January 2nd

It's the time of year where traditionally I would gather a collection of little gifts to send to my sister for her birthday. I would include a few gifts from me, some homemade and some bought especially for her. I would include some second hand stuff that I figured she could use and I would include something my daughters made. I would throw in some photos of my family as well. I would collect from mom and anyone else who wanted to send anything. Sometimes I would include a video of all the nieces and nephews, or messages from family members. And I would package it all into one box and mail it to her, hoping it arrives in time for her birthday. Usually I would address it to whatever facility she is staying in, as it was almost always a given she would be in the hospital this time of year. I'd send it knowing well that there was a good chance she wouldn't keep it...she was notorious for eventually losing, breaking, disposing of or giving away most of her possessions. It became more about the thought of the gift. The satisfaction it would bring her to receive this package. The excitement that would bring out the child in her. This thought would bring me back to our childhood days and how the anticipation of opening presents at Christmas was just too much, so she would carefully unwrap or poke a hole in the gift to sneak a peak and then cleverly wrap it back up so that no one would know.

This year I have no parcel to send, nowhere to send it, no sister to send it to. This notion creates a void filled only with pain. A tradition of giving I have no choice but to give up. At least, I tell myself, we are no longer ridden of the worry that accompanies this time of year, aware of her suffering or anticipating the news of her landing in the hospital after a traumatic schizophrenic episode. Her pain is no longer hers, it is now ours as we - her loved ones - carry it in the burden of her absence, her suffering dispersed amongst each one of us to hold. We no longer worry, but we cry for our loss instead. The thought that there will be no phone call on her birthday, expressing her appreciation for the gifts or wishing me to wish her a happy birthday, strikes grief. I can no longer picture her opening this package, sharing it with her hospital family, and receiving the message that she is being thought of, she is important, she is loved.  All we have left behind are the few things she held onto from last year's gift, the photos from the memories of our time together, the paintings she created throughout the years. These things help us to appreciate all she was, but they will never replace what we've lost.

January 2nd marks her 38th birthday. I anticipate this to be a difficult day for me & my family. This will no longer be the day she calls, it has now become the anniversary of our last conversation. The last time I saw her was six months prior to that, and during that period I had been holding onto some resentment which had resulted from a tense conversation left unresolved from our visit last summer. I felt frustrated in her refusal to accept me for who I am, my beliefs, my practices, my parenting, as I felt all I ever did was support her unconditionally. When she called me on her birthday she was very manic and emotional and, as our phone conversations usually went, I could hardly get a word in. She became very expressive. She apologetically brought up the conversation and I was able to confront the reason behind my frustrations. Despite her state, I felt heard and validated, and I was able to let go of the resentment I had been holding onto. This was liberating. She told me that all I ever do is love and accept others unconditionally and expressed how pure my love is. This was a part of myself I struggled to show the world, but she somehow saw it anyway. She always had a way to find another's beauty, no matter how hard they tried to hide it. She told me that she knew I was a very spiritual person, something I am only recently starting to discover, but she knew it then. This conversation left me feeling a lot of things, but the one I remember the most after hanging up the phone, is that I felt understood. This was such a rare feeling for me.

This Christmas my mother crocheted a doll modelled after my sister and gave it to my daughter. This is my most favourite Christmas gift of all, even if it wasn't for me. She wears a nose ring and comes with a frog and the same hat & hair Niki wore when the two of us stayed with her in Kamloops. Scarlett seems to understand how special it is. I've noticed she handles it very differently than her other toys, cradling it carefully as she carries it and gently sets it down with care as if it were alive. Scarlett perhaps is the luckiest of us. Her memories include only good stuff from their time together: Niki's kindness, her inner child, her gentle soul, their shared connection with one another and with nature. These are the memories that she carries around so preciously through this doll.

As I notice the care Scarlett takes in carrying her memory doll from room to room, it occurs to me there is something I can take from this. Perhaps that feeling of being understood that resulted from my final conversation with my sister is a memory worth placing ever so carefully in the crook of my arm and carrying it with me to all the places I go.