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just-an-average-dad · 2 years

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First experience with a MILF part 8

The ceremony had gone quite well. Both Darryl and Katie had shown up and rememvered their vows, the minister was sober and all the ghests had evidently resolved to forever hold their piece. From my vantage point on the altar beside Darryl and Shane I had a fantastic view of Deb.

She was the picture of elegance, wearing a peacock blue dress with a matching fascinator and clutch. Her dress had a choker neckline so there was no cleavage on display but it was tailored to hug the contours of her body so there was no mistaking her impressive 38-28-36 figure. I wondered if any of the guests suspected that the seemingly demure, if well endowed, mother of the bride had spent the weekend getting raw-dogged by the grooms baby brother.

I could see my other wedding weekend sexual partner, Katie's cousin caitlin as well. She looked cute in her unflattering champagne coloured bridesmaid dress. Caitlin was a sweet girl, and she was a very eager and accommodating bedmate. If I had met her the previous week I'd have thought I'd hit the jackpot, but the sex was nothing compared to what I was having with her aunt.

The reception was in full swing. Drink was flowing and guests were mingling and having fun. I was sitting at a table alone off the dancefloor trying to avoid caitlin. I had excused myself to get a drink but she would ve looking for me soon. Thankfully the table and ostentacious centrepiece obscured myappearance from the damcefloor so I was safe for now.

I was looking at my phone when Deb sat beside me. "Hey Jackie, did you enjoy the wedding?" She purred, sipping a glass of white wine. "It was ok, but I was a little distracted at the ceremony." I replied. "Is that so? How come?" She teased. "Well last night my brothers wifes cousin ambushed me with underwhelming sex, then I had the best sex of my life with that girls aunt, then this morning that aunt swallowed two of my loads, let me eat oatmeal off her naked body and fuck her in the shower. It's been an eventful day." I said, yawning mockingly. "Aw poor baby, are the ladies demanding too much of your poor little cock?" She asked. "Less of the 'little' thank you very much." I growled. "You're right, it's not little. It's big and strong and frankly, delicious."

Deb put her hand on my thigh. I looked around nervously. Deb's kids, including my new sister in law, were in the room as well as my entire family. Now might not be the best moment for PDA. "Your hand is dangerously close to my cock." I whispered desperately. She looked at me with hunger in her eyes. "So move it away." She dared me. I gulped. She knew I couldn't do that. "Just keep chatting like normal." she whispered. "No one can see, don't worry." Her dextrous fingers had unzipped my pants and freed my hardening cock before I could say another word.

I glanced around the room nervously as Deb gently pumped her hand up and down. It felt amazing. Her hands were so soft, and the way her acryllic nails dug in to the shaft slightly was just painful enough to be exciting. "Just look at me, baby we're just two adults having a conversation at a wedding reception." She purred. She fished in her clutch with her unoccupied hand for a second before retrieving a small tin of vaseline. Without breaking eye contact with me she opemed the tin one handed and took a generous dab of the lube onto her index finger. Then she discreetly applied it to the palm of her other hand, with was still massagging my cock. I couldn't think any more. This was the best handjob I had ever had. Was there no end to this womans carnal talents?

I tried desperately to look like I was having an engaged conversation with Deb but I could feel myself flushing. My eyes were rolling back with pleasure. She was rubbing the tip with her forefinger, tracing around the edge of my urethra while still massaging the underside with her other fingers. Next she focused on the crease between my head and shaft. I grabbed the table with both hands. I couldn't hold it any more. "Deb... I'm gonna cum..." I whispered through clenched teeth. "Yeah that usually happens..." she teased. Deb looked around surreptitiously. "Just hold on for one second baby." I groaned. After scanning the room carefully, she grabbed her wine glass off the table and positioned it in front of my cock. "Now!" She whispered, still looking around the room to make sure no one had noticed. I let go and a stream of cum shot out of my dick, mixing with the wine in the glass and splashing on the tablecloth behind it. As quick as a flash, Deb raised the glass to her lips and carefully drained it.

I was breathing heavily and trying to put my cock away inconspicuously. This was insane. This woman was an absplute nymphomaniac. I looked at her savouring the taste of my cum at her daughters wedding and I knew I needed to get as much as I could out of her before this weekend was over. We talked for another few minutes before Deb left to mingle. "Do I have cum on my lips?" She asked before she left. I assured her she was all good and I admired her ass as it sashayed away.

