Saying Goodbye

I have two older sisters and one of my sisters is dying.  When I received the call I was torn on whether I should even go to the hospital to say goodbye because there are so many harsh feelings between us.  The hospice nurse had called my oldest sister and said that initially she hadn’t wanted either of us to know how ill she is. Apparently the hospice nurse convinced her that she should let family be with her.  Once I decided to go, I realized that this visit would be a final goodbye but it is also the first hello we have said to each other in more than a decade. 

 

The three of us have always struggled to maintain any type of relationship.  I was born when both of my sisters were in High School.   For years I wondered if the age difference was the cause of our lack of bonding but, if I am being honest with myself, it isn’t.  We are just very different people. 

 

My oldest sister was very religious and married right outside of High School because getting married right outside of High School is what women were expected to do in the early 1960’s.  The other sister was a feminist who immediately began working and going to night school.  While one sister was preaching marriage and submission to her man, the other was picketing for equality in the workplace and extolling the virtues of the birth control pill.  There were clashes between them but somehow they managed to maintain a fragile relationship over the years.

 

I am different from my two sisters because I march to my own beat. Perhaps we don’t bond because they don’t understand me or maybe they can't accept me. The constant criticism to my face and behind my back is what caused me to distance myself from one sister while bouts of anger and alcohol caused me to distance myself from the other.  One sister criticizes me because I don’t attend church on a regular basis or the towels in my bathroom are not the right shade of lavender, the other one cared more about her addictions and anger than she cared about her family.  I always wished things were different with us but, whether it is the age difference or the lack of common ground, we have struggled to maintain any type of friendship at all for as long as I can remember. 

However, life is a series of constant changes. Today my oldest sister is embracing her feminist side while the sister who is dying chose to let her anger and her addictions guide her down a less desirable path, a path which ended up hurting so many people.  My mother always tried to protect her and ended up getting hurt both physically and emotionally on more than one occasion.  This is where my struggle to forgive comes from. I decided to make the trip but it was as much for myself as it was for her.  This trip wasn’t just about saying good bye, it was about forgiveness too.

 

I drove the familiar highway toward my home town and began to search for memories of a happier time.  My sister wasn’t always an angry alcoholic who was being treated for whatever mental illness deemed to be trendy at the moment.   She is intelligent, well educated, and at one time she was very successful.  Her decline didn’t actually begin until her mid-forties but, since she never does anything half way, she didn’t slowly slide downhill stopping to enjoy the scenery on her decline. It was like she booked a ticket to hell on the Concord so she could get there as fast as she could and hurt as many people as she could along the way. 

 

They warned me that she was gaunt but I was still unprepared for the skeletal form on the bed that vaguely resembled my sister.  We had some awkward conversation and some awkward silence until I heard her say, “Cheryl, I am so sorry.  It was the alcohol and the mental issues but I was going to group therapy to get better.  I am so sorry.”  I have heard her say I am sorry combined with her excuses so many times before but her repentance never lasted.  This time I heard the words and forgiveness was easy.  I realized that this will be her last apology and it is my last opportunity to forgive.

I looked at her and told her that I wish things had been different. Then I asked, “Remember Beulah?”  She got this big grin on her face.  “I was thinking about Beulah when I drove up here.  How many times did you lose Beulah and have everyone looking around for your pet, only to be astonished when they discovered it was a hairpiece (that you named Beulah) which had fallen out?”  For the first time since I arrived we both laughed over a shared memory. 

I will go back again to see her as often as time allows before she goes.  She has given me her apology, and I have given her my forgiveness.  I told her I love her, and I do  because  I love the sister who named her hairpiece, took me to the store to buy a huge Hershey’s chocolate bar to share, loves animals, taught me how to put on mascara, and always called me for help because she can’t cook.  I will go back because she is my sister, because seeing her suffering just rips my insides out, and because I can't bear to think of her dying alone and unloved.

 

 

The Art of Listening

Communication is an exchange of information but too often folks are so focused on speaking that they forget that communication is also about listening.  Many years ago I received some valuable advice from a wise person who told me that a successful conversation begins and ends with attentive listening.  Years later I read somewhere that when we actively listen to what is being said, we engage and connect; but most people are not truly engaged in the message because they are thinking about how to respond.   Since hearing this, I have tried to be a better listener.  As a result, I have discovered that listening is easier than talking and a conversation reveals extraordinary stories about ordinary people. 

 “Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.”

Steven R Covey

For example, many years ago I was actively listening to an elderly woman talk about her life experiences. She was showing me some old photos from her High School years and one person seemed oddly familiar.  When I mentioned it she told me that his name was Marion Morrison. She said “He was this big shy guy who was clumsy and awkward.  We were all so surprised when he became a successful actor!”  I told her that I had never heard of a Marion Morrison.  She laughed and said, “Oh no honey!  His stage name was John Wayne.” 

 

A group of us recently went to this little lounge to dance, talk, drink wine, and listen to karaoke.  I didn’t know one of the ladies in our group very well but found myself sitting beside her.   We began with the small talk and some awkward conversation to try and find common ground until we discovered that our common ground was food and family.   To my surprise, she turns out to be more than 20 years older than I am but you wouldn’t know it to look at her.  She puts herself together so well and is so full of life that I had just assumed she was much younger.   When I shared my assumptions she told me that “Life is meant to be lived and we should treasure every moment of it.  My husband taught me this.”  I learned that she was born in Buffalo NY but raised in Italy, where she met her husband.  They later returned to Buffalo New York and then retired to Mesa, AZ.  Her husband passed away but he was an artist who is well known in certain circles and some of his pictures are in museums.  As she shared pictures from her phone she showed me a link that had a brief biography of her husband’s life and showcased his art.  Some of the art was very dark and disturbing but other pieces were happy pieces, sketches of landscapes and landmarks. I mentioned the distinct difference between the two and then listened with rapt attention as she began to share the most amazing story.   

 

Her parents were Italian immigrants who came to Buffalo NY but returned to Italy when she was a young.   She and her husband met in Italy.  He was quite a bit older plus he had just come from Russia where he had been imprisoned for almost 20 years in the Soviet prison Gulag. Gulag was all about hard labor but he had a degree in art so he learned to do tattoos, which is one of the reasons he survived.   I sat enthralled as she talked about how her husband had been imprisoned for attempting to immigrate out of Russia and was labeled a traitor. She shared his stories with me and we talked about her life in Europe during a time when Stalin was in power and Mussolini still had influence.  Her husband was imprisoned under the Stalin regime, after his release it took another three years before he was able to leave Russia.  From Russia, he travelled to Italy where he met my new friend and married her.  Eventually they returned to Buffalo NY and they were so grateful once they set foot on US soil that they began to cry.  Her husband’s love of the United States is the reason that there are so many pictures of New York buildings and landmarks.  She shared a link with me that showed some of his art renderings based on memories of that dark time in Gulag Prison.  Some of the stories she shared were the inspiration for these pieces and the darkness of those memories can be seen in his art.   Suddenly she said, “He passed away in 1997 but he was older than I am. Although I miss him dearly, he taught me that life is for living so we should treasure every minute.” Then she encouraged us all to dance.

 

At home I pulled up the link  (www.sgovio.com) to look at the art again and recalled some of the stories that she had shared with me.  I searched Google and found links on the internet, including a short Wikipedia profile of his life.  It was apparent that he was communicating his story through his art.

 

How we communicate with ourselves and with others ultimately determines the quality of our lives.

 

Anthony Robbins

 

 I mentioned the conversation to the friend who had introduced her to our group and she replied with surprise, “She has never shared that with me. 

I just smiled and said “ All I did was listen.”