Dear Joyce
Dear Joyce,
I remember all too well the day you dropped dead in front of us, and as I ran to call 911, Mom ran to you. That was in 1977, and the decades have passed, and now the conversation my brother and I have is about what Joyce would be doing now. It is strange how you left breadcrumbs for us to follow.
You were only fourteen when you had the heart attack, and we’d hoped that the pacemaker you now lived with would give you a long life. We couldn’t have predicted what happened that hot July day. The beginning grief was about the loss of our sister. With time the sorrow diminished, as months, and then years, expanded into decades. Now I think about the forty-eight years that have passed, and I imagine.
I think that, with your love of small children and your medical curiosity, you may have gone into pediatric nursing. You got little children far better than I ever did. You loved their quirkiness, and they loved you.
Your braces were off, and you had contacts. You were feeling happy about your appearance, and I was glad. You were one of those people who had a healthy love for yourself. That is rare for any time. Most people struggle to love and care for themselves.
You were having to do the hard work of life. As Richard Rohr would put it, you were doing first-stage and second-stage work at fourteen. The book Falling Upwards explains what I was seeing with you way back when. Rohr explains that things like disability cause us to sort out stuff sooner in life. This sorting process is also true for the LGBTQ community. You were tuned into needful things at a young age.
It saddens me that so many people feel that bringing up the dead is a no-no. Please do! It was delightful to talk with my younger brother about you. I loved hearing what he thought about where you’d be. We know you’d have children.
I think about you and Daddy working with you on pitch on the flute. You couldn’t hold a tune, and you really wanted to be a good, solid musician. Daddy worked with you and taught you to find and hold the right pitch. I gotta tell you, your lack of pitch drove me nuts! We were at opposite ends on pitch. I couldn’t understand how anyone could not carry a tune. I’d been singing before I could talk, and I wind up with a sister who had to learn to do what many people can do. That’s OK—you had gifts I didn’t have.
You were saying “have a nice day” before happy smiley faces were a thing. Remember the year you made dinner plates with art on them for the family? You made one for yourself, and it said “have a nice day” on it.
People who haven’t lost anyone might think that this is a strange post. A letter to a sister who is long gone. It is good to think about the good things, and that bad stuff. It is part of the process, and it will play out at different times in our lives.
Yes, you could be a real brat at times. I love you—even if at your birth I couldn’t figure out what this thing that cried, ate, and generally did nothing to enhance my world was good for. Then you grew, and we sisters got matching dancing dresses. You became fun, and then you got all the bold, cute clothes. Not bad, considering that Beth and I never could have pulled off what Mom knew you could do with cute clothes. Just so you know: we told Mom all about it when we were adults, and she said that we lacked the personality for cute and bold. Mom was right.
I’m so glad I wrote this to you. It has been a lovely walk in the past. I need to do it more often. I wonder what you’d say about this?
Love you,
Gail