I made my way to the bathroom and went into a cubicle. I needed to clear out the pipes after that. I heard a knock on the door. I froze. Surely, she didn't chance following me into the bathroom. God, I hoped she did though. I unlocked the cubicle door expectantly to find Caitlin's smiling face greeting me.

"Hey Jack, I can't stop thinking about last night... wasn't it the best sex you've ever had?" She said breathlessly. "Let's have a repeat performance, huh?" Before I could answer her hand was in my pants, mashing the soft lump that her aunt was expertly caressing less than 15 minutes before. I almost sighed right in her face. "Ok Caitlin, come on in." I said without enthusiasm, making room for her. She beamed as she stepped in to the cubicle. As Caitlin and I had lacklustre sex in that cubicle all I could think about was Deb.

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naturecoaster · 4 years

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I was just Thinking

A tiny item in a section of a newspaper recently invited people to sit on their front porches and socialize, at a distance, with neighbors. I smiled and started reflecting because my favorite space is a porch. It might be because my grandparents, who lived in rural Minnesota, had a semi-wraparound porch where I loved to play. The tire swing my grandpa hung from a nearby tree was always fun, too. But the swing wasn’t a good place to be alone, because you needed someone to give you an occasional push. I don’t remember exactly what I thought about on the porch, but I was very young, so I’m guessing what mischief I could get into next. When there wasn’t a porch where my family lived, steps were always there to sit on. I enjoyed solitude with our dog Buff out on the front steps. Buff could only listened, but he was great company until birds flew by and he just had to chase them. My Nature Coast Porch The porch I have now is really an enclosed lanai, but it is my favorite place to be. It looks out on the back yard and a fence line is about 30 feet away. It is crowded with a variety of trees and bushes. Combine that with my own plants, shrubs, bird feeder and spinning hot air balloon, and I feel like I’m out in the country. The morning ritual is coffee and the newspaper, which only comes twice a week now, and then at least three crossword puzzles (I have a huge book of them). Then, let the day begin.

My morning routine of reading the newspaper, doing a couple of crossword puzzles, and having coffee has stayed the same. Image by Deanna Dammer Kimbrough My morning ritual hasn’t changed but how a day begins and ends during COVID-19 has changed tremendously. Medical appointments have been postponed, travel plans are on hold, non-essential home projects that require professionals must wait, and water aerobics classes have been canceled until further notice. Though our line dance class ladies are starting “dance in the street” sessions. Yeehaw.

Socializing with Social Distancing

People are getting creative and productive. About 100 residents of the golf community where I live started evening golf cart caravans throughout our 29 villages.

An evening golf cart parade through my neighborhood has helped to unite our community. Image courtesy of Deanna Dammer Kimbrough. Neighbors are sitting outside on driveways or lawns reading or listening to music. One friend cleaned and reorganized her closet; another ordered and planted plumeria plants; my sister started re-reading classic novels. My oldest son in Minnesota is helping a friend build a horse shelter and walking a lot (one day he did 16 miles in 8 hours). That same day, I did about half a mile. Hey, I’m older (and wiser).

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay COVID-19 and Procrastination We’ve all heard the adage “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you should do today.” COVID-19 is a breeding ground for procrastination (forgive the hard to avoid pun). I have a kitchen counter strewn with items that I need to sort through and either stow away, donate, or toss. Cleaning products are set out to remind me I need to clean the stovetop because I splattered hot olive oil all over it. (A former supervisor diagnosed me as an “out of sight, out of mind” person.) And iPod, iPhone, and Kindle cords spending so much unsupervised time together they get tangled up. I’ve never understood that cord tangling thing. Maybe a nanny cam could expose how they do it. There are windows that should be washed with my new crystal glass cleaner, promising the windows will be so clean I will think they disappeared. Great, then I’ll accidentally walk into them.

