Where’d You Go, 2015?
A (Terrible, Beautiful) Year in Review
Here’s how defensiveness feels: tight jaw, shallow breathing, pursed lips, back and shoulders stiff. Heat in the chest.
That’s how I felt while I was reading other people’s Year in Review posts earlier; how I still feel now, writing mine. In my head, I’m slamming my laptop shut, yelling, “I didn’t write anything, okay? Nothing! I wrote nothing all year! I’ve done nothing! Shut up! I don’t care!”
Of course, that isn’t exactly true. I wrote thousands and thousands of words about things like how to do a balance transfer, how your credit score is calculated, and the benefits of applying for a travel rewards credit card. I wrote about how to market your business online and why you should engage with your customers on social media. I wrote a year’s worth of emails for financial advisors. If I look back at them, I won’t recognize my own words. They were strictly transactional: content for cash. Zero personal investment.
Since I started taking myself seriously as a writer, I’ve written at least one thing that meant something to me each year: an xoJane “It Happened to Me” in 2014, a story about my dad in 2013, a piece about applying for food stamps in 2012.
How did I let an entire year go by without publishing anything meaningful?
Let’s review.
I kicked off the year writing a restaurant review for Gael Greene and a handful of celebrity bios for a new website for single moms. Then my sister got sick and everything slowed down. Actually, she’d been sick for a few years — ovarian cancer — but in February, the doctors told her that instead of starting another round of chemo, she was going to start hospice care.
Just writing that sentence, my throat is closing up and tears are welling. At the same time, the voice in my head starts in. God, you’re pathetic. Quit crying. Stop playing that fucking dead sister card as an excuse for why you can’t turn out one lousy piece of work. You weren’t even that close.When’s the last time you bothered to call her before she died? When’s the last time you actually saw her, before you went to hold her hand on her deathbed so you could feel good about yourself?
I guess you could say I have some unresolved feelings around her death. Maybe if I worked a little harder, I’d be able to afford to go back to therapy. Ha! As if I could ever make enough money writing to pay for therapy.
(I sound bitter, and I’m never bitter. It’s off-brand. Deep breath. Try again.)
The sicker Bonnie got, the harder I found it to write. I’d sit staring at the screen, trying to find my way into a story. It was as if I no longer spoke English. I couldn’t remember words, couldn’t string them together when I did remember them. I’d lost my grasp of language. Even writing a simple news story from a press release felt like an insurmountable task.
My cousin Jennifer had died a few months before, in September 2014, also of ovarian cancer. We’d only met recently; she emailed to ask if I’d help her write something shortly after she was diagnosed. I became a sort of mentor to her, editing her piece and pitching it for her, hosting her on my sofa in Brooklyn, exchanging texts at 3am when neither of us could sleep — she, because she had a terminal disease, me, because I couldn’t get my shit together (divorce, poverty, alcoholic boyfriend, intermittent homelessness). Our friendship was immediate, passionate, and short-lived.
Three months after she died, I summoned the strength to end the abusive relationship I’d been stuck in for years. Every day I let it continue felt like an affront to Jennifer’s memory. Her life had been stolen from her; how dare I waste mine?
And so I’d ushered in 2015 still heartbroken over Jennifer’s death, but filled with relief at finally being free of a terrible — and terrifying — relationship. I also spent quite a few desolate nights wondering if I was destined to be alone forever. I forced myself to try online dating and spent my time crafting a profile, swiping left, and scrolling through messages instead of writing. As Bonnie got sicker, dating became a convenient distraction. I packed my days as tightly as possible, running in Prospect Park, lining up drinks and dinner dates, dripping puddles of tears and sweat on my yoga mat at the Y, singing karaoke with my girlfriends, hosting play dates and volunteering at Girl Scouts. Staying busy was my coping mechanism of choice. Still, I became less and less able to produce any work.
In March, I went to be with my sister. I’d hoped to go with my daughters in April, for Easter, but my mother said I better not wait any longer. I took the train to Indiana — sixteen hours on the Lakeshore Limited, staring out the window, playing mindless games on my phone, texting guys I’d met online. My book and laptop sat in my bag, untouched. I couldn’t write. Couldn’t even read. I was numb.
I went straight to my sister’s from the train station. Our oldest sister, Laurie, wrapped me in a hug at the door. “How long are you staying? Forever?” Exhausted, she gave me a quick rundown on which pills to give Bonnie when, pulled on her shoes and coat, and went home to rest.
I’d thought Bonnie would be in bed, but she wasn’t. She was searching for her contacts. It took me a while to understand that she was trying to look nice for me; she’d always hated her glasses. But contacts wouldn’t have made a difference. Her skin hung loosely off her face; long whiskers sprouted from her chin. Yellow muck coated her teeth, and she kept reaching into her mouth to scrape something off her tongue, spitting and mumbling. I focused on her blue eyes, her smooth hands — the parts of her that cancer hadn’t touched. She lurched around the apartment, hunched over and moaning, rubbing her head. “Ouch,” was what she said most. Ouch.
