep

19. You teaching me how to clean around and replace your ostomy bag

20. Going to Nags Head, NC with you, mom, and dad. And how dad would make us pose in front of the waves, only to trick us into getting knocked down by the waves.

Mandy, I didn't do anything spectacular today. I worked. I watched some rays of sun dapple the ground. Then I watched small balls of ice fall on my windshield. I ran three miles. I was cold all day. I spoke with your daughter. I called mom right around the time you died a year ago. But I got distracted after discovering an engorged tick on Silas. I could tell from mom's voice that she had a rough day. I can't even imagine. A cardinal visits her every day in her new big back yard. She believes it is your spirit. You have your own bedroom in their new home. The last time I was at our old home was on your birthday in August. It smelled musty. And like last year, the weather is preventing me from seeing mom and dad this weekend. Like last year, things are about to get treacherous.

I love you.