Dear Jennifer,
I have been thinking about the assignments that are due. Each of them have called to me in so many different ways. The time and opportunity to do them were never available to me until now. It’s now 10:59 pm Wednesday December 9th and it was my son’s 1st birthday. A special day for any child, but even more so when someone (somehow cosmically chosen?) has the honor of being their parent. I have now been able to be witness the first birthday of three children. My own children. However, still the world’s children. Each day since I first became a mother I have experienced no greater honor, until recently.
My beautiful angel of a sister slipped into pure spirit on November 27th. We buried her a week ago today. I had the blessed honor to hold her left hand, her heart hand, while she gently slipped from her pain ridden, diseased body and into pure peace. For another cosmically chosen reason, she decided at that very moment to leave me at that time. I held her hand as I did the day she told me she was leaving home. I was 6, and she was 20. She didn’t go very far and she came home to sleep quite often. It made it easier for me, however I never knew until later that she came home to feel safe. The last conversation I had with my sister she wanted to go on a trip. Somewhere safe. Her husband was scary. I have to live with these words for the rest of my life without ever wanting to hate someone. This is now become my life’s challenge. I offered this man a sign of peace at the funeral service of my sister. He kept his back turned away from myself and my parents. His back a great wall. Connected to a rotund belly and a shining globe of a dome for a head. No one ever could understand Heidi’s attraction to him. She was so angelic in all her being. And, he, so him.
So.
For the last week I have not been able to focus. That was the point of this letter. To explain why my homework wasn’t done.
And to explain the things I have done. And the things I have learned, from your class and otherwise.
At this point it is now 11:22 pm. And yes, this is how slow I actually work. I have not stopped for a pee break or anything else. Haven’t even checked my lottery results yet. My life is one winning lottery ticket away from the way in which I could dedicate more time to doing the things I love. Like writing, for example. And tobogganing with my kids.
Since Friday November 13th, I have only been able to focus on why my sister married a man who would not let her parents or sister help care for his wife. At least in the capacity in which we would like to have. I wanted to be there every day since the moment we found out she had cancer. We wanted to be there to hold her hand, and take notes from what the doctor had to say, count her pills, and yes, change her diaper. We would have done anything to help ease her suffering. And, show her love and respect. I wanted nothing more than to be able to spoon with her in her bed. Like we did when I was a kid, when she came home for those sleepovers. Except I would have been the bigger sister this time. Not that she was frail, like many cancer patients become. Well, maybe she was. But she didn’t show it. She had a strength that glowed through her skin. Even at her weakest moments she was incredibly strong. It was her faith. And I say that without a doubt.
It’s my faith now that must help me find peace with a man who called me selfish. As if he had overheard a phone conversation I recently had with my sister when we were discussing what our trigger words were. We both agreed “Selfish” could send us off the deep end in a matter of nanoseconds. Neither of us could figure out why. Some kind of psychological genetic flaw that we both carry I guess. That’s the gene next to the genetic joke of thunder thighs and orange peel skin.
You see, part of the reason why I have so much trouble writing fiction is because my daily life is so surreal. If I had 5 minutes to tell some things I have experienced in my life, your hair would curl and/or you would get goose bumps. Here’s a quick one… I dated a serial killer. True fact. Didn’t that just give you the willies???? Not something I brag about, however it is one of those things that make my life… interesting. Writing children’s stories is something I am capable of. However, it’s not something I am good at. It would have to be something I have to work on in the future. I will have to be a close outside witness to understand how children think in order to be better at it. Something else that has been cosmically chosen for me to be doing for at least a few more years. Maybe I will choose to pursue that direction in a few years, or maybe when I become a grandmother. If I am so honored by life again. If you were to give me a grade for children’s writing it could be a C+ at very best. That’s just based on the fact that I have read a few in my life time. Here’s my best shot at a children’s story right now.
Once upon a time there was the end.
Pretty dreary, eh? I think if I am going to submit anything it could at least be a little upbeat somewhere. So. There will not be a children’s story submitted. At least not today.
My mind has been far from dealing with happily-ever-after. Or is it? Maybe, my sister’s passing into the ever-after was to find her happiness. That’s something I will need to contemplate for a while. Maybe that will help me find the peace in him. Wow, I think I am starting to practice Buddhist philosophy! I am already learning to lose my attachment to physical things. Seems a lot like the vow of poverty to my Catholic mind.
My sister received her Last Rights. Speaking of Catholic. I asked her a couple of weeks ago if she wanted her Last Rights. I don’t know if she understood the question because of the pain killers or if she had wandered so far from the tradition that she forgot they are to be administered preferably before the time of death. My mother exercised her right – as a mother can, and demanded she receive them. A decision or a demand no mother should have to do. Whatever their tradition or ritual. My sister left this burden for my mother to carry. Her husband never asked for the priest to come. He knew she was going to be buried in a Catholic Cemetery. After all, she purchased both of their plots four months before she was diagnosed. She wanted to be cremated, but he believed a wife should be buried next to her husband. My sister could no longer speak for herself.
I think it was then when he started turning his back at me.
He sat there, holding her hand and crying. He sat there praying with Father Joseph. My mother holding her right hand and I, at her feet. My father sat back, helpless, as if captivated by how the transition takes place. At some point I realized I had been rubbing the edges of her Foley bag and decided to just rest my head on the foot board like a small child looking at life in awe.
