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

Closer

Every day brings me closer to the end of the academic year and of saying goodbye to another bunch of great students, all of whom I will miss greatly, as always. I do not know yet if I will have a job next semester, but it seems likely I will have at least one class to teach--which works just fine for me.

This has been, beyond a doubt, the most difficult teaching year for me, these months after my sister's death. It takes a long time to integrate something like this, and I look forward to a summer of reflecting and trying to incorporate this loss into my psyche. I feel as if I have been walking around with my body and mind twisted in slightly wrong directions all year. It is the old path everyone travels, from shock to numbness to anger, then finally, at some point, it becomes part of the fabric of life.

I've Been

Away again! Just swamped with beginning of the school year stuff, trying to get my bearings after my sister's death. I am now moving from individual counseling at Hospice of Santa Cruz to a grief support group next month, which I can be in for a year. I feel it will take this long to just come to the acceptance that my sister is gone forever. I am in awe of my family's ability to survive this loss (both my own family of kids and a partner, and my extended family).

The one thing I would like to move out of is the feeling that I haven't got much time on earth simply because my sister died such a fully untimely death, and because her cause of death had something to do with the illness we both have. I have a certain amount of survivor's guilt because I got better and she did not; I feel this was a matter of sheer luck on my part, but it is also because I work hard to keep myself physically strong. It's REALLY hard for me to get out of bed in the morning and walk, or do yoga, or get to one of my exercise classes, but it is crucial for my health (and the alternative sucks).

My younger sister has been reading my book, by the way, and loves it. That makes me feel great--because right now, it feels like I just sort of wrote "that little thing." My grief counselor assured me that this feeling of things being diminished will pass as I get out of the acute phases of loss. I look at Mr. Strega and wonder--and ask him--how he has coped with losing so many loved ones. He really only has his sister and a few cousins alive now, as his parents were a bit older when he was born. He says that it really took time, and that there's no deadline that is reached--the grief will recycle and come back, then go away. And so it goes--but life, as always, keeps going forward--a good thing, I think.

And So It Goes

In grief counseling today, I drew a picture of myself and my sister (my counselor uses art sometimes in the sessions)--I drew myself in a purple dress, standing in my garden, my arms outstretched to her as she hovered beside me in a gray bubble. I had talked of feeling very separate from the process of helping to take down her apartment and scatter her ashes; she left these tasks to other people. Yet my counselor pointed out that I drew her as still with me in my daily life.

I dreamed about her the other night, but it wasn't the usual type of visitation dream--I dreamed I was swimming in the pool of my childhood home, but the pool had turned into a wonderful lagoon; I floated on my back and looked at the sky, an incandescent blue on the cusp between day and night, and I saw a gorgeous oval of incredibly brilliant light move slowly across it. I knew that was my sister, and that I was seeing her as she really is now. It was a very comforting dream, and one that has stayed with me.

Well, back to the mundane world and my 1A syllabus. Thanks for stopping by!

For Her

It is so strange to think my sister will have been dead three weeks as of tomorrow, that her service was last week. I keep thinking she will call up and ask what all the fuss is about..yet I feel close to her, closer even than when she was alive. How strange that is!

I think this is all going to take time. Mr. Strega and I were making pesto today for dinner, and he said that this has been a tumultuous year on so many levels. And yet out of this year, I will grow towards whatever ineffable spiritual and emotional peak I am climbing in this life. The truth is, many people we love will go into the world beyond this one long before we do, and some may go suddenly. All a reminder, I suppose, that life can turn on a dime, in ways both good and terrible.

I would like to share with all of you the opening to my sister's funeral--she loved bluegrass music and traditional American music, so I chose Tony Rice's version of "Shenandoah," which you can see him play on this YouTube video: