Even when she's five, my sister Carry is a drama queen. Nobody can turn a skinned knee into a near death experience quite like our baby sister.
"My knee! Oh my God, my knee! Oh my God, Oh my God!"
We are forbidden to use the Lord's name in vain. Ever. But Carry's entire vocabulary is built upon her histrionic invocations to God.
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| Carry (front) with our siblings Mary, Rick, Terri, Tom and Jeff |
She is a little like the Boy Who Cries Wolf, and we tend to ignore her outbursts. One afternoon, however, when we are all lounging in the tv room, we hear her shrieks from the kitchen. Her OhMyGod's seem even more desperate than usual.
My mother rolls her eyes. "Somebody better check on our little Sarah Bernhardt," she says to no one in particular.
It's probably good that we do. Nimble as a monkey, Carry has maneuvered herself up the kitchen cabinets to secure the peanut butter from the top shelf. Losing her tenuous grip, she tumbles but is saved when her underwear fortunately hooks to the knob of the silverware drawer. Suspended in mid air, she flails furiously.
"My God, my God!" she hisses when we laugh helplessly but make no move to disengage her. "Why don't you help me!"
In spite of her passionate dramatics, we adore Carry. She is the eighth child of the ten of us. I am the oldest and nearly 13 when she is born, and the second she comes home from the hospital I am utterly captivated by my baby sister. Like Mom, she is a dark-eyed beauty. Small and lithe, she darts around the house and through the yard like a long legged nymph. She is not tall like the rest of us. Rather, she is so small that she burrows next to our giant of a father in his huge recliner and all but disappears under his big arm.
When Carry is 8, Mom is diagnosed with breast cancer. We are a family in denial and refuse to believe she will be taken from us. Her death knocks us off our feet. In a bewildering cloud of grief, we understand our lives will never be the same. But our small siblings are especially vulnerable.
Dad is our savior. In spite of his own terrible pain, he makes the ten of us feel safe, and we try to embrace the new normal. Dad rouses us all for school in the mornings when the alarm blares. As soon as he closes the door in the bathroom to shower, Carry crawls into Dad's big bed, the bed he shared with Mom. She yanks the covers around her and listens to the sounds of Dad gargling and showering. Paul Harvey spouts his morning perspective from the bathroom radio. It is the only time she feels safe.
My siblings and I become especially close after Mom dies, and we are especially protective of Dad and each other. Carry and I, in fact, become like mother and daughter.
She grows into a beautiful young woman, and I am proud of her. Immediately after high school, all by herself, she bravely moves to Denver to become a nanny. There she meets Craig Short, and by the time she is in her middle twenties, Carry seems to have everything she has ever craved - a husband, a family, and a beautiful home.
Her children - Morgan, Jonathan and Joseph - are her life. Carry romps on the floor and plays with them,and I think I have never seen a mother who enjoys her children so much. We are delighted when they all move back from Colorado to Omaha.
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| Carry with kids Jonathan, Joseph and Morgan |
But the marriage does not survive. Carry is a stay-at-home mom with no college education. After her divorce, she is paralyzed with fear. Nevertheless, she forces herself to march into an Omaha car dealership to ask for a job. She gets it, too. Not only that, she becomes one of the top sales people at Baxter Hyundai. She is still a drama queen, to be sure. But the girl's got guts.
Life careens along. Until 2010 when our little sister Terri is diagnosed with breast cancer. Scared to death, she elects to have a double mastectomy. Before we can even catch our breath, however, my sister Deb is diagnosed with hyperplasia, a pre-cancerous breast condition. The jig is up, and we know it. Breast cancer killed Mom and her grandmother, and now it's gunning for all of us. Deb, Mary and I, like our sister Terri, decide with great trepidation to undergo preventive double mastectomies. But Carry digs in her heels.
"I am not having a double mastectomy," she snaps at Mary who pleads with her to consider the surgery. I can hardly blame her. She is a 42-year-old single mother. In her eyes, preventive surgery means the end of her life. I cannot tell her it isn't so. In any case, she is determined that the family gene will never claim her as its next victim.
But it does. Six weeks ago, she discovers a small lump, and by the end of the month, she has been diagnