Sisters – From Scourge to Sentinel

If my story can save just one life...

My previous entries have already established that my older sisters were two of the biggest tormentors of my childhood years and often the bane of my existence. Had you told me when I was seven (and Mom quite likely did) that my sisters would become two of my best friends, I would have scoffed for days. How could these two people, who then caused me so much sibling suffering, ever be my willing confidantes? But of course that’s exactly what happened. 

Oh, I saw signs of it even back then. When an older boy pushed me into a busy street (busy by small town standards, which means not really that busy at all) I cried to Cheryl, who then traveled to his house, knocked on his door and promptly punched him in the nose. When she followed up with “That’s for my baby sister!” he protested, “But I don’t even know your sister!” It turned out the pushing perpetrator was actually his brother, who still lived at home with their parents. 

Oops!

On another occasion that I sometimes think of as Slapocalypse ‘79 (although I’m kind of muddy on the dates now) I was involved in a verbal altercation with a neighborhood friend who was about two years older than I. Her closing argument came in the form of a slap to my face, and Kenna immediately and instinctively returned the infraction. This earned Kenna a slap in the face from the girl’s older sister (who was Kenna’s age and one of her closest friends.) It was a retaliatory wallop-fest of epic proportion.

Kenna later taught me how to fight by holding a pillow in front of her and instructing me on how to properly punch. I never actually put that information to practical use, except for the one time I repaid Kenna for the lessons by bloodying her nose. I was the perfect pest of a little sister, and I fully earned my moniker of Paula the Pest.

Back then I filed these events under “Obligations” but now I realize that my sisters didn’t defend me because they had to; they did it because no matter how much we fought each other, we had a familial bond that nothing could break. As we grew up, that familial bond transitioned into friendship. The fights diminished in frequency and intensity, and our time together was harmonious more often than it was confrontational. 

In the summer of 2005 I was recently divorced, raising two children, and working full-time. My son had driving school, my daughter had swimming lessons, and I had no babysitter. I don’t recall who presented the idea, but Cheryl came to my rescue by spending the summer with me. She made sure the kids got to their respective activities, she cleaned and cooked, and we spent ten nights (and days on weekends) undertaking a marathon TV series viewing party for two. We talked late into the nights and discussed things with one another that we had never before shared. I imagine we occasionally got on one another’s nerves, but I honestly don’t remember now. What I do remember now is that my sister gave up her own life for an entire summer because I needed help. There aren’t many people in this world who would do such a thing, but my sisters are on the short list of those who will, and have.

As I write this, the date has changed over to June 8, 2012. This date marks six years since I took a temporary leave from work to have major abdominal surgery for a total hysterectomy and appendectomy. Once again I found myself in a jam with my status of single parenthood, a reduced income and a seriously limited physical condition. I could barely transition between sitting and standing for the first several days. I was prohibited from driving, vacuuming, lifting, bending, and essentially anything that didn’t involve sitting or slowly walking. Once again I had a sister come to my rescue. Kenna drove to the city the night before my surgery, took me to the hospital the next morning and chauffeured back home three days later. She spent ten days away from her job and her family to see me through the first days of my recovery.

Kenna was invaluable those first several days. She performed the cleaning tasks that I could not yet undertake. She cooked meals for me and made sure I took my medication on time. She took me to the grocery store and doctor appointments and other random places just so I could get out of the house. She endured the emotional insanity I experienced due to my sudden and instant menopausal condition, which on more than one occasion involved openly sobbing and hysterically laughing at the same time for no reason whatsoever. She even helped me change the dressing and secure the band around my incision site, which came dangerously close to a place that family members should not be exposed to beyond your diapering years. I was essentially helpless and unstable, but Kenna made all that bearable. 

The past two years I have encountered many moments of grief that made me long for those helpless and unstable days. I would gladly go through that again to have her back. It all seems so minor in comparison to the nightmare she faced and the emotional chaos that was the result of her absence from this world.

Her ten day stay with me six years ago marks a conversation of monumental importance; one that would change my life forever although, as is often the case with such significant moments, I did not realize that at the time. It was a few days after I had returned home from the hospital and we were alone in the house. We were sitting in my living room talking and she told me she had a lump that was sort of in her armpit. I replied that I occasionally got those too, that they would be sore for a few days and then go away. They were lymphatic cysts, harmless and temporary, or at least they were in my case. “It’s probably nothing. Y’know, get it checked for your peace of mind, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” We didn’t have a family history of breast cancer and Kenna was only 38 at the time. It didn’t sound any warning bells in my head, and I likely wouldn’t even remember the conversation six years later if not for the fact that the thing I thought was “probably nothing” turned out to be everything.

Kenna didn’t go to the doctor about the lump that was sort of in her armpit for another year. I had no idea it was even still there until people in my family started talking in hushed tones about mammograms and ultrasounds and biopsies. I began to worry. I’d never had a lymphatic cyst that bothered me for more than a few days, but Kenna’s issue had been present for over a year. And I’d told her it was “probably nothing” because I didn’t want to freak out over it and worry her, and I honestly believed it was “probably nothing.”

I don’t like to play the blame game. It is a dangerous road to travel upon and it changes nothing for my family. I can’t bring Kenna back by wondering what would have been different had I urged her to go to the doctor instead of presuming that it was “probably nothing.” But I can change the course for someone else’s “probably nothing” that might get pushed to the back burner until it is too late. A month before Kenna died as a result of her “probably nothing” there was another hospital stay, only this time the roles were reversed and I was at her bedside instead of her at mine. I remember her telling me, “If my story can save just one life…” 

That is why I tell her story. 

If you notice anything different in your body, by all means freak out. Go to the doctor. Have it checked. Get a second opinion. Get a third. I hope that you are a true case of “probably nothing.” But it’s always better to be safe than sorry. Whatever is keeping you from seeing a medical professional, whether it’s not having the time or the money, or the prospect of having to wait for hours in a room full of sick people, or the fear that something may be seriously wrong, those reasons all pale in comparison to having to sit down with your loved ones and see the grief on their faces and the terror in their eyes when you tell them “I have terminal cancer.” If you can’t do it for your own health, please do it for them.

Take it from someone who knows.