The Death of Me

I attended the funeral of my friend Diane's mother last week. Myra McDaniel was a larger than life figure, and much to my dismay, I only met her once. As a new arrival to Austin, Thanksgiving away from my family was not a joyous prospect. With assignment deadlines looming I decided to spend the day studying, taking comfort in the the amount of work I would complete. Diane, my new friend and cohort buddy, invited me to her parent's house for dinner. When the newness of Austin and my PhD program provoked despair and panic, Diane was my anchor. As older students and artists, we reached common ground rather quickly, becoming fast friends and allies. Diane's mother and mine began chemo and radiation around the same time . While my mother is cancer free thus far, Myra was not as fortunate.

I did not know Myra well enough to pay her a deserving tribute. That was articulated by the overflowing crowd at her funeral, and words of love and admiration spoken by those intimate with her and her accomplishments. Myra's legendary life is well know in Austin, and Texas, as the first black Secretary of State, prominent lawyer, and recipient of many honors and awards. I was not acquainted with Myra though her public persona, rather, though the heart of her daughter and grandchildren. She welcomed me into her fold for Thanksgiving as if I had a been a part of the family for years, cushioning the blow of being alone on a day traditionally spent with loved ones.

Dreams of loss followed the news of Myra's death. I awoke in a panic one morning, baffled by a dream about my daughter Rena. She was a toddler in the dream, and the second Rena of two children I had given birth to, the first one having died. It was as many dreams are, shrouded in symbolism that reveals itself in connection to seemingly unconnected events and conversations. Later that day, I spoke with my mother and the mystery of my dream was solved. In a discussion about a friend of hers, she expressed the opinion that the source of her friend's discontent was a lack of appreciation of her life. My mother spoke of her gratitude for her relationship with her grandchildren and children, her friends, a lovely apartment by the sea, and joy in her jewelry making. She refuses to succumb to despair or guilt about the fate of her marriage or my father's passing. Their stormy life together was no secret, and from my perspective her peace is well deserved; however, my fall from grace with my father is a tragic story of its own.

The part of the conversation that gripped my heart was not about my father, we have been over that road before. It was the mention of my sister, Sissy as she was called, that pierced my heart. Faith Rena Gerstenblatt died before her fourth birthday, leaving her mother, father, big brother and little sister behind. We were stair step kids, a year apart. My memory begins after her death, a Rolodex of crisp and clear recollections. Throughout childhood, I constructed a fantasy life that would have come to be had she lived. No feeling on my own, my sister would have been a friend and ardent defender to show me the ropes. The gaping hole left behind is not always visible. I see it in Diane's face; however, in my family we did our best to turn away from the grief. That's how it was in those days, no grief groups or talk of the five stages of grief to explain our fumbling in the dark, desperately seeking light. Some holes are too big to fill as a part of us continues to be swallowed up.

My mother reluctantly spoke of her guilt about my sister after I probed. We rarely speak of her, either in fond recollection or of our loss. Perhaps our prolonged sadness smolders any embers of joy. My mother described the time Sissy emptied her makeup and the guilt she still feels about spanking her. Trailing into tears, she spoke of her nagging doubt that perhaps she could have done more to prevent her death. Sadly, had Sissy born in today's era of miracle medicine, her heart defect would not have been lethal. That is not the fault of my mother or father, just timing. Little good that does to ease the ache of surviving your child.

The image of my mother and sister remained fixed in my mind hours after our conversation. As Gene and I pulled into the parking lot of the pet store I began to sob uncontrollably. Terrified and concerned by my sudden outburst, he asked me repeatedly what was wrong. I could barely utter words through my tears. My mother I told him, the thought of her carrying this enormous burden of loss and pain in combination with guilt over a response many mothers have experienced with their child. As a parent, I get the guilt all too well with stories far worse; however, I simply cannot get my arms around that kind of loss. My dream was clear, the Rena before my daughter was my sister. The disguise of the characters was lifted. We named Rena after Sissy, and the figure I identified as Tommy, Rena's father, wore a suit that was unmistakeably my father's. I screamed in the dream, warning him I could not bear to loose this Rena as we had lost the Rena before her. In an attempt to replace and recapture we create namesakes, convincing ourselves we are bestowing honor upon the memory of a loved one. Perhaps this ritual is a combination of both; however, our intentions have double meaning. In my dream the two Renas became intertwined, and my loss renewed.

I often cautioned my kids before they went out with their friends to be careful. Shrugging off my pleas, they humored me with assurances - and seemed irritated by my worry. No really I tell them, if you don't want me to be a bag lady walking around Union Square in San Francisco mumbling to myself because grief tipped me over the edge into insanity, you will take extra precautions to arrive home safe and sound. They became less cavalier as friends died in drive by shootings, car accidents, and cancer. My friend Phil's son Gabe died of cancer in his twenties and I continue to marvel at his capacity to feel joy. Gabe and Phil were a team for years, the single dad and his toddler son with the raspy voice and big eyes. His grandchildren light up his life these days, and it would not surprise me to see him walking hand in hand with them as he once did with Gabe.

Life has the power to endow and rob us at the same time. We are left reeling and astounded, perplexed and certain, confounded by the mystery of it all. Our lives are punctuated by love and loss, redemption and transformation, faith and doubt. Dissonance is abundant, yet somehow we reconcile ourselves to put one foot in front of the other. Move your feet and your heart will follow. That is the hope anyway. And for those whose pain is too much to shoulder, we bear a responsibility to lighten their load. To my mother I say this: you loved your daughter beyond measure, and she felt it every time you rode in the ambulance with her, sat by her hospital bed, held her steady at the Narragansett shore as she squealed in delight while waves tickled her feet.

A few months ago I told my mother I wanted to be buried beside my sister in Rhode Island, across the country from where my children live. She was taken aback. In my mind's eye I see Sissy's small gravestone, and although my grandparents are buried nearby, I feel her alone. Despite her illness, she was known for a tough character, fearlessness, and protecting my brother and I instead of the reverse. When my passing comes to be, those who loved me will have had ample time in my presence. It will be Sissy's and my turn to be together, two sisters who never had the opportunity to compete or get on each others nerves, share secrets or inside jokes, and have each other's back as only sisters do. Some holes can only be filled in another dimension. In the meantime, life awaits us everyday, offering yet another chance at grace. Let's try not to squander it.