And the Bridge is Love: Remembering My Sister Maryanne

"We ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning." --Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey

Two years ago, just as I was preparing to leave for my Sunday morning African dance class, I received a phone call that shattered my life forever. My beloved older sister Maryanne had died, suddenly and with no real warning. I was unable to sit by her bedside and hold her hand as she passed away; I had no chance to say a final goodbye. I will never grow old with her. Though Maryanne had been ill for many years with a particularly virulent case of lupus, I never believed my strong older sister could die. A magical thinker and a little sister to the end, I felt she had some secret formula to cheat death. And yet, in the end, she too traveled into the mystery beyond this life.

I would give anything I have to hear my sister's voice again for one second, to sit with her for five minutes, to laugh over a joke, share a recipe with her, or reminisce about our childhood. I lost, at the moment of her death, the person who knew and loved me best in this world. Her loss does not get better for me with time in the sense that an illness might get better or an unpleasant memory might fade; I have only learned to bear this particular sorrow somewhat more lightly.

My sister was a warrior spirit who fought a virulent, highly unusual case of lupus and went through unbelievable physical sufferings that most people do not experience in their lifetimes. Her medical treatments amounted to torture, endured in the never-ending hope of wellness and good health. Yet her journey through illness ultimately yielded a deepening of her spirit. When I was diagnosed with lupus in 1993 (my own illness in virtual remission now), she gave me books by Dr. Bernie Siegel and Louise Hay; in turn, she had learned of these authors through young men with AIDS with whom she had worked. She taught me about life's marvelous uncertainty and that today, this blessed 24 hours, is all anyone really has. Later in her journey, she gave me books by Thich Nhat Hahn and Pema Chodron; a few years before she died, we promised each other we would send a sign of a dragonfly to let each other know there was an afterlife and our prayers were heard. Dragonflies fill my life now, real ones and painted and embroidered on gifts people give me. They give me hope, but never assuage the scar on my heart that is for her.

Losing a sibling is one of life's most painful excoriations. I use it now to let people know that holding a grudge or putting a wall up between those we love is dangerous and toxic to the spirit; I did so with my sister for some time and have vowed to spend the rest of my life in reparation for this. We, as human beings, are gifted with an incredible capacity to exercise folly, thinking that we have endless time and that others we love do, too--and so we can shut them out, shun them to "let them know how we feel" and "teach them a lesson," put ourselves first always, live a life fully self-centered, and bask in satisfied emotional gluttony and a hollow sense of power, thinking, "Wow, I really showed THEM how I feel!" Out of a need for control, out of fear and selfishness, out of a childish sense of not knowing better, we put up walls of cruelty and self-righteous anger which only create an endless cycle of hurt on both sides.

But the truth is, this thinking is the foundation for a lifetime of regret should that loved one suddenly be removed from one's life, forever. By such behavior, we only reveal our pettiness and smallness. To drop a grudge, to erase the "laundry list" of grievances against a person, to simply hold one's arms out again and embrace others in all their beauty and frail humanity, to treat others as we wish to be treated, is truly all we can do for one each other in a world where we are all imperfect. It is a mark of maturity and "walking the talk" of loving compassion. Love demands much of people, including humility, to yield its greatest gifts. I am glad beyond belief that I reconciled with my sister in the year before she died. But for the rest of my life, I will regret the times when I felt justified in acting otherwise.

I would like to tell people who read this who are holding a grudge to consider reaching out to the other person, even if you have to eat a bit of humble pie to do it. There's something truly satisfying, even wonderful, in being the person who turns around and says, "I'm sorry and I love you." I know because I did it with her, and it salves my regrets, a little. Take my word that the light pours in when we find it in ourselves to do that. At the very least, hold someone with whom you have conflict a little more compassionately in your heart today, in her honor.

And though my sadness at losing her never ends, neither does my love for her, forever.

I leave you with one of her poems. She was a beautiful writer.

Remedy

Cotton swathing
grey light
through flimsy window sieve
purdah of illness.

In a half-remembered room
great grandmother holds a bowl
pale water, deep green oil
Swirling
over the head of the afflicted
Speaking
of "malocchio", evil eye
Breaking
curses with lucid hope and wisdom

It's a simple remedy now
to unsheath your memory
rip my curtain
arise and walk
bathe in the daylight

Light
is the mother's gift
We have always known
no one room can hold
our precious lives

--Maryanne McMillan