The Part Where I Went Wrong

“Make it easy on yourself
There's nothing more you can do
You're so full of what is right
You can't see what is true…”

—Rush, The Color of Right

We lost six years. All because I wanted to help and she didn’t want it and our entire family went to hell in an intimately woven handbasket.

Flame. Ash. Poof.

I wanted to be the one who was right. I obsessed over it. I went to therapy over it. I didn’t sleep because of it.

I just wanted to be right, which is where I went wrong. Not because I wanted to help my sister – that was as a noble gesture – but because I wanted to be right, to be acknowledged as the family champion saving the day. Instead, I was accused of destruction and then I chose to estrange myself from the family.

My sister and I, we lost six years, and it wasn’t until the Mama and I had children and our parents’ health deteriorated when we finally came together again and restored our relationship.

Then there we were – my wife, my sister and me – standing in silence around our mother's hospital bed. She lay swollen and silent, eyes closed, the only noise coming from the life support systems keeping her alive.

No more needing to be right. And so tired of being wrong. Just needing to be with one another, both our parents gone within four months of each other. Yes, heaven is being with those you love and to hell with everything else.

Nearly four years later and there she is. That can’t be her on the hospital bed. The swollen face and limbs. The endless tubes and pumps connected to her neck, arms and legs, feeding her antibiotics and fluids and oxygen. The pings, buzzes and alarms sounds from a myriad of machines displaying erratic vitals and undecipherable numbers.

It just can’t be her. No, my sister is at home working her butt off to keep the yard in shape. Running nearly every day to keep her body in shape. Working hard to earn a living on her own. Missing her two grown children, both far away from her, yet talking to them nearly every single day.

But there she is in the hospital bed. She’s laying there sedated, looking hauntingly like our mother, breathing on a respirator, her body in septic shock from a rapid infection. Right now it’s day by day, and we hope and pray that her strong will and her incremental improvements lead to a full recovery.

The part where I went wrong puts in all in perspective.

I love you, Sis. Happy Mother’s Day.

The bosom feels safe and warm again, exactly where I want us to Bea.

Some of my fondest family memories are those when our entire extended family on my mom's side would gather for Easter, the 4th of July, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Second only to the holidays themselves, being a little kid snuggled safely in the family bosom was the only place I wanted to be. The being at home the rest of the year with an abusive alcoholic father and then abusive first step-father wasn't much fun (and the very rare extended family gathering on that side).

So between my mom and sister, grandparents, my mom's two sisters and all our cousins, there was much family fun and love to share. Now, that didn't mean there weren't adult problems between my mom and aunts and other varying forms of family dysfunction.

But the bosom was still safe and warm. And then we grew up.

I was in college the last time we had a family holiday meal together. Thanksgiving. My sister and I sat at the kiddie table, but I didn't really mind. Since then there's only been a handful of times we've gathered. All three were funerals: my grandfather, my aunt, my grandmother.

At my grandmother's funeral my cousins and I were older and a little wiser, most of them had children as did my sister, and we had the best intentions of getting together more often. My mom and sister did get together with them at other non-funeral events, mainly because they all lived in Visalia and Fresno still, where we all grew up.

I didn't, though. Mama A and I lived in Santa Cruz and we didn't have children, and weren't planning to.

Even the most open-hearted of men don't form the familial bond like women do. Women carry the family flame, children or not, and are usually the ones who keep the fires stoked.

Unfortunately even my immediate family's embers are barely a-glow now. My mom and dad battle daily with broken bodies that get weaker and weaker and live too far away, my sister and I are estranged, we rarely talk to her children, and our having a child hasn't made one bit of difference (with the exception of my parents).

I have however rekindled some family love with my dear Auntie M's family and that's a start (Auntie M was married to my birth father's brother).

I'm learning how to start those fires. Hey, daddies can learn stuff, too.

Fortunately Mama A's extended family remains close and our recent trips to see them in Nevada and Illinois has again restored my faith in family. It was our first trip to see the Illinois family and they were all so very gracious to us and happy to meet Beatrice. And Beatrice earned her wings on her first flight! Woot!

My lessons learned in the Land of Lincoln: lead self, lead family, lead the future.

The bosom feels safe and warm again, exactly where I want us to Bea.

Blogged with the Flock Browser