I started smoking with Newports.
My sister taught me to smoke.
What I should say, is that my sister gave me permission to smoke, at least while with her. At 11, 12, and 13 in her car, while she drove me to one of her softball games, took me to the drive in, drove me to Bakersfield at night, or drove us to her boyfriend's house, she'd bark to me, "Hey! Light me a cigarette." And that's how it began. I'd push that little car igniter in, dig around her purse for her box of Newport menthols, pull one out slowly and smell the cool sweetness. I'd wait patiently while she whipped through traffic at night. Pop! And puff, puff, pass. That was my instruction for several years, several times a week - "Light me a cigarette."
I felt like I was being trusted with access to adulthood that was secret to other kids. Later into my 30s, when I was trying to stop smoking, I'd think back to these early moments and wonder if she caused me to smoke or not. If not for her, I'd most likely have had some other exposure to those little sticks; and truly I didn't start in earnest until after she had been kicked out from the house. She didn't so much teach me to smoke, I'd learn that later, but she showed me what vice was. And I liked it. That which is dangerous is sexy and sophisticated, especially smoking.
My sister had been exposed to vice well before I had and maybe for her it was normal to open adult doors to children. Her experiences in childhood and adolescence would make my Puff, puff, pass of a cigarette seem like a Disney movie in comparison. LSD taking in junior high, drinking, drugs, sex, fighting with girls, fighting with boyfriends. My sister's fists scared me, because when she hit - she meant to hurt you. What she lacked in academics and communication skills, she made up for with a sarcastic wit and a full out punch to your nose if you crossed her. Was she loving? Sort of. She was giving. And she was taking.
When she began taking methamphetamine, she changed. She was mean, not sarcastic. She was abusive. She stole secretly and in your face. During a period when she was supposed to be cleaning up, she even had a job, she had stopped by to talk to my parents and asked for their help with groceries, which they caved and gave. There was some sort of pride in their giving to her over and over again, ultimately tens of thousands of dollars. When pushed to explain to me why they kept feeding her habit, they'd blindly and proudly say things like, "No kid of mine is going hungry." Later that night, after they had gone to bed, she came back quietly with a friend. And while I sat in the living room silently judging her, she went into the pantry with a paper bag and stole food from their pantry. The money they gave to her belly would be used for her nose. She didn't say anything to me while I sat on the couch, probably because even she knew how embarrassing this was.
When she eventually defaulted on a mortgage she had on a mobile home, which my parents had cosigned, she dropped out of sight for a couple of years. We knew she was in town, but had no clue how dangerously she was living. During this time, I think I grieved for her. I lost her, so I filed her away in my head as if she were dead. I think that's what people do in order to make sense of not having a family member or friend around anymore. You lose them, you grieve.
My mom passed away during the two or so years my sister was gone. She'd heard of my mom passing from a family member who knew where she was. Instead of coming home, she MySpace messaged me through a friend's profile. Her message was full of blame and shame toward us. She asked over and again, "Why didn't you tell me she was sick?" "Why didn't you invite me to the funeral" She threw out curses toward us and all the while was playing a victim of sorts and didn't get that we weren't the ones that left. We'd been here the whole time waiting for her to come back.
About 2 years after my mother passed, she moved back in with my father This was around the time I was moving out. The promise that she made, but never held, was to stay only for 6 months while she found a job. Nearly 5 years later, she still lives with him, is not employed. For 5 years, I've hated her. Her presence in my dad's house has stopped me from coming over. She's mean, she's rude to us, she's cursed at us while there. And, since she's moved in, I've been back twice briefly; sad at thinking of the memories I have of that house and my mom and those last 5 years I got to spend with her living in that house.
I've wished my sister harm, I've wished her jail, I've wished her death - I've thought any would be the best solution for my dad. He deserves not to have to care for an adult child at 70+ years old. And that's what he has to do daily. But, honestly, I think he gets some pleasure out of it or else he wouldn't. "No child of mine will be homeless." He feels he's helped her. And maybe he has.
She's claimed sobriety in the last year and a half, which I've started to see that maybe she has achieved. She started going to a therapist. She started communicating with my oldest sister and my oldest sister started to let her come around her children more and more. My sisters are trying. And still, I held the idea of my younger sister as gone, dead, grieved for, and not coming back. People change, and in my job I see it everyday, but I couldn't let the image of my sister change, even though she obviously was. For me, hearing stories of how she went with my niece to paint pottery are cute novelties. In my mind, I'm narrating, "Sure, what'd she do - steal the pottery afterward for an eight of meth?" But the real story was more G-rated than anything I'd remembered in the last 15 years. Hm.
