Siblings

My friend has cancer.

I could go on and on about the injustice of it and I probably will in a later post. She's only in her mid-50's and it really isn't fair.  Even though I wouldn't say that we've been emotionally close during the 20+ years that I've known her, she has been a constant fixture in my life and her illness has hit me particularly hard. Hard enough that everything I look at these days is through a warped and tinted lens.  "Disgruntled with your job?  Make a change.  At least you don't have cancer."  "Kids are irritating today?  Get a grip -- at least you don't have cancer."  "Feel like having a piece of apple pie and brownies tonight?  Why not?  You could have cancer."

Morbid, I know.

***

Her situation makes me think about my kids.


You see, when my friend's father passed away more than 10 years ago, she became estranged from her two sisters and their families.  Her younger sister was particularly angry over some financial matter and so they broke contact.  I never understood the full depths of the tension, but I did know that my friend -- who never married or had children -- preferred to spend long holiday weekends by herself rather than initiate contact with her family.  Instead, she built a strong network of kind and caring friends and her days were always full, but there was loneliness, too, I know.

When she was admitted into the hospital and diagnosed with a ferocious lung cancer that had already traveled well down her spine, she didn't call me right away.  The first people she called were her sisters. And they rallied as if it had only been a matter of days -- not years -- that had passed between them.  Her older sister flew out from the mid-west.  Her younger sister dropped everything and spent more than 10 nights in two different hospitals sleeping on a lumpy cot next to my friend's bed with only a crumpled Trader Joe's shopping bag as her luggage.  Her sister antagonized and berated nurses and doctors the entire time, fulfilling her self-appointed role as the health advocate, leaving my friend to whisper heartfelt apologies as soon as her sister left the room.

When I visited my friend in the hospital, invariably at least one well-meaning nurse would say, "Ah!  Are you her sister?" (and, of course, we look nothing alike) to which my friend consistently responded, "Well, she is like a sister to me." It's a sweet sentiment, but the exchange always made me a little uncomfortable. We aren't sisters and the ugly reality is that there is a limit to what and how much I can do as a friend. In fact, there is something about the family dynamic that allows her to demand and expect more from her siblings, while conversely being more gracious and appreciative of her friends at the same time.

I don't want to over-romanticize the sisters' reunion because it isn't all "water under the bridge" now. There are remnants of underlying tensions and irritations. Her nieces and nephews have grown up completely outside of her purview and the void gapes for her.  I can detect the regret and hurt in my friend's voice.  "My nephew just turned 25 and he's getting married soon!" she announced from her hospital bed as her older sister hovered nearby, nodding proudly. And I can't help but laugh at the frustration and exasperation she expresses about her younger sister. "Oh, yes - my niece moved out and went to college. I'm sure she wanted to get away from my sister as soon as possible because she is so controlling, you know." Even though she is weak and dizzy, she imitates her sister by curling her hand like a claw and wrinkling up her face while making an animal-like shriek.

There is both fondness and familiarity in her criticism.

After all, the fact remains that in her time of greatest need, her two sisters bridged 10 years of distance in a single phone call, jumping up and shouldering more than any of her oldest, dearest friends...I guess, because they are sisters.

***

So, back to my kids.

There is something about my friend's re-connection with her sisters after an entire decade of festering resentments and stubborn silence that comforts and reassures me.  Something about the way they have clicked back into place during this time of crisis addresses my own undercurrent of anxiety about being an older parent with young kids and my irrational fears that someday they will be "alone."  I am deeply and desperately invested in this vague hope that no matter what the future may bring, Mason and Katie will have each other's backs.

I'm not that naive.  I know that life doesn't always work the way you want and there are no guarantees about anything.  Years before Tong Tong even existed, my therapist challenged my determination to have a second child. "You know, people don't automatically get along just because they're siblings, right? Who's to say they'll even like each other?"  I know this.

But I also know -- from my own evolving relationship with my brother or from watching my friend and her sisters, and reflecting on the oh-so-many sets of siblings that I've come to know and watch -- that there is often something about having a shared experience, about having lived together in the same house and having had a period of childhood together --  that  has a way of overriding the dysfunction, misunderstandings, hurt and greed -- even if only temporarily --  in order to be present during times of need.

We're 18 months in now, but sometimes it is still hard for me to imagine how Tong Tong will look at her older brother in the future.  She still yells at him on an almost daily basis. And yet he continues to help her put on her shoes, make her scrambled eggs in the morning, and take her for rides around the house on his skateboard.

I'm not really sure what keeps him going back for more, but I suspect that he sees beyond the immediate.  And he relishes the small rewards. Sometimes, when she is seeing him for the first time after a long day, she'll bound up and down and clap her hands with glee.   She instinctively curls up next to him to watch tv or looks at him with concern when he accidentally bumps his head.  She nags at him when he doesn't wear his glasses, camps next to him on the living room floor, and  jumps and dances with him on his bed.  She calls him, "My Mason."

And I'm just hoping.... hoping that they are building a foundation that will allow them to call upon each other in the future....not just in times of need, but just because they want to be connected.