The bird feeder is finally filled, thanks to my limit of procrastination during COVID-19. Image courtesy of Deanna Dammer Kimbrough. Profits and Nonprofits I finally refilled the bird feeder and shredded mailing labels that appear on unsolicited catalogs and charity organizations. I bought a black-out roller and that helps save time and wear and tear on my shredder. Honestly, I wish there was a law that prevented companies from sharing buyer/donator information. There are several non-profits that I support, but some, not all, apparently sell my info. How many stick-on name labels, tote bags, calendars, or pens do I need? I do use the notepads.

Neighbors Deb and Bob enjoying the outdoors. Image courtesy of Deanna Dammer Kimbrough. The Upside to Stay-At-Home There are upsides to this stay-at-home order. My credit card balance is much lower. I am more grateful for PPE (personal protection equipment). The last time I filled my car with gas it was around $1.80 a gallon and the tank has stayed almost full for three weeks. My youngest son in Minnesota said gas in the Minneapolis suburban areas is around $.89 a gallon! There have been fewer robocalls on my home and cell phones. I’m not sure if this is related to the Coronavirus, but I’ll take it. Post-Quarantine Life How will I feel when the quarantine is lifted? Maybe it will be like I felt after Hurricane Irma in 2017. As luck would have it, I was in Minnesota for my grandson’s wedding. But I constantly watched the Weather Channel during that week, watching Irma swirl toward my neighborhood, literally. The minimal damage in my area included a few tree branches on the ground and power outages. Really, really dodged a bullet.

Image by bedrck from Pixabay When I returned home and walked in the front door, I almost cried. Not because there was any damage; but because everything was just as I left it before my trip. I told my friends and family, that if they ever hear me complain about anything in or around my house, just say “Irma”. That should shut me up. There are projects that were put off and I will work hard to get them finished when people are back to work and we can have workers come into our homes while still adhering to a bit of social distancing. Repairs are needed for the garbage disposal, hurricane radio, and golf cart. The items I’m donating to organizations will be delivered. My hair will be trimmed to a manageable length. Water aerobics and line dance classes will resume. The promise I made to myself about getting back out on the golf course will be kept—perhaps. (I have a very small window for playing golf. It can’t be too hot or too cold.) I will travel to Sarasota to visit a friend. I will plan my trip to Minnesota for our family reunion in July. I will do more on-site interviews with photographs for the Nature Coaster! Read the full article

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kootenaygoon · 5 years

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* The following is a tweaked excerpt from the first draft of my memoir Kootenay Goon

So,

The characters kept coming.

After my Obsidian story ran on the cover of the Star, I decided the next character feature had to be about the rooftop gargoyle on Front Street. I drove by him multiple times a day, usually slowing down for a moment to gaze up at his menacing silhouette before continuing on my way. He straddled the steeple of the house, reaching towards the traffic below with hooked claws. From a distance he looked vaguely like Alf, the popular sitcom star from the 80s, but with a distinctly malevolent edge. The orange-hued monster clutched a crystal in one hand and peered downwards with glowing red eyes. If you squinted from afar, you would just be able to make out a pair of thin bull-like horns sprouting from his skull.

“I was thinking I’d go down and knock on that dude’s door,” I told Kevin one day, when I had a hole in my schedule. “See what the deal is with that thing.”

“Oh, I’ve always wondered about that,” said Tamara, turning around with her salad in her lap. “He’s kind of creepy up there, like a demon or something.”

“What’s it made out of?” Kevin asked.

“Bronze?” I said. “Or maybe some other sort of metal?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I wonder what it’s name is. I bet I’m not the only one.”

“I told you it’s in Padma Viswanathan’s book, right? And that book’s starting to win awards. Might be a bit of a tie-in opportunity there.”

“No,” Kevin said, “I want the focus on the gargoyle. Who made it, how long it’s been there, why this guy decided to mount it on his roof. Another Nelson weirdo. Get a bunch of photos, and that’s Page 2 and 3 handled for Friday. You can get it to me by tomorrow at noon?”

“Of course.”

The drive to the gargoyle’s house was only about two minutes, and as I approached the house I noticed a number of other sculptures scattered around the yard and displayed on the roof. A bicycle was being used as a railing. There were lots of hanging vines and big glass windows. When I knocked, I heard a door open below me and a man wandered out on to his patio. He was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt, a baseball cap, and slippers, with a coffee mug steaming in one fist.

“You looking for me?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, I’m from the newspaper,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about the gargoyle.”