My sister came to Thanksgiving this year. I heard about it a few days ahead and I didn't know what to make of it. Would she be abusive to us? Would she stomp around huffing at all the typical family activities we would do, like say what we're thankful for? My sister is a good cook, a skill she hasn't lost, but would she openly criticize the food? Would I acknowledge her, or just try to avoid her? Our last interaction was over the phone, where we cursed at each other and I accused her of taking drugs still. She hung up on me. Actually, our last interaction was less direct. I called Adult Protective Services on her for abusing my father financially, emotionally, and maybe physically. After she learned it was me, thanks Dad!, she called my job and spoke to the Chief of Police to accuse me of bringing in marijuana to the state hospital. Nothing ever came of either accusation.
When we arrived to outdoor Thanksgiving, there was a lot of commotion, kids playing, adults assembling the meal on tables and making sure we would have everything we'd need. I didn't see her at first. With all the commotion, she was simply sitting at one of the picnic tables looking straight ahead and seemingly not noticing all the action around her. It took me awhile to figure out what I'd do. I set up my dishes, said hi to a few family and friends, introducing our guest to everyone. When I had nothing left to busy my hands with, I swung around the table to squat low beside her. Quickly, I said "Hi Gina. I'm really glad you came," and I slung my arm around her shoulder and gave her an intentional hug. It was real. And it was nice, but I wouldn't say it was real nice. We swapped a few lines about the dishes we'd brought. "OOh! I'll have to try yours."
At grace, with everyone holding hands, she was nowhere to be found. I assumed she'd gone for a smoke, but when my head was supposed to be down, I kept looking for her. I didn't want her to think we were having grace because she was gone. I wanted her included. Halfway through Jason saying the blessing, I caught sight of her shadow from behind and in front of the RV. Her hair has always been so long and straight, but with body and coarseness that when in motion or when windy it always looked alive and constantly moving. Beautiful. And thankfully remained after years of meth use. I saw the shadow of her hair moving on the ground, she knew we were having grace, but walked the other way for a few more minutes only coming back after we'd started dishing sides.
I ended up sitting near her while eating and again we exchanged quick recipe talk. Food has always meant caring for my sister. When you were sick, she'd offer to make you soup from scratch. Her meals were naturally good. So maybe us talking of food was as close to anything emotional we could have gotten to right then. It was working. It felt comfortable to share how to brine the turkey and braise it. She seemed to like to tell me about her stuffing, it was the best on the table.
My family has a tradition where, about halfway through the meal, we stop to go around to say out loud what we've been and are thankful for. Anxiety for me as I wondered if my sister would feel comfortable doing something like this. Each turn was taken, one by one kids and adults shared heart-felt thanks to wives, husbands, kids, jobs, safety, security. By the time we'd gotten to the end, my sister still hadn't spoken and I'd started to think we should quickly end it to help her not feel uncomfortable if she didn't want to take part. Quick segue to, "Pie anyone?? Who wants a bit more wine?"
My sister spoke not too loudly, or quietly. She said something like, "Oh is it my turn now." She repositioned her plate on her lap and started, "I'm thankful for my family. It's taken me a while, but I'm glad I'm back." In one sentence, forgiveness wasn't necessary anymore. You're here, sister. Now stay.
A few months back, around the time she started taking care of he psychological health, she also began seeing a general practitioner for her physical health. As a 42-year-old woman who hadn't seen regular check-ups in the last 20 years, her doctor ordered routine health exams. The results of her mammogram became a problem. There was something there, something large. Health care for the indigent is different than for others. For some reason that still isn't clear in my mind, follow-up exams weren't done until 5 months later. She went in a few weeks after Thanksgiving and was diagnosed with breast cancer which appears to have metastasized. Radiation, a brief round of chemo are trying to reduce the size of the mass. Surgery. Mastectomy, maybe later.
When my older sister told me what was happening, I started to think immediately of all the times I'd wished her to die. I thought, at that time, it was the easiest solution for my parents to stop having to spend so much time, energy, and emotion into a lost cause. She wasn't productive, cut her loose. Give that attention to your productive children. Jealousy as an adult. Sibling rivalry when you're not a child. It's still there. I keep coming back to the number of times I've cursed her, grieved, all in order to be rid of her. And here she is. She's back from exile in my mind only with the possibility of going away again.
That hug I gave her at Thanksgiving was real. I hope she felt it. I know she's scared. I know she's trying. I even know she must be fighting with herself to not run away from this. To go back to old habits must be tempting. My oldest sister told me she gave my sister some advice, "You should think about stopping smoking." And, at first, I agreed. Yes, treatment compromises your immune system, smoking can lead to chest infections. It all makes sense. But, what would my sister's life be without that last vice, at least. Knowing all the health benefits, I have to say, I would still ride shotgun with her driving somewhere into the night and hand her a lighted Newport.
