The Order of Things

The news is the worst -- the phone call you don't know is coming, but somehow always dread all the same. This is no -- hey here's what's happening, don't worry call -- this is devasting.

The wife is a wife, devasted with the news of her husband. She is no longer, not at this time, the mother -- she only has room for the fear, the grief, the unexpected news. She cannot bear to tell them about their father.

The task then, is left to the daughter. There are four sisters to inform, four conversations, four sets of questions, the reality to explore, time and time and time and time again. To relive the fear, the dread, the disbelief -- not once or twice -- four times is necessary. It is left to the one -- always the one.

The response is the same, question, disbelief, the tears, the fears. And the questions, always the questions. On the other end, holding collapse, thinking inward, sobbing. It can't be.

The one last question -- "are you OK". But you can't ask, she says. The task takes complete shut down -- there will be time later for that, for the sobbing, the emotions the others are allowed. Not now. There are calls to make, a mother to shield. Later, always later.

Much is said about birth order. In a family of five sisters we are always quick to point out how the others had it so easy -- but of course we each had it so hard. There is a first and a last, typically defined. And then the middle. Traits vary, are hard to define and vary by order within the order. Flexible. Diplomatic. Rebellious. Attention Seeking. Competitive. Peacemakers.

Debbie is the "number 2" daughter. In many ways she is the "matriarch" of the sisters. Someone has to keep the order! I remember when I was a little one, always pushing the limits, always getting in trouble. This time it was running into the road (throwing caution to the wind in a literal sense!). Riding by on her bicycle, yelling at me to stay in the yard as instructed -- no -- I wouldn't listen! She finally had to yank me back to the yard, out of the road. Unfortunately my shoulder had a tendancy to pop out of the socket -- one yank and that did it. To the Dr. Mom and I went -- a familiar trek that would happen time and time again. This time it wouldn't go back in -- pondering options the doctors voted to take lunch and come back and try again. If it didn't work surgery was the next step. Whew -- it worked.


Debbie frequently got the task of watching us younger ones -- Debbie was 11 when I was born. Tough to be 11 and have so much responsibility thrown at you, the joys of a large family. Diplomatic. Peacemaker. Attention Seeking. All that leading to streaks of Rebellion.

11 years older than me -- so I don't recall alot of her during my "growing up years" -- certainly not as a sister. As we grew older (Debbie being much older of course!) Debbie married, had children, presented the "five generations" pictures, and later had grandchildren. All in all she provided our parents 4 grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren. All of the big events are held at her beautiful house and garden including all of the holidays. At Christmas I typically sit on the stairs -- the commotion can be a bit much for someone not quite used to all of that.

The home is full of love, all of the special occasions come complete with great food to match the environment. Always willing to be the hostess, sharing her home with the extended family. Sharing all she has, quietly quelling the invariable disputes, misunderstandings. Flexible. Attention Seeking. Competitive. Peacemaker.

When Dad died in some ways Debbie suffered twice. Always close to Mom, from working together, to shared lunches, shared experiences, Debbie had a relationship that was unique, special. Such similar roles: wife, mother, grandmother, daughter.

But being a widow was new to the relationship. A wife cannot grieve her own devastating loss and be the mother that five daughters need in their own grief. There is not enough room, it is not fair to ask. So more than the rest, Debbie suffered two losses. And absorbed more responsibility.

Behind that wall. That shield, that protective shield. There would be time for that later. The tears, the suffering, the loss. There is always work to be done. Flexible. Diplomatic. Peacemaker.

There is a bond formed in desparate times. A bond formed in sorrow, one that can't be formed any other way. An understanding of roles and responsibilities. A shared respect for things done, experiences faced. A faith observed, a faith explored. Doubts and fears that years can't affect. The circumstances you don't wish for, but the results are sometimes the last gift given, one last lesson learned.

On this your birthday I forgive you for yanking my arm out of it's socket (hopefully you've forgiven me for all of the trouble I caused!). And I treasure the opportunity to grow up and finally grow with you as a sister, to share experiences, and to learn from your faith.

Happy Birthday sis. Lov ya!