I decided to write my sister a letter - as though she could read it. I just wanted to do a tribute for her. I recently attended a "Day of the Dead" celebration at Hollywood Forever Cemetary - fabulous shrines. Since my grandparents are buried there I had a chance to visit their graves as well. Not only the "famous" are at Hollywood Forever Cemetary. I feel that attending this ancient tradition allowed me to get more in contact with all that happened - and in the process - released some memories that were both painfully sad - and extremely happy. Just wanted to share with all of you who prayed for her when she was so ill - and offered me so much support. The picture attached is a picture I have posted on this board before but it relates to one of the paragraphs.
“TO MY SISTER, LUCIA”
Dear sis:
Etched in my early memory archives is the day that our friend, Joe, gave us a ride on his new motorcycle. FINALLY, we had an ultra-cool friend! That night, after dinner, we excitedly told Dad, who simply glared at us, and took a long drag on his Camel cigarette. So much for ultra-cool friends.
I remember, as we grew older, Dad renting an RV, and taking the family to San Francisco, in 1967, the height of the “Summer of Love”, to “see the hippies”. Being a history teacher he saw this event as exactly that, and that it was vital that we be exposed to this new sub-culture, not be sheltered from it as mom would have preferred. I remember us staring at people walking down the Haight-Ashbury District, seeing all the street merchants, their colorfully woven “God’s Eyes”, pipes, incense, tie-dyes, and smoking paraphernalia haphazardly spread on the sidewalks, their bloodshot and half-asleep eyes anxiously meeting ours. Women strutting the latest fashion of nothing but body paint, so well done it fooled the cops. The pungent smell of pot mixed with nearby fresh donuts from bakeries. Loud music of the Doors, Vanilla Fudge, Hendrix, Strawberry Alarm Clock and Janis Joplin blared from the Golden Gate Park. Mom was stunned. Dad was mesmerized and we wondered if all this would be still around by the time we reached 16. It was, and for several years after.
I remember your wedding day and driving you to the Queen Mary ship to help you get dressed. Everyone was so very happy for you and I remember telling you, “I bet you have at least eight kids” and your response: “You’re cracked sis” and we both couldn’t stop laughing. I remember driving that day in my 1970 Triumph GT6 and you telling me, “You need to get another car sis, this one is scary, it’s so low to the ground I can see the gravel on the road”.
I remember the sheer panic deep in my stomach when you told me of your diagnosis of sarcoma and the harsh prognosis of this rare and little-researched type of cancer. How you told me, “No matter what happens to me Valerie, I will be OK and it will be OK” and I couldn’t believe you were acting like you weren’t scared senseless. I thought you were unreasonably calm and I couldn’t figure out why and I still don’t know.
I remember the day before your scheduled amputation how, for some reason, I wanted to take “one final picture of my sis before she lost her foot or leg” or whatever they planned to remove but I never told you that was the real reason I wanted your picture. You posed for me, with a genuine smile, a fearless smile, knowing what was to come in the morning, smiling with your cat, Jasper, the only medicine that ever really worked for you, the only medicine that made you feel whole again.
I remember when your cancer was steadily progressing and you’d tried it all: chemotherapy, radiation, experimental treatments, and experienced nothing but pain, non-stop vomiting, test result disappointments and depilating side effects and through it all you enjoyed Christmas at our house, special gatherings, occasional trips and perhaps your favorite event, and the one where you seemed like your “old self”, Mom’s 80th birthday party – through it all you kept insisting: “No matter what happens to me, I’ll be OK”.
I remember holding your hand during an especially rough chemotherapy session and how you said you couldn’t stop vomiting and how you finally told the nurse, “disconnect this I’m not doing this anymore” but how, several weeks later, you did just that.
I remember holding your head close to me when you died and how my tears fell all over your face and how quiet the room was and there was an electric candle I’d lit for you and I thought, “You don’t need the oxygen anymore sis, now I can light a real candle” and that thought enabled me to release you from my grasp. You loved candles so very much. I remember cutting off a piece of your hair because I wanted to keep a “piece” of you and I wondered if you’d mind because your hair was always so important to you.
I remember the surrealistic feeling I had when I walked into the mortuary chapel and, for a few timeless moments, I couldn’t believe you’d died. You looked more like a picture, one-dimensional, framed in dark red roses. Please sis, you are still alive in my genes and in my blood, you aren’t really dead – then I saw the faces of those that loved you, respected you, lived with you and I stared at you again and we were back at those teenage parties, dancing under those darn black lights that lit up rock posters and our underwear, downing Tequila and playing that crazy game of “Simon”, we’re in Las Vegas, swimming in the hotel pool and ordering room service of all junk food while our parents gambled, camping in Sequoia and screaming when a bear rummaged outside for that bacon you accidentally left on the picnic table and we’re on the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland, and you’re yelling at me, “stop turning the damn wheel, we’re going too fast”, and I’m laughing my head off.
I will always remember you – I love you so very much my precious, precious Lucia. Please wait for me and, as you promised me, be there for me when my time to leave this Earth comes.
Valerie
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