He held his hand up to his eyes, squinting in my direction. He grinned. “That’s not a gargoyle, kid. I’m an architect, I should know. Gargoyles have water features. And that up there is more of a chimera, or a grotesque.”

I took a moment to process that. “Well, I was hoping we could talk about your grotesque, then. I told my editor I would find out it’s name.”

“His name is Dorkmyer,” he said. “Stay right there, I’ll come get you.”

The architect introduced himself as Mike Hames, and he turned out to be an enthusiastic host. Artwork was crowded on every wall of his house, and the main floor had an open cliff face with a burbling waterfall. It was quirky, and colourful, and quintessentially Kootenay. Mike began loudly telling stories, punctuated by bad puns and uproarious laughter, then beckoned me downstairs into his dungeon. After leading me past a swinging wall, he sat me down at a glass table and settled his hands on his rounded stomach.

“So, what do you want to know?”

For ten minutes I interviewed Mike, picking up one priceless quote after the next. Transcribing it the next day I kept having to fast forward through the laughter.

“I always wanted something on top of the turret there,” he said. “I had a piece of aluminum flashing, which was a little understated, I thought. I wanted something people would laugh at, enjoy. I never thought about the implications of dressing him up for occasions, but that worked out great.”

So far I’d seen Dorkmyer in a hockey jersey, wearing a cowboy hat, and in a cyclist outfit, complete with a helmet. These days he was holding a sign that said Deb Kozak for Mayor. The election was coming up, and Hames was no Dooley fan. (“Dooley’s no fun,” he said.) It was sometimes precarious, successfully maneuvering up there to dress his creation, but he said it was worth the risk. Kept the heart pumping.

“One of my friends calls him my Ken doll,” he said. “He’s a real asshole.”

When I asked about why he enjoys decorating his house in this particular way, he shrugged. “I’m manic, I guess. God, what do you call it? Nuts.”

He then explained to me that Dorkmyer was the work of local sculptor John Mckinnon, who had several pieces on display around town, including sculptures in Lakeside Park, by the Hume Hotel and in front of the pool. Dude was world-renowned. Hames had commissioned Dorkmyer in 2011, just as he was feeling like the rest of his house was coming to completion design-wise. He was a long-time friend and fan of Mckinnon, and the pair decided it was one of those projects they simply had to do.

“I got to that point where the last thing to do was put the tiara on the tower. So I called up John and we laughed and giggled. Talked about the profound and the not-so-profound. He made a model and I let him go. He skied Dorkmyer up there with his son Patrick, put him on skis and pulled him up on my roof,” he said.

“I finally made something worthy to set John’s art on. I’m the pedestal, he’s the art.”

Hames first moved to Nelson, and into his house, in 1978. He made most of his money, as he puts it, “working as a carpenter, in the pit of despair”. His household hobbies helped keep him sane through the years.

“It took me 35 years to see with my eyes what I saw in my head,” he said. He’s ultimately settled on the name “Dalice house”, which is a combination of Alice in Wonderland and Salvador Dali. “I’ve built a lot of houses, but this is my passion.”

Hames received routine interest in his grotesque, sometimes from unexpected places. He had a number of pieces of art inspired by Dorkmyer hung proudly on his walls. Some German woodworkers swung by to inquire about the sculpture, which was constructed out of welded steel, because it appeared to be wooden from a distance.

“One guy goes ‘hey, you got a monkey on your roof’. I said no, the monkey’s on my back. The chimera’s on the roof,” Mike said, standing on his roof with me, looking up at his monster.

“You’ve gotta do something. I’ve got a house. This is what I do.”

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sassyshortstack · 7 years

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I had a random flashback again today. It came out of nowhere. They got better - or rather fewer - this fall, and now it feels like they’re seeping back. They don’t last as long as they used to, but they’re just as real and even more jarring. When they come, my breath stops and I don’t realize it until my brain lands back in the present and I remember to breathe.

So, I’m going to sift through the memories in the hopes that writing about them will help keep the disturbing flashbacks at bay more. TW: cancer, death, grief, suicidal thoughts.

My sister Rebecca died on August 25, 2016. I watched it happen. But in many ways, I still don’t believe it.

