Forever Young

"Why don't you write more frequently?" is a question I have been asked many times since I began writing this blog five years ago. My response is quite typical: I write when something moves me to do so. Oftentimes, I have no idea why certain thoughts infiltrate my thinking--today is one of those days.

 

For whatever reason, I miss my sister.

 

It's no special occasion such as a birthday, an anniversary, or a family event. I would assume it is related to something spiritual, perhaps, but I truly have no idea what that would be. Bottom line is that on this day, her image continues to appear in my mind. Because I best express myself through the written word, allow me a trip down memory lane where maybe I can make sense of my thoughts.

 

As I look back, my life has been a series of mostly positive events with a few negatives dropped in just to add a bit of flavor to my experiences. I find it easy to say that my upbringing was solid with strong parenting and loyal friends. However, having a sister who died at 32 in the prime of her life (with a family consisting of a son, a daughter, and a husband) was one of those moments that I guess I have never truly "come to grips with." Even today I sometimes find my voice cracking and tears forming when a conversation includes her name. Strangely, it does not hurt to talk of her; actually, I feel proud when I do so, but I still emotionally feel that connection. Even more odd is that we were not truly "blood" siblings; she was adopted as was I, both from different parents. However, that oddity is certainly irrelative when it comes to our emotional bond.

 

From the beginning, my sister Carol was better than I. She was a smarter student, a more quality person, and a more engaging personality. Filled with a freckled face, her smile was infectious, and her charm was so obvious. I suppose somewhere out there she had those who did not like her, but I seriously doubt that many exist. From her days of attending Dennison St. Mary's Elementary School to her time as a student at Indian Valley South and Akron University, she was a disciplined, dedicated student and friend. From a religious perspective, she was so devoted to the teachings of the Catholic Church from the time she was young. I, on the other hand, was not necessarily the opposite, but I was a bit more of a renegade than she. School for me consisted of being a smart ass, wishing I was outside playing sports rather than sitting in a classroom listening to a nun lecture me about why I needed to know this or that. Carol liked church; I did not. Having to sit still for an hour with neatly combed hair, a quiet mouth, and a rambunctious spirit did not add up to a pleasant experience. Getting my butt dragged out of church by my dad and getting spanked was pretty predictable; Carol, of course, did all the kneeling and praying as demanded by the old-school church. No, she was not the chosen one, but my orneriness certainly raised her status within the family. I am smiling as I write this--she was so good.

 

As her life unfolded, she did all the typical moves to ensure a level of popularity: cheerleader, band member (days I was subjected to her practicing her flute, which came after her clanging the cymbals!), track participant, student council representative, class officer, . . .--the picture is clear. Of course, she seemed to attract boyfriends, which I thought was pretty cool because they were athletes I looked up to. As high school wrapped up, she moved on to what was then Akron University. Naturally, she excelled, receiving a 4.0 practically every semester. In time, she married her high school sweetheart, Jay Huston, a man I admired then and still do today. In short, they were a perfect couple, although for the first few years of their married life they lived in Marietta as her husband completed his petroleum engineering degree while she worked as a secretary, often surviving on popcorn and water while they struggled to "make ends meet" in their rented trailer. Soon thereafter, though, they began a family, moving to a small plot of land outside Port Washington, Ohio, having a son, Jayson, and a few years later a daughter, Samantha. In short, the storybook small town love affair was well underway.

 

In time, her husband began climbing the oil/gas hierarchy leading them for a period of time to relocate to Texas where he assumed a significant leadership role within the Halliburton Company. Soon, though, they missed their roots and returned to Tuscarawas County, residing in Bolivar and then building their dream home on the outskirts of Dover. While here, she was a teacher at New Philadelphia High School as well as an adjunct professor at KSU Tuscarawas. Within this period, though, the dream bubble began to take on a different slant. During this return stretch to our county, she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, one that ultimately took her life within fourteen months, leaving her husband with two kids, ages three and five. Sparing the details of those fourteen months is certainly deliberate; my point is not to invoke sympathy but to compliment her bravery, strength, and devotion.

 

You see, I learned so much from her that still influences me today. As I matured in my behavior and in my thinking, I realized what a special gift she was, While she was sick, I do not recall her complaining as we watched her body deteriorate. Instead, she was upbeat despite her fatal prognosis. Her children were always first, her thoughts of others exceeding her failing health. Like so many cancer victims, she had brief stretches where it appeared all was in remission only to be humbled by its dreaded return. Through it all, she demonstrated such courage that I so admired. In truth, at that point in life, I could not understand where that courage was coming from. She was fighting a battle we all strongly suspected she could not win, but she continued the fight. What mattered to her, I suspect, was that she was going to give it hell until the end . . . and that she did.

 

As so many of us know, when someone near to us passes away--particularly someone young--we are shellshocked, having little clue how to resume our normal lives. However, we also know that we do ultimately compose ourselves and return to an event-filled, new life. When Carol passed, I vividly remember my brother-in-law Jay comforting me by saying, "We don't have to understand life; we just have to live it." Simple words, of course, but they remain so reassuring to this day, and I oftentimes find myself repeating them to others when they, too, experience the passing of a loved one. Additionally, borrowing the words of Edgar Allan Poe, "No one ever dies as long as there is someone to remember," I have been blessed to confront deaths of friends and other family members with whatever strength is required, and I relate it to those two sayings.

 

Today, I miss my sister. In my mind's eye, she is still that curly-haired girl with freckles, a grin, and a motivation to be somebody special. Truly, she left her own legacy, spawning a beautiful daughter who looks so much like her, a son who loves adventure, and a husband who regrouped his life and married a charming, wonderful woman who met the challenge of raising Carol's two children and treating them as her own, an accomplishment I will never forget.

 

In a nutshell, I benefited so much from Carol's life, and, fortunately, I matured into someone who still is nowhere near her grace and class yet someone who was smart enough to learn from those better than I. So special she was, and she, of course, will always remain forever young (as my man Bob Dylan echoed) to me.