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It has been so long since I last left a mark on my blog. But in honor of Kathy’s and my birthday I wanted to share a story that I wrote for another blog   http://significancematters.org/stories/  just a few weeks ago. 

The inspiration, insight and richness that the authors, Rae and Tim Lesmeister, share on this site are something you won’t want to miss. I encourage you to check it out. You won’t be disappointed. 

Today, February 4^th, it will be just two years and seven months ago that my sister Kathy lost ourfight with her insidious cancer. A fight we thought till the very last week we would win. Over the 14 months of her illness she never suffered, and for that, her adoring husband and our families are grateful. 

Kathy, my twin, and I always thought that if one of us were alive, well then, so was the other.  So we never really feared losing each other. That thought was unbearable. We just settled into our belief that we came into this world together, which is the same way we would go out: Together.  This belief was forged early on when we took an oath – sealed by a pinky swear at age 9 – after we lost our mother suddenly to cancer. We swore that on the same day, sleeping in the same bed, we would die together.   We did not think this to be much of a hardship for God. After all, our grandmother and great grandmother both lived to be over 100.  So why not us? 

As we grew and aged we shared in everything. We loved the same people, had the same thoughts, the same humor, loved the same places, environments, hobbies, the same sports, the same foods, liked the same clothes, the same movies, read the same books, with one exception. She was a history teacher and loved reading text books. To sum it up, we just loved living our lives together. Though geographically apart, we never felt it. And, even though we both had loving husbands, children, and in later years, to our delight, grandchildren; nothing could ever take the place of “us.” 

One of our favorite places – besides walking her beach – was a cozy restaurant where we could linger together for hours.  We both would eye the exact same table as we entered. It had to be the one outside or next to the window, and hopefully, far enough away from others so we could share our deepest thoughts.  Childhood habits were hard to let go of. I can see us now saying goodbye. We would always put the back of our hands up to our eyes pretending to hold back tears, as young children do, while the other drove away.  The silly image made us smile. I do that same gesture now as I leave her gravesite. 

Kathy was an intellectual at age five, desiring quiet places to read and reflect. I was more of the extrovert and often spoke for both of us.  She was the better golfer, tennis and bridge player, student, and, though more introverted, early on in college she had a very strong voice for social justice. I loved to hear her debate. I just sat back and watched because her opponents didn’t have a chance. 

We brought out the very best in each other. The not so good part of that is, it made us a bit lazy on self-improvement; for instance, if I didn’t have a certain attribute (pragmatism, patience, and understanding) she did, so I didn’t have to work on them.  I too balanced her deficits as I was not a procrastinator, was pro-acted and was always making a plan. So together we made up a fairly imposing “ONE.”  When Kathy “left,” I could not come to grips with who I was. To this day I struggle with the feeling that half of me is simply . . .  gone. 

It must have been some form of divine intervention that led me to write a grief gift book eight months before Kathy’s diagnosis. Because what I learned in this writing is that our body’s natural state is to heal – and as long as the body can it will wage that battle.  Sobs will swell, grief and sorrow will grip us, memories rush forward to be reckoned with, guilt surges forward like waves, and acceptance will not let up on its relentless pounding. All those conditions will haunt us over and over until we purge them; let them in, release them, and deal with them. Thereby, if our natural state is to heal.  So it is with our spirit.  Take comfort.  

I envision myself pushing off from a wooden dock in a one-person sail boat.  I lift the sail within seconds. Flapping wildly, it waits for the wind to grab hold. I turn the rudder, oh so gently and there it is. A loud whoosh as the sail captures the wind. Now all full of its self and bursting to be free – I’m off!

The weather is perfect, the sun in my face, I head out to sea. Gazing into the horizon, I wonder where the wind will take me and who will I encounter? Then anxiety overtakes me. You see, I am not used to sailing alone. In fact, I am not used to doing much of anything alone.

Kathy and I shared the same womb, were born minutes apart, slept in the same crib, and grew up as if we were one. Inseparable – not even going to bed without the other, I never knew aloneness. Together we swung on our backyard swing, romped in our woods, swam in our river and built snowmen in the winter. We knew no sorrow; we dwelt in bliss. Like Don William’s lyrics from “I’m Just a Country Boy.” We had, “…. silver in the stars.  And gold in the mornin’ sun.”  And then, one morning, the sun did not rise. And the gold turned to dust.

I will return to the story of my journey in future posts. Suffice it to say that I’m with my sixth friend now. If you have read Nine Friends– you will know her name. Her friendship is a milestone in my process of grief.  Without her, I could not have launched my little boat, which is my website. Nor would I have started this blog.

For those of you just beginning your journey of grief – your sixth friend is a long time coming.  There is no short cut, no alternative path, no bypassing– or, finding some back door or hidden passage. The simple reality is that until the first five friends have come and gone it will be impossible for your sixth friend to find you.

I wish it was not so, but there is just no way that any of us can prepare for the first four friends. They are beyond horrible. I am so sorry that we have to deal with them at all.  But we do.  Even after they stop living with us, they will hang around on our porches, no doubt, forever! The somewhat good news is that you will get used to them – for after a while they are no longer horrible. In fact, as time passes you will view them as they truly are; faithful friends that support us through this life journey. No longer scary, we now know they are essential to the healing process. Indeed, you may even find yourself inviting them back in from time to time—but not to stay long.

Now, the good news! The sixth friend is worth suffering the others for.  To understand how this all works… is why I wrote Nine Friends and why I started this blog. It is why I am here.

Whatever life’s sadness has brought you, it is my hope you will find the support you need while we all wait for the blessed arrival of our ninth friend.

So, again, welcome to the site!  Please tell me why you are here. What has happened to you that brought you to Nine Friends?