What I should say, is that my sister gave me permission to smoke, at least while with her. At 11, 12, and 13 in her car, while she drove me to one of her softball games, took me to the drive in, drove me to Bakersfield at night, or drove us to her boyfriend's house, she'd bark to me, "Hey! Light me a cigarette." And that's how it began. I'd push that little car igniter in, dig around her purse for her box of Newport menthols, pull one out slowly and smell the cool sweetness. I'd wait patiently while she whipped through traffic at night. Pop! And puff, puff, pass. That was my instruction for several years, several times a week - "Light me a cigarette."
I felt like I was being trusted with access to adulthood that was secret to other kids. Later into my 30s, when I was trying to stop smoking, I'd think back to these early moments and wonder if she caused me to smoke or not. If not for her, I'd most likely have had some other exposure to those little sticks; and truly I didn't start in earnest until after she had been kicked out from the house. She didn't so much teach me to smoke, I'd learn that later, but she showed me what vice was. And I liked it. That which is dangerous is sexy and sophisticated, especially smoking.
My sister had been exposed to vice well before I had and maybe for her it was normal to open adult doors to children. Her experiences in childhood and adolescence would make my Puff, puff, pass of a cigarette seem like a Disney movie in comparison. LSD taking in junior high, drinking, drugs, sex, fighting with girls, fighting with boyfriends. My sister's fists scared me, because when she hit - she meant to hurt you. What she lacked in academics and communication skills, she made up for with a sarcastic wit and a full out punch to your nose if you crossed her. Was she loving? Sort of. She was giving. And she was taking.
When she began taking methamphetamine, she changed. She was mean, not sarcastic. She was abusive. She stole secretly and in your face. During a period when she was supposed to be cleaning up, she even had a job, she had stopped by to talk to my parents and asked for their help with groceries, which they caved and gave. There was some sort of pride in their giving to her over and over again, ultimately tens of thousands of dollars. When pushed to explain to me why they kept feeding her habit, they'd blindly and proudly say things like, "No kid of mine is going hungry." Later that night, after they had gone to bed, she came back quietly with a friend. And while I sat in the living room silently judging her, she went into the pantry with a paper bag and stole food from their pantry. The money they gave to her belly would be used for her nose. She didn't say anything to me while I sat on the couch, probably because even she knew how embarrassing this was.
When she eventually defaulted on a mortgage she had on a mobile home, which my parents had cosigned, she dropped out of sight for a couple of years. We knew she was in town, but had no clue how dangerously she was living. During this time, I think I grieved for her. I lost her, so I filed her away in my head as if she were dead. I think that's what people do in order to make sense of not having a family member or friend around anymore. You lose them, you grieve.
My mom passed away during the two or so years my sister was gone. She'd heard of my mom passing from a family member who knew where she was. Instead of coming home, she MySpace messaged me through a friend's profile. Her message was full of blame and shame toward us. She asked over and again, "Why didn't you tell me she was sick?" "Why didn't you invite me to the funeral" She threw out curses toward us and all the while was playing a victim of sorts and didn't get that we weren't the ones that left. We'd been here the whole time waiting for her to come back.
About 2 years after my mother passed, she moved back in with my father This was around the time I was moving out. The promise that she made, but never held, was to stay only for 6 months while she found a job. Nearly 5 years later, she still lives with him, is not employed. For 5 years, I've hated her. Her presence in my dad's house has stopped me from coming over. She's mean, she's rude to us, she's cursed at us while there. And, since she's moved in, I've been back twice briefly; sad at thinking of the memories I have of that house and my mom and those last 5 years I got to spend with her living in that house.
I've wished my sister harm, I've wished her jail, I've wished her death - I've thought any would be the best solution for my dad. He deserves not to have to care for an adult child at 70+ years old. And that's what he has to do daily. But, honestly, I think he gets some pleasure out of it or else he wouldn't. "No child of mine will be homeless." He feels he's helped her. And maybe he has.
She's claimed sobriety in the last year and a half, which I've started to see that maybe she has achieved. She started going to a therapist. She started communicating with my oldest sister and my oldest sister started to let her come around her children more and more. My sisters are trying. And still, I held the idea of my younger sister as gone, dead, grieved for, and not coming back. People change, and in my job I see it everyday, but I couldn't let the image of my sister change, even though she obviously was. For me, hearing stories of how she went with my niece to paint pottery are cute novelties. In my mind, I'm narrating, "Sure, what'd she do - steal the pottery afterward for an eight of meth?" But the real story was more G-rated than anything I'd remembered in the last 15 years. Hm.