On New Year’s Eve 2015, she was diagnosed with Stage IV cervical carcinoma and metastatic lung nodules. Which basically means she had a giant tumor in her uterus, and it had spread enough to cause damage to her lungs before we knew. She underwent chemotherapy and radiation for the following eight months. In the summer of 2016, she had to use an oxygen tank way too fucking often. Then one night in August, a week before she died, she started having sudden chest pain. My mom and I drove her to the ER. When they took her back to one of those terrible half-open ER rooms, with mattresses that are way worse than even the ones in my college dorms, I was with her. The nurse asked what pain level she was feeling on a scale of 1 to 10, and she managed to get out “Eight.” Somebody told my mother that Rebecca had a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in the lung). Later that night, I asked my mom what that meant, and she told me just that - “it’s a blood clot in the lung” - but I didn’t really understand what it meant until days later.

My dad came to the hospital from the meeting he’d been at when we first brought my sister to the ER. He called my brother, who was several states away, to book a flight to come home right now, and in the back of the mind I realized that wasn’t a good thing. But I wasn’t scared. I knew my sister was stronger than this disease. I knew she’d make it. I just knew.

I wasn’t really scared until three nights later, when Dad, Andrew, and I were asleep (sort of) at home and Mom was at the hospital overnight. She called my dad at three in the morning to say Rebecca was having trouble breathing and being admitted to the ICU, and we needed to come right away. We all threw on clothes, jumped into the car, and sped off. I could feel my heart thumping so hard it was trying to escape my chest, as if my system beating harder and faster would help keep her alive too. We half ran into the ICU, and I was so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like that. I was standing on a sheer cliff of terror, ringing in my ears, my head spinning, so scared that she would be gone and I wouldn’t be there for her. My sister, my best friend in the whole world, my soulmate and guardian and inspiration and dearest love.

When we finally made it through security and all the fluorescent, sterile-smelling hallways and arrived in her room, I was relieved to see my sister alive - and then I saw our pastor standing there. Anger like I had never known pumped through me. Why the hell is she here? Rebecca isn’t dead. She shouldn’t be here, we don’t need her. I tried to push the fury aside. I played the part when she asked us to pray together, when she blessed my sister, when she read from the Bible. But inside, I was full of rage. Stop treating my sister like she’s dead. She’s right here, and she’s going to be fine. Fuck off.

And in some ways, I was right. Rebecca made it through the night. The scariest night of my life. I hated seeing her with that stupid bag under her oxygen mask, to help her breathe better. Seeing her with the oxygen tube so often earlier in the summer had been bad enough, but the mask was somehow so much worse. But she made it through the night. And the sun rose through the big glass windows by her bed, where I was perched in a chair. It was a stunningly beautiful sunrise - the sky morphed from a deep slate blue to all hues of pink and orange. I was the one sitting in the room with her when the sun came up - we were holding hands and not talking much. She nodded outside the window. “Look.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

At some point, one of the doctors came in to talk about their next steps, and although I don’t remember what exactly he said, he was basically telling us she’d be able to do outpatient radiation again in a couple days. My family kept saying that was good news, but I was confused and had this inexplicable bad, twisted feeling in my gut. I don’t know how I knew, but I just knew that he was wrong. If she was going to be better so soon, why did she still have to use that stupid oxygen mask? Why were we still in the ICU? I still knew deep down she’d make it, but I also knew that it wasn’t going to go the way he said it was. I felt totally spaced out. Looking back, that day - her first day in the ICU - was when the deep shock really started to settle in. We’d had tons of visitors every day she’d been in the hospital, and there were even more that day, including cousins, old teachers, church friends, work friends, and some people I hadn’t seen in years. In retrospect, that really should have been a warning to me. That night, our family friends made my mom leave the hospital instead of spending the night with her, which my brother, dad, and I were incredibly grateful for. They also made my brother and me leave to do something fun that evening.

