Cancer 10

My sister died yesterday. It was cancer. She was 63 years old. It is good that our parents are not around to see both children with cancer.

It can be a strange relationship, that between siblings. I would not dream to judge other people’s relationships. All are similar, all different, but ours was one of both closeness and distance. There is a natural bond between two people who emerged into the world from the same womb, a bond built throughout childhood at the same time as being battered by the experiences of the same two people who spend most of their childhood not getting on very well (I still have the scar to prove it. See below). We generally got on better in adulthood, partly because we were adults, and mainly because we lived in different houses. We sometimes went a long time without seeing each other, but when we met it was as though no time had passed. Many times I have been exasperated by her, by something she did or something she didn’t do. No doubt I exasperated her too, but there was never a real fall out. Perhaps there is no reason to have a fall out when you are both close and distant anyway.

She was 3 years 6 months older than me. She said she liked being an only child and was annoyed when I turned up. Perhaps what she said was true, that our father always wanted a boy and was glad when I turned up. I never saw that. I thought he treated us equally, though I think I spent a lot more time playing with him than she did. I put that down to boys prefer playing with boys. After all, she didn’t like football, cricket, digging holes or building treehouses in the garden. She had an old chicken shed as a Wendy house for what I remember as a short time, then it became mine. I was to move it seven times to various parts of the garden. My finest memory of it being a Wendy House was getting my sister to open the door and I threw a bunch of nettles at her bare legs. She was stung quite well/badly (depending on your point of view). I was a good little brother. Some time previously (probably years) she had locked me in a rabbit hutch.

We had a big garden, getting on for an acre, which had a quarry, a field, and lots of trees, along with the vegetable garden, lawn, etc. I know we were privileged in that respect compared with other children (though there wasn’t much money around), and I have always looked back on my childhood in a positive manner. We were fed and sheltered, we had an annual holiday, and we were looked after. I was happy, I dug holes and climbed trees, made dams and rode my bike, all the things that boys did before the internet and computers were so sadly invented. My life was busy, generally positive, and provides great memories. The worst thing was having hand me downs from my sister, girly clothes, girly bikes (until I got my own racing bike at 11).

My sister had the same opportunities, the same space, but as an adult looked back in a generally negative way about her childhood. I have never understood why. Perhaps she wanted to be a boy.

She did have responsibility for looking after me on many occasions. She took me to school, which was a good long walk each way including one busy (for a village) road. In the holidays when both parents were at work she was meant to look after me. My strongest memory is that she would never let me in the house, keeping the doors locked and forcing me and my friends to play utside all day. What a shame. It was sometimes a game to try and break in. My scar arose from me trying to open the front door and my sister trying to close it. Unfortunately I was pushing on the glass (she should have told me not to. She was responsible for me. I was a child. How was I to know? ahem….), which broke and a piece took a big chunk out of my wrist. I stared at it, this great gouge, and suddenly the blood started splurting out. I didn’t wait for a response from my sister, but ran about 500 metres to my friend’s house, where his Mum sorted me out. I don’t remember, but surely my sister must have been nice to me for at least a little while after that. I still bear that scar.

We did share a lot of things. We occasionally went on bike rides together (I would go round in circles waiting for her to struggle up hills). We occasionally played together in the garden. She twisted her knee badly when we were playing in the field behind the house and ended up in plaster for weeks. We certainly spent a lot of time together on the back seats of the various cars we went in on holiday to Scotland and the Lake District (We all have selective memories. Who wants remember a week on a beach in Blackpool?). We sometimes even spoke to each other civilly and played games.

On the whole I thought our relationship was normal, presumably because I didn’t really see that many relationships between brothers and sisters. Those of my (male) friends who had sisters tended to ignore them when we were together.

Yesterday I was in a state of shock. My insides were turned inside out, my emotions in turmoil, and my thoughts confused. Today is better. The shock has worn off. We were expecting her to die. Now she has died. My recollections are mixed. Good memories, bad memories, indifferent elements. Why would I want to change anything? She was my sister, and that’s normal, I assume.