Fight Song

These thoughts have been weighing on my heart for a long time, but I've wrestled with the decision to write them down. Lately they've become more persistent, so I wanted to try and express them. These are not all my own thoughts; some are words my sister told me during her cancer journey. She mentioned them several times, and wrote me a message about them six months before we lost her. She told me that she'd been thinking about discussing the topic on her CaringBridge blog soon. Since she didn't end up getting this done, I've felt some responsibility to do it for her. My sister struggled with the idea of cancer patients being encouraged to stay strong or being applauded for their strength. In her words, she said, "It is all the 'fight like a girl' or 'cancer fought with the wrong person'...I thought I would say that sometimes cancer is stronger no matter what we do." Cancer journeys are referred to as a fight or a battle, but too often this disease is an invincible foe, no matter what weapons are desperately hurled. She understood that not all cancer patients would share her opinion, especially those with a different prognosis. I think many are bolstered by the feelings of control these words can bring during a time when everything feels beyond their control. The hard part comes when no amount of strength can change the outcome of a diagnosis. You can be super strong in dealing with the indignities of surgeries and treatments or show unimaginable strength of spirit in the face of heartbreak, but simply being strong enough cannot cure the incurable. My sister did show undeniable strength and grace during those four years, even while enduring cruel side effects and disappointment after disappointment as each treatment eventually stopped working. But I'm sad at the thought of her ever feeling pressure to be unfailingly strong and resilient. I am trying to hold on to all the lessons I learned from my wise big sister, and just wanted to share this one in case it might help someone else.

Virgil and Ida

We used to travel the rural Nebraska roads to visit both sets of grandparents. Dad took much delight in flying over the small hills, which caused our stomachs to drop to our knees. Grandpa and Grandma Busch lived in the tiny town of Davenport in a beautiful white house. Each time we arrived, I would exchange warm greetings, then begin plotting how to nonchalantly ask permission to venture upstairs. The second floor was a separate furnished apartment that at one time had been rented out to schoolteachers. It was a quaint magical place that I wished to permanently inhabit. There was a bed that could be pulled out of the wall, and the most lovely vanity dresser I'd ever seen. I would gaze at the pretty stove in the little kitchen, then sit for a spell and pretend this was my own apartment. After I'd explored every inch again, I would stroll back downstairs. I never failed to make it down by 4pm since that happened to be the time Grandma served cookies and coffee. We loved the cookie jar that was shaped like a puppy in a basket. It never disappointed, and was always full of chocolate-covered grahams or oatmeal cookies. Afternoons were spent locking together pieces of round jigsaw puzzles or building with red bricks and Lincoln Logs. We fought for turns trying to stack rings inside a handheld game filled with water. Other times, we used a fancy multicolored pencil in a Heckle and Jeckle coloring book that never seemed to run out of pages. We loved spending holidays here, and received magnificent gifts along with the practical pairs of socks. Grandma would use a paring knife to open packages filled with chocolates, puzzles and cloth calendars. Last winter, I visited someone's house that had a distinct smell from their furnace. The scent transported me back to those carefree days in Davenport. We used to stand on a large register vent in the living room to warm our toes. When my sister and I moved into a duplex together before my last two years of college, we were looking for furnishings. Imagine my joy when Grandma said we could use furniture from the upstairs apartment! Laura loved the dresser she chose, while I knew exactly which piece I would request. In every home I've lived since, the vanity dresser has greeted me each morning when I wake.

You Should Be Here

Sometimes memories of my sister come to visit while I'm simply getting through the day. This evening as I was browning ground beef for dinner, I pictured her doing the same. She was standing in the kitchen at our church building, helping the youth prepare a spaghetti dinner. I could almost smell the garlic bread she'd have in the oven while joyfully encouraging everyone to participate. This memory returns like clockwork each time I'm cooking ground beef. Yesterday I braved the crowds during a bag sale at the thrift store since I was on a mission to find boots for someone. This brought to mind the mornings my sister and I would wait outside our favorite consignment store just before it opened on dollar days. We always had our game plan ready to grab the items we'd spied earlier in the week. I usually arrived just before she did and waited for her to pull up and wave with a wild grin. A few weeks ago, I borrowed a carpet shampooer to clean our floors. Even this mundane task was associated with memories of my sister. Each spring, she and I would rent a Rug Doctor together to tackle our carpets. Her labors were particularly arduous since she lived with three males who continually brought the great outdoors indoors. She would move all the furniture, clean each stairstep and shampoo inside all their vehicles. We would discuss the various shades of water we dumped with each cleaning, always thankful for a fresh new start. So, while there is the absolute heartbreak of knowing she is missing the momentous occasions like holidays and the new milestones of our boys, there is also the palpable absence of her in ordinary moments. I don't normally listen to newer country music, but there are words from a song that frequently come to my mind. While some lyrics aren't entirely relatable, I keenly feel the lines, "It's one of those moments that's got your name written all over it. And you know that if I had just one wish, it'd be that you didn't have to miss this. You should be here."

Home

Even though I haven't been able to return to South Dakota since our parents moved to Houston in 2010, it is comforting to know that our farm is still there. Sometimes I daydream about turning into the long driveway again and taking inventory of what has changed over the years. Today I learned that our barn has been torn down by the current owner. It wasn't a complete shock since I already knew that the roof had fallen into disrepair, but it was still devastating to know that it's gone. This building was the setting for countless memories. I can almost smell the straw that was neatly stacked in the top floor. I spent many hours there, stealthily following our mother cats to find where they'd stashed their kittens. I rescued baby barn swallows that had fallen out of mud nests, ever (wrongly) convinced that I could raise them. This was one of my refuges when chased by evil roosters or maniacal geese. It was here that I had an encounter with an emaciated opossum, which I mistook for a pitiful cat and came within inches of giving it a nice pat on the head. This barn housed a wide variety of animals over the years. We were able to watch piglets being born and bottle-feed calves. There were sweet lambs and soft bunnies. We gathered warm eggs from beneath hens and fed more cats than we could count. We played hide and seek in the dark with our childhood church friends in the fields around the barn. In later years, it became a storage spot for Dad's '61 Ford Galaxie. He'd patiently given me driving lessons in this car that lacked power steering. We set up a volleyball net in front of the barn after church potlucks on our farm. In the bedroom I shared with my sister, we could look out the window that was adjacent to our wall of Shaun Cassidy posters and catch a glimpse of the barn. Dad's bountiful garden was tucked behind the barn. He spent contented hours in the shade of the building, digging up potatoes and weeding green beans. While I'm thankful that photos and memories can stand the test of time, the world feels a little less magical once again. https://youtu.be/qkP6Tf79UrM