I still just felt so wrong. I knew my sister would survive this, but I also knew the radiologist was wrong. I was moving and talking and hearing other people talk to me, but I was totally not in my own skin. We’d had tickets to see the Royals game that night, and I didn’t really want to go, but our family friends kept saying we needed to get out and do something, so Andrew, my Aunt Deb, Amanda (my cousin closest to my age, and who I’m closest with in my extended family), and I all went to the game. I was in the backseat behind Andrew, who was driving, and he and Aunt Deb were mainly the ones talking on the long drive to the stadium. I kept hearing their words float by me without totally connecting them. But then my aunt started talking in a way that suggested she was worried, that she was on the verge of tears, that she was scared for my sister. She said she wanted her to sign a fabric square for a quilt she was making my parents just in case. Dimly, I felt annoyed and angry again. Why did people keep doubting my sister? She already battled and overcame so much. She already made it through depression, and she was going to kick cancer in the ass. Why did no one seem to have faith in her but me?

And then one phrase in particular stuck out to me. “If indeed Rebecca does pass away.”

My breath seized up. It felt like iron weights were crashing around my ears and weighing down my chest, creating a racket and suppressing my airstream all at once. The world was disappearing. All that existed was the terrible noise and the horrible weight and the sickeningly blurred trees and buildings outside my window.

No one had told me.

No one had told me my sister was in danger of dying.

And that’s how I found out. Through an aside, in a car, on the way to a fucking baseball game.

And I still haven’t been able to forgive my parents for that.

The next day, everything got worse - but I somehow didn’t feel worse. I just felt empty. Dazed. I remember my aunt and uncle making my brother and me gluten free funfetti pancakes (my aunt had amusingly but very unintentionally bought the funfetti rather than regular box at the store without realizing) with big, ripe blueberries. I remember my sister’s regular doctor coming to talk to us. I couldn’t process what she was saying. It was like I could see her mouth moving, hear that there were words spilling out, but I couldn’t understand her. Like she was speaking another language I used to know, but I just couldn’t remember a lot of the words anymore. She sounded almost angry. I was confused. I think she was pissed at the radiologist who had been there the day before and told us a plan that would never come to fruition. My mother looked scared, but I was just lost. I had known, I had felt yesterday, that the other doctor was wrong, and it seemed like that was what Rebecca’s primary doctor was saying now. But I still knew she’d be fine.

Then the word “hospice” made it through the fog in my brain.

I didn’t understand at first, but gradually I realized. She was going to be transferred to a hospice house. Later that day, at home, I asked my mom what that meant. She said with tears in her eyes that they take people there who they think have less than a week to live. I think I cried a little with her, but deep down, I was still hopeful. I still knew she’d make it. She always had, after all. The hospice house was for old people who have lived their lives, not twenty-five-year-olds with so much left. She still had a chance.

That night, my other aunt - the one who got the funfetti pancakes - was taking her daughter Amanda and my brother and me to their house for the night. On the way there, it was suggested we get ice cream, so we stopped at a Freddy’s Frozen Custard. We all ordered ice cream, and laughed together about how this was the most productive feelings-eating session there had ever been. It’s amazing what good food and good family can do for the soul. I didn’t feel so alone all of a sudden. About two bites into our ice cream, Amanda started making a big production of wanting fries too to really complete the whole eat-our-feelings thing. She was being her funniest, Amanda-est best, standing up and running to the counter to get a large order of fries. The half hour or so we spent there, laughing and talking over the saddest fries and ice cream in the world, was oddly perfect. It was the most I’d felt like me all week.

The next morning, they moved her to the hospice house. It was a Wednesday. And since it was August in Kansas City, it was hot and humid and disgusting. I’ve never liked summer, but the summer of 2016 has given me eternal fuel for hatred for the season.

The hospice house was cozy and filled with love and prayers from many volunteers and former visitors. And I hated it. I hated the word “hospice,” which I hadn’t really heard or read since my grandpa died years ago. I hated the butterfly logo, the ornate carpet, the dimly lit rooms. More than anything in the world, I hated the smell. I can’t describe it, but it still fills my nostrils whenever I have panic attacks or flashbacks. It was totally different from the terrible sterility of the hospital, and different from any smell of any other house or home I’ve ever set foot in. It was all wrong, and strange.

Rebecca had so many visitors that day. We gave her a quilt square and a Sharpie to write her name, or to draw something. She was such a good artist. But she kept falling asleep. Why is she falling asleep? She kept starting to write something, and managed to get out a block letter A and little else. A? Why A? She kept falling asleep trying to write even one word. And I still don’t know what it was going to be.