My sister came to Thanksgiving this year. I heard about it a few days ahead and I didn't know what to make of it. Would she be abusive to us? Would she stomp around huffing at all the typical family activities we would do, like say what we're thankful for? My sister is a good cook, a skill she hasn't lost, but would she openly criticize the food? Would I acknowledge her, or just try to avoid her? Our last interaction was over the phone, where we cursed at each other and I accused her of taking drugs still. She hung up on me. Actually, our last interaction was less direct. I called Adult Protective Services on her for abusing my father financially, emotionally, and maybe physically. After she learned it was me, thanks Dad!, she called my job and spoke to the Chief of Police to accuse me of bringing in marijuana to the state hospital. Nothing ever came of either accusation.
When we arrived to outdoor Thanksgiving, there was a lot of commotion, kids playing, adults assembling the meal on tables and making sure we would have everything we'd need. I didn't see her at first. With all the commotion, she was simply sitting at one of the picnic tables looking straight ahead and seemingly not noticing all the action around her. It took me awhile to figure out what I'd do. I set up my dishes, said hi to a few family and friends, introducing our guest to everyone. When I had nothing left to busy my hands with, I swung around the table to squat low beside her. Quickly, I said "Hi Gina. I'm really glad you came," and I slung my arm around her shoulder and gave her an intentional hug. It was real. And it was nice, but I wouldn't say it was real nice. We swapped a few lines about the dishes we'd brought. "OOh! I'll have to try yours."
At grace, with everyone holding hands, she was nowhere to be found. I assumed she'd gone for a smoke, but when my head was supposed to be down, I kept looking for her. I didn't want her to think we were having grace because she was gone. I wanted her included. Halfway through Jason saying the blessing, I caught sight of her shadow from behind and in front of the RV. Her hair has always been so long and straight, but with body and coarseness that when in motion or when windy it always looked alive and constantly moving. Beautiful. And thankfully remained after years of meth use. I saw the shadow of her hair moving on the ground, she knew we were having grace, but walked the other way for a few more minutes only coming back after we'd started dishing sides.
I ended up sitting near her while eating and again we exchanged quick recipe talk. Food has always meant caring for my sister. When you were sick, she'd offer to make you soup from scratch. Her meals were naturally good. So maybe us talking of food was as close to anything emotional we could have gotten to right then. It was working. It felt comfortable to share how to brine the turkey and braise it. She seemed to like to tell me about her stuffing, it was the best on the table.
My family has a tradition where, about halfway through the meal, we stop to go around to say out loud what we've been and are thankful for. Anxiety for me as I wondered if my sister would feel comfortable doing something like this. Each turn was taken, one by one kids and adults shared heart-felt thanks to wives, husbands, kids, jobs, safety, security. By the time we'd gotten to the end, my sister still hadn't spoken and I'd started to think we should quickly end it to help her not feel uncomfortable if she didn't want to take part. Quick segue to, "Pie anyone?? Who wants a bit more wine?"
My sister spoke not too loudly, or quietly. She said something like, "Oh is it my turn now." She repositioned her plate on her lap and started, "I'm thankful for my family. It's taken me a while, but I'm glad I'm back." In one sentence, forgiveness wasn't necessary anymore. You're here, sister. Now stay.
A few months back, around the time she started taking care of he psychological health, she also began seeing a general practitioner for her physical health. As a 42-year-old woman who hadn't seen regular check-ups in the last 20 years, her doctor ordered routine health exams. The results of her mammogram became a problem. There was something there, something large. Health care for the indigent is different than for others. For some reason that still isn't clear in my mind, follow-up exams weren't done until 5 months later. She went in a few weeks after Thanksgiving and was diagnosed with breast cancer which appears to have metastasized. Radiation, a brief round of chemo are trying to reduce the size of the mass. Surgery. Mastectomy, maybe later.
When my older sister told me what was happening, I started to think immediately of all the times I'd wished her to die. I thought, at that time, it was the easiest solution for my parents to stop having to spend so much time, energy, and emotion into a lost cause. She wasn't productive, cut her loose. Give that attention to your productive children. Jealousy as an adult. Sibling rivalry when you're not a child. It's still there. I keep coming back to the number of times I've cursed her, grieved, all in order to be rid of her. And here she is. She's back from exile in my mind only with the possibility of going away again.
That hug I gave her at Thanksgiving was real. I hope she felt it. I know she's scared. I know she's trying. I even know she must be fighting with herself to not run away from this. To go back to old habits must be tempting. My oldest sister told me she gave my sister some advice, "You should think about stopping smoking." And, at first, I agreed. Yes, treatment compromises your immune system, smoking can lead to chest infections. It all makes sense. But, what would my sister's life be without that last vice, at least. Knowing all the health benefits, I have to say, I would still ride shotgun with her driving somewhere into the night and hand her a lighted Newport.