By Joy Strickland
Although they are rare these days, there was a time when large families were not uncommon. Our mother gave birth to thirteen children, over twenty-five years. You were child #1. I am #11.
Our parents gave us the opportunity to attend college. You chose not to further your education. You married the first time at seventeen. When you gave birth to William, I was three weeks old.
William and I were forever explaining to classmates that we were not cousins, but nephew and aunt.
Your first marriage ended. Although we were Baptists, with your second marriage you joined a different denomination that claimed to be the true church; only their members were going to heaven. I wondered how you could believe such a thing.
The years, the siblings between us, and religious beliefs forged a great divide. You were practically from a different generation. And that’s just how it was.
In 2015, things began to change. I started showing up with no purpose beyond spending time with you.
At first, these visits simply recalled our differences. I consider housework a Sisyphean endeavor, while you took great pride in cleaning. I am more spiritual than religious; you attended church every Sunday. You were an outstanding cook who kept a vegetable garden. I’m not, and I don’t.
I discovered you had arthritis, which made standing for long periods quite painful. Ironing became a problem.
I offered to show up weekly and do your ironing.
I could find my iron if I needed to, but the last thing I’d iron is a pillowcase. There are no handkerchiefs in my house. You ironed not only pillowcases and handkerchiefs, but anything that emerged from the dryer seemed fair game.
I recruited Sandra, child #12. Between us, your ironing could proceed uninterrupted, despite vacations and appointments.
We talked as I ironed. I learned about your childhood as family stories came to life in your telling. I will never tire of hearing how you hated always being served chicken feet at Sunday dinner, as the better pieces were reserved for adults. You got your revenge one day as Mother went shopping, leaving you in charge. You killed, cooked, and ate an entire chicken, bribing Doris, child #2, with chicken feet, assuring her silence.
We talked as I ironed. Laughing came easily. We shared a fondness for silk scarves. I learned to fold the pillowcases your way.
We talked as I ironed. I came to know more about dear Hubert, your third husband of twenty years. He was a real music lover with hordes of cassette tapes, LPs and CDs. For years he travelled around Texas, singing in a gospel quartet.
Things went along this way for three years.
Then, Hubert was diagnosed with bone cancer. Several months into his treatments, you were diagnosed with dementia. Housework became impossible for you; yardwork, unfeasible for him. Downsizing seemed the best option.
The house was sold and the two of you moved to a senior living complex.
The new apartment was modern and bright, the grounds beautifully kept, meals served on white linen tablecloths. Still, moving was sad and difficult.
One day as I ended my visit at the new place, you surprised me with, “See you later, alligator.” I responded instinctively, “After a while, crocodile.” You, me, and Hubert — we all smiled as I left. Month after month, this is how we ended our time together.
Sandra and I continued our visits, which now included not only ironing, but also showers, and whatever else we could do to help, as you began using a wheelchair, more often than not.
Hubert waged a courageous battle with cancer. Your dementia progressed, forcing Hubert to make another hard decision. He moved you to memory care. No matter how many times he explained it, you never understood why Hubert wasn’t living there with you.
Whereas visits had involved a flurry of activity, now there was only sitting, talking quietly. In three-and-a-half years, I saw you lose your home and your mobility. Now you literally were losing your mind. See you later alligator no longer punctuated our visits. But the worst was yet to come.
News of a pandemic was curious and slow moving at first. Like quiet waters receding from a shoreline before returning as a monstrous tsunami, the pandemic was the final, awesome outrage.
A quarantine from April to October allowed loved ones to see residents only once — standing outside, masked, behind a wrought iron fence.
In September, Hubert succumbed to his illness. You couldn’t attend his funeral.
As the quarantine ended, contact visits were permitted, but only with proof a negative test within the prior three days, and the visitor wearing PPE. The duty nurse was kind enough to forego all this and arrange makeshift visits: You inside, me outside, a glass door between us as we talked by cell phone.
The nurse advised me not to mention Hubert on my first visit following his passing. Thus, there could be no expressions of sympathy, and no reminiscing about dear Hubert.
When I visited in late December you were far less coherent. As the nurse handed you the phone, you seemed confused, unsure what to do with it. I think you knew me, although you told the nurse I was forty-fiveyears old. Not true. With Christmas just days away, I tried upbeat, holiday chatter. Your words were few. A blank, faraway stare came and went several times as I stood outside that glass door, talking and wondering. I left feeling distressed.
You were diagnosed with COVID-19 on Christmas Eve. You died alone on New Year’s Day.
For most of my life I knew you as the faraway firstborn. I was powerless to intervene or change the sorrowful circumstances of your death. Still, our last years together were a godsend, bridging years and differences. In the end I grieved, not for a distant relative, but for you, my sister.
After a while, crocodile.