Not long after that, she started to sleep. And not long after that, she was slipping out of consciousness. Visitor after visitor came to sit by her, talk to her, but she was fast asleep. At some point, I took a break to walk around the hospice house garden. My aunt gently suggested calling a friend from St. Olaf. So I asked Ellen if we could talk, and she was happy to help. I paced around the garden, restlessly going by flower after flower, for once not scared of the bees. It was sunny and bright, and thanks to a breeze, not excessively warm in the shade of the trees. There were spinning wind sculptures amidst all the plants. I paused in front of a clump of yellow roses. Ellen had given me a yellow rose when my grandfather died. I stared at them as I told her what was happening. She just kept saying how sorry she was, and how it sucked, and how she wanted to help me any way she could. I told her, truthfully, that she was helping. (Side note: And she still does, every day. We are roommates. On the one year anniversary of my sister’s death, she kept me company half the night when I couldn’t sleep.)

I went back inside. I talked with people. Lots of them. They all looked at me like it was hard to face me. I couldn’t fully understand why. If anyone could make it through this, it was my sister. And no one seemed to know it but me. One of the hospice house nurses came to tell us they thought it would be soon now. But I just didn’t understand.

Evening came, and so did a storm. Rain started pattering against the windows at about the same time darkness fell. Late in the evening, at around nine o’clock, it turned into a real thunderstorm. Lightning was crashing outside, and inside, dozens of our friends and family - at least thirty people - were crowded inside the room. I don’t remember who first suggested it, but somehow, it came up that we should sing. My family - and many of our friends - are very musical, especially my parents, brother, sister, and me, and many of us were raised in the Lutheran church. So somehow, someone suggested we sing a hymn, and my brother started us off. A few of us looked up the lyrics on our phones, and within a few bars, the singing was full and strong. And then someone suggested another song. And another. And another. Sometimes, there would be a pause in between, and other times someone would just start singing a new hymn right away after the last one. I preferred no silence, because my sister was having more and more trouble breathing, and it was agonizing listening to her. So I was singing and singing, full and rich, not even having to hold back tears, overflowing with the music, helping lead the song. After a while, in the back of my mind, I wished we could do a Christmas song, but I was worried people would think it odd if I brought it up. But not a minute after this wish popped into my head, one of my little cousins asked my brother if we could sing “Silent Night.” It made me really and truly happy - and not just because I have the mind of an eight-year-old. We kept singing and singing (including a couple more Christmas carols, but mostly other hymns), and strange as it seems now, it felt totally natural.

All in all, we sang for two hours. And we only really stopped because a nurse came by shortly after eleven to tell us that there was going to be a tornado warning in the county, and now might be a good time for visitors who needed to return home to do so before the storm got worse. So, most people left. Only my aunt and uncle, and three of our really close friends who might as well be related to us by now, stayed. They all went with the nurses to a chapel inside the hospice house, which had more cover from a potential tornado than my sister’s room. The nurses told my parents, Andrew, and me that we were welcome to stay with Rebecca unless there was a tornado coming our way, at which point they would come get us.

So we stayed. We decided each of us would be by her side in shifts while the others slept still in the room. My parents were with her first; I planted myself on the couch and Andrew took the rollaway cot. I couldn’t sleep anyway - not that he really could either. When my parents were ready to trade, he told me quietly to try and sleep. I nodded. I rummaged through my bag to see if I had brought my iPod, and was hugely relieved to see I had. With a blanket wrapped around me in a chair near Andrew, I put the headphones in my ears and sifted through songs to make a playlist, trying to bring some semblance of comfort or sleep. I was looking through music for quite a while, partially because I was half listening to Andrew reading my sister books - Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. She was a preschool teacher, and those were two of her favorite books in the whole wide world. I loved and hated seeing him read to her like that. Then he told me he was going to try and find our family friends. I said okay, and moved into the chair beside her. My parents were asleep. It was just her and me.

I moved the chair closer, so that I could hold her hand. We held hands all the time, so I knew the shape and warmth of her hands well. So it frightened me out of my wits when I took her hand and this time, it was icy cold. I felt a shock of panic course its way through me, but shook it off. I had to be with her. She needed me. I swallowed and took a deep breath. Then I took out my phone and started to read. An Awesome Book of Love.

