My older sister died earlier this month.
Thanks to the dynamics of an extremely dysfunctional family, we had been estranged for more than 30 years. I had no desire to communicate with her and she had no desire to communicate with me, yet — for me — there was a quiet comfort in knowing of her presence here on this earth.
So finding out about her death shook me more than I care to admit.
And in true, Neal-style, dysfunctional tradition, I found out about her death by reading a rather vague post on a relative’s Facebook page, with the news confirmed when Penny was mentioned by name on someone else’s Facebook page.
In mourning the death of my sister, I don’t mourn what was but rather what could have been.
We were a family of five children raised in a loveless household. Because of a 20-year span between oldest and youngest, the five of us never lived together. The oldest two — both now deceased — were out of the house and in the military and college when the youngest was born. I was the fourth child and nine years older than the fifth. I moved out when I was 18 and the “baby” of the family spent many years essentially as an only child.
Speaking for myself, I moved out at 18 looking for an emotionally better place. At that point, I had had an entire lifetime of hearing how worthless I was, how I would never amount to anything, how no one else would ever have me, how I’d have no where else to go.
I figured no matter where I landed, it couldn’t be any worse. As it turned out, friends just 10 years older took me in and let me get settled and started in the local community college, something my own mother was dead set against.
I can only assume Penny got the same treatment growing up but I cannot and will not speak for her. But I know from experience that I grew up in a household where girls were worthless pieces of crap and boys walked on water.
But even the boys left and at some point, after tiring of trying to keep some semblance of a family unit held together, just stopped keeping in touch.
It is somewhat ironic that it was Penny who moved back in with our mother in adulthood and lived her last thirty years in the house I couldn’t wait to get out of.
Some next generation family members developed meaningful relationships with Penny, which does my heart good.
Penny was intelligent, had a wicked sense of humor, was a talented artist and photographer and was generous to a fault. If you were her friend, you knew it and if you were on her shit list, you knew it.
I mourn that my relationship with the older sister whom I admired and looked up to for so many years ended the way it did, and I often wondered how it could have turned out differently; what each of us could have done differently back in the days when perhaps the relationship could have been repaired.
But I also know that walking away from the toxicity of the relationship more than 31 years ago was the healthiest thing to do for me.
I sincerely hope Penny is at peace. And I hope that those who loved her and mourn her find comfort in their memories of her.