I stayed as close to her as I could. I stroked her head and smoothed her sheets, lay next to her in bed, curled around her like a spoon, held her hand. She wouldn’t settle down. She did rounds, pacing between her chair, the bed, the bathroom. Laurie and I helped her onto the toilet and lifted her up again, over and over. “Guess what we’re doing tomorrow, Bonnie?” said Laurie. “We’re introducing you to your new friend, the bedside commode!” We dissolved into giddy, worn-out laughter. Bonnie wanted her shoes on, wanted to go outside. “She probably wants to sit on the porch and smoke,” Laurie said. As soon as I got her shoes on, she wanted them off. She lay down and got up again. She wanted a blanket, then pushed it away. I rubbed lotion into her feet and hands, trying to soothe her into stillness.
Laurie and I took turns reading to her from On the Banks of Plum Creek. She put her hand to her head. “It hurts,” she moaned. We tried to coax more painkillers into her, baby-talking and making airplane sounds, cracking each other up and swallowing back tears. She waved us away, grumbling and knocking pills onto the floor. We played her favorite music. “Not that,” she slurred when I put on, for the fourth or fifth time that day, a CD we’d listened to as kids. I told her I loved her, kissed her again and again. “That’s enough,” she finally managed, in her drugged monotone. Laurie laughed. I was always such a clingy monkey, such a little sister, forever putting my arms up to be carried.
I knew she was scared. She was going somewhere we couldn’t follow — was already half gone, afraid to let go. We told her not to worry. We promised that her daughter would be well cared for. I thought I should tell her goodbye, tell her it was all right to go, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It’s harder to say that stuff out loud than I thought it would be. I had to work my voice around the tears in my throat; everything came out squeaky and wobbly.
I didn’t say goodbye until I actually left. I usually prefer to be the one leaving, but not that time. I wanted Bonnie to go first. I can’t remember the last thing I said to her. Probably that I loved her. Laurie and I looked at each other, held each other tight. I would be the only sister she had left, and I’d be halfway across the country. It was Laurie, not me, who would take care of our niece. I was leaving her, too. But my girls were waiting at home. I told Laurie I’d be back soon. For the memorial service.
Bonnie hung on for thirteen more days. The day after I left, she was moved to a hospice facility. She’d become too hard to care for at home. Our family took turns sitting by her bed. Laurie stayed with her during the night. One night Laurie and I texted each other into the early morning. She said Bonnie, who’d been unconscious for days, was talking to her. It almost felt like we were all together again. Three sisters, sharing secrets one last time. The next day, during a rare moment when no family was with her, Bonnie slipped away.
Here’s the thing about grief: it’s sort of like a drug. You have that heightened awareness, that sense of the whole world being suddenly different. Everything seems beautiful and fragile and grotesque, all at once. And in that broken-open space, anything seems possible. At the same time, just like being high, it’s not particularly conducive to productivity. I still couldn’t write.
In the weeks and months after my sister died, I fell in love fast and hard, in a way I’m not sure I could have, had grief not made me so vulnerable. It’s been the best, most unexpected gift — something too new and precious to write about yet, or maybe ever. I sought out a faith community, and ended up finding two. The people there lifted me up and supported me when I most needed it. They’ve become so integral to my sense of who I am and where I belong that I cannot imagine life without them.
Between falling in love and becoming part of two amazing church families, my belief in a God who loves me absolutely and unconditionally, forgives me before I can even ask, and meets me right where I am is stronger than it’s ever been.
That, or I just got really fucking lucky.
But I’m a writer, and where are my words? Gradually, they’re coming back. That broken-open state — you can’t stay in it forever. Slowly, you seal yourself back up. You arm yourself with your old defenses, for better or for worse. You remember your lines, and your blocking comes back to you. The show goes on.
And so, as the year ends, I remind myself that I haven’t done nothing. I took care of my children. I held my sister’s hand while she was dying. I fell in love. I skinny dipped in the ocean off Fire Island. I ran a marathon. I turned 40. I got out of bed and did my best every day, even when my best kind of sucked.
The words will come when they’re ready. The end of a calendar year isn’t a finish line. Time’s up, class. Pencils down!
Earlier this year, I led song at my church. I swore I’d never do it — said I was too shy, not a good enough singer — but forced myself to anyway, because I secretly really wanted to. During rehearsal, our music leader stopped me. “That was great,” he said. “Now do it again, and take the question marks out of your voice.” I did. It felt fantastic.
Take the question marks out of your voice.
Words to live by for 2016.