The words fell from my mouth, staggering a little at first, but gradually with a rhythm.

...But we aren’t all of those things - you’re you and I’m me. And we’re as together as together can be. And you know I’m aglow with a smile on my face When I wonder what magic you’ll make of this place - Of this town, of this world. You’ll transform your surroundings! That spirit inside you is truly astounding...

I started to crumble a little. The words came slower and slower. But I had to keep going. I squeezed her hand tighter, willing warmth to flow it, willing her breathing to ease. Her breaths were coming too slowly, and it terrified me to my core. I’d never heard anyone breathe like that. I wanted her to feel better. I continued on.

...I love you! I love you! In so many ways - Over thousands of years, over billions of days...

Tears were falling rapidly. This book meant so much to me, and the words were so perfect for how I felt about her, Rebecca, my sister, my sunshine. Dimly, I realized a nurse had quietly walked in. I kept reading. It was one o’clock in the morning, and I was tired and scared and confused and crying a little, but I kept reading. I glanced at the words, but mostly I looked at her face, her long eyelashes - which had managed to grown back even longer than they had been before all that chemo - resting on her cheek.

...I love you! When I’m holding your hand, When you’re making a plan, When you’re thinking a thought, When you’re dancing a dance.

And then...I stopped. Because the world had stopped.

She was gone.

I had watched her last breath. I had held her hand for the last time. I was the last one to see her alive. I saw her die.

I fell apart.

I started crying like I’d never cried before. My parents woke up, realizing what had happened. My brother came back, and I remember us all hugging. I couldn’t stop crying. I was splitting at the seams. I was going to die. I wanted to die. I didn’t want to be in a world that my sister wasn’t a tangible, living part of. Andrew took me out to the living room, guided me to a surprisingly comfortable couch. I curled up on one end of it, just like I do at home, while he went to get the rest of our family. I cried like I’d never cried before.

After a few moments, I pulled out my phone and texted my St. Olaf friends. It was the middle of the night, so I was surprised to get a reply from my close friend Brenna. She had been sending me links to songs throughout the week as I updated her on everything going on. That night, she sent me “No One is Alone” from Into the Woods. It was beautiful and sad and perfect.

A little while later - I have only some dim memories of my family friends coming back from the chapel - Andrew and I ended up on the couch together, with all the adults in the room. We talked. And it occurred to me that this was the last day the three of us would ever be together. Now it would just be Andrew and me. We hugged for a long, long time, and I cried and got snot all over his shirt. Eventually, he got up gently to make us both green tea and get out a box of gluten free crackers. I hadn’t even realized I was hungry or thirsty until he did that. It was still raining outside, but it wasn’t storming so hard anymore.

At around half past three, we all left. Andrew and I went back to my aunt and uncle’s once more, and although I tried to be quiet, I woke up my cousin when I climbed into her bed. She looked at her phone, saw the texts from her parents, and wrapped me in a warm, comforting hug. So many people held me while I cried that night, but she was the one who made me laugh. The storm had picked back up by the time we got to their house, and when a huge streak of lightning, followed quickly by a loud crack of thunder, split the air, we both laughed a little.

“Rebecca must be throwing a party up there,” she said hoarsely.

I laughed. “Yeah.”

That week, and especially the night Rebecca died, has changed me forever, but I’ve grown enough to know now that this shitty experience hasn’t ruined me. It’s not the ending of my story, even though I still sometimes wish it was - and it’s sure as hell not the end of her story either. She lives on in me, and in so many other people - our family and friends, her music, even her preschool students. And even though I still find myself, like that night, sobbing in agony, or feeling empty and lonely and totally wrung out, or wishing the world would end or at least go away...I also find myself, like that night, surrounded by love more times than I can count.

She was always so full of love. Overbrimming. And I have been, too.

I still am.

- - -

I’d still love you no matter what sense it would make. I’d love you whenever, whatever it takes. I’d love you no matter, cause you’re you and I’m me - Together forever, in love as can be. - An Awesome Book of Love, Dallas Clayton

#sibling loss #My writing #grief #loss #grief and loss #cancer sucks #fuck cancer #sister loss #sisterlove #i love my sister #one year later

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