That’s when I really noticed him. The lumbering joke of a man. His wall of back turned to me. The last time I saw his eyes were only moments before when I touched his hand to look into his eyes. They were edged with red. It was only in that moment that I had ever felt peace with him. It has been the only glimpse of God I have been able to receive from him. This will have to be the image of him that will help me find peace in my heart. This will have to be the one moment I will see the boy inside. The child my sister loved. Mothered.
If I were to have submitted a piece in poetry you would have given me a C+. Only because I know you are generous and caring. I don’t think you would be the kind of person that would create more suffering where there already is so much. Sorry. I wasn’t pulling at your heart strings. I am just saying how I see it. I have difficulty with telling the truth. I am always telling it. I am almost incapable of lying. You have to have a good memory and have a lot of motivation in order to lie. I do not have a good memory and I am terribly lazy. Another reason why my homework isn’t done.
It is now 12:32 AM, 1534 words, and I will be woken in just a few hours by my recently turned 1 year old. He enjoys waking me up in the middle of the night because he likes to snuggle in the warmth of his mother’s bed and, permanently injured by repetitive stress, right arm. I guess he feels safe there. That’s okay. It’s one of those things I have learned to accept and be in the moment with. It’s another of those things that I have somehow been chosen to be honored with. Some days I walk around like Miss. Universe. Every facet of my life sparkling like the diamonds on my tiara. My 3 AM wakeup call from my baby son, who I gave birth to at the age of 39, is one of those beautiful diamonds. I didn’t say a young Miss. Universe.
It’s moments like those that take up most of my time and keep me from having the focus on writing things for my class.
I didn’t go back to school this time to get a diploma or be competitive, (with only myself), for grades. When I first stepped back in the halls of academia I wanted nothing but to strive for a diploma and get the best grades I could ever get. Prove to my children that their mother was a brainer. Even at my age and with my many mental challenges. The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health describes them as “disorders”. Those are just labels. And judgments. Just something that needs to be overcome. Like finding peace within ourselves.
The difference between a weed and a flower is just a judgment.
I have been beating myself up daily for not taking the time to write something for class. At least in the criteria of which you expect. I can say I have taken some time and did do some writing, however all of it was therapy. As this letter probably can be judged to be.
I haven’t slept very much in the last few weeks. It wasn’t the funeral arrangements that kept me up at night. Or my baby boy. We weren’t allowed to have much input. I was allowed to choose Amazing Grace as a song for her service. But I didn’t get the chance to tell them she wanted to be buried in the outfit she wore on her first date with her husband. It was the happiest day of her life. He chose something else that he thought she looked nice in. I thought it would have made him feel good to know that. It might have brought us closer together. Another wilted olive branch provided by the universe.
Sleep was my concern that kept me awake. I know it’s something I have to talk to my doctor about. I needed to sleep to keep me stable through everything going on. I needed to plan my eldest son’s belated birthday party and figure out what I would say at my sister’s funeral. I kept both simple. My sister deserved the best. I did the best I could. I read the Prayer of Saint Francis in front of 200 people sitting stiffly on the hard wooden pews in the church my sister and I grew up in. A prayer which best described my sister. A saint that best describes her life. My son’s party consisted of five nine year olds sleeping somehow comfortably on my basement floor. It was the best I could offer him during this time.
And life goes on…
And here I sit trying to think up three post card fiction stories. Just give me an F. I am not very good at making things up. Like I said before, I am a terrible liar. I guess that’s why I am stuck in one gear right now. I am so struck by reality that to go into that dream state to create a story of any sort would be near impossible. I apologize for my inadequacy as a writer and a student. I am sorry to make you suffer through my excuses. I was hoping to learn how to get out of this groove I am stuck in by taking your class. I guess this is my learning disability. Something else to overcome.
I had a few moments alone with my sister before she died. I didn’t know what to do, so I read her a short story I had written that had recently been published in a book. It was my last chance to have her hear something I had written. Another creative non-fiction story about a piece of land that we loved so much. She blew me a kiss when I was done. It was her last form of physical communication to me. I guess she liked it.
A few short moments later she was gone.
She was given 8-10 months with chemo, four to six without it. She lived 19 months almost to the day of her diagnosis. Two days shy of her 54 1/2 birthday.
There was more to it, but I will write about that another day. I am sure by now you are tired of all the details and excuses of why my homework wasn’t completed as assigned and as scheduled. But thank you for suffering through so far. I guess an overall D would be a good grade to give to a person who showed up for most of the classes and participated, somewhat.
February 4th, 2010, 10:44pm
Word count 2579.
Seven weeks since I started this letter. Almost nine weeks since my sister died. About three weeks since I received my grade report in the mail. I guess that kind of tells you how dedicated I am to my craft. I am sure it had nothing to do with Christmas holidays, the New Year and the resolution I made with going through my whole house and de-cluttering every corner, closet and drawer. A work in progress. It will probably take all year for me to complete. Or a lifetime.
The frustrations of the mediocrity of my life just continues on and piles up like the unopened mail on my kitchen table. I really have to get on top of that soon before it all topples over and avalanches into a disaster that will take me more than a day to put back into order.
I wanted to finish this letter to you with the same tone and rhythm but that moment is long gone. I do want to say Thank You for the B as my final grade. I know I didn’t earn it. But I still enjoy everything I learned in your class. Taking your class became another diamond in the tiara of my life. You gave me so much in those few months. More than any report card or diploma could ever give me.
I hope our paths will cross again in this journey we are both on. I wish you gentle hills and cool streams to soak your weary feet in. And may the tears you shed only be tears of joy and wonder.
Thank you for all the beauty you have opened my heart to.
Cheri (Heidi’s Sister), 2767 words. 11:57 PM
