I love my sister with a fierceness that knows no bounds. She is one of the few people in this world for whom I'd do just about anything to take away suffering. I remember watching her cry as a preteen after having an argument with our parents and wondering why my chest felt like it was going to explode--why I wanted to tear her away from the grief she was feeling and just take it upon myself, since I could already feel it so acutely. Seeing her disappointed was always more devastating than being disappointed myself so I spent a lot of time and energy trying to protect her from anything that I thought might make her sad, scared, disappointed, or uncomfortable.
My relationships with my sister has always been good (except for a few early days of rivalry and arguing, throwing bathtub plugs, and writing angry "I hat you" notes at one another which only produced more teasing from an much smarter older sister and friends). We had struggles to be sure--including boy issues--but we were always there for one another when it counted and and were close friends.
Over the years, our relationship has blossomed into a deep friendship, a saving grace as we each crisscrossed the country for school and work, through lonely times and amazing ones. We've gone long times without talking and are still able to pick up right where we left off. We've talk about everything from the most trivial of incidents to the most serious, from our clothing to weird poops (OK, I ask you, who else are you going to talk to about this? Your new boyfriend?? I don't think so!!!), from what it was like to be a kid to what we want to be doing in the coming years.
The one thing we didn't talk about much was my pain.
Once my pain started, just months before my 15th birthday, and after the subsequent diagnosis of endometriosis a few months later, three distinct camps formed in our household (minus Cleo, the cat, who was unaffected by the changes).. My mother, ever the nurturer, continued in her role, always concerned with what I needed emotionally and physically to ease the pain and make me a little more comfortable. My father took a more kinesthetic approach, taking me for short walks to keep me active, coaching with breathing, and taking me for long car rides in the country to take my mind off the pain. My sister, on the other hand, took a straight-up distraction approach. She was the one who brought movies and blankets and cuddled up with me on the sofa. She made me laugh and took me for picnics. I didn't talk about the pain and she didn't ask about it. Despite her being the one to drive me to the ER on my very first evening of excruciating pain, Clara wasn't very involved in the succeeding slew of doctors, tests, surgeries, treatments, and follow-ups.
We never talked about the fact that we didn't talk about it--we just didn't. I think we both told ourselves it was what the other needed--a distraction and an escape--though perhaps at some level we both knew that we were protecting ourselves and each other from what we knew we couldn't bear.
I wanted to protect her from experiencing that wrenching sadness and helplessness I saw in my parents faces when they looked at me, and to protect myself from the pain of seeing all of that written on her face. And I think she just wanted it all to not really be happening to me and to us. She wanted to feel that things were still OK, even if that meant distancing herself from the pain a little. This makes perfect sense to me (in fact, I've tried that strategy of pretending I'm not in pain--it just doesn't work that well for me!)
So, when Clara came to visit us in Texas this past Thanksgiving, I wasn't expecting her to suggest we begin this wild adventure. I was taken aback and overwhelmed and so unbelievably moved. Not only had she been planning this project since March, carefully organizing, researching, compiling resources, reading articles, gathering books and making lists of places in Austin that might be helpful, but she was also going to do all of it with me!!
This incredible journey will be unlike any other because we are doing it together, my dearest sister, and because you had enough courage to face your own sadness and fear to ask me to accept this gift of hope for healing and strength. I will always be grateful for that monumental act of love and honesty which has brought us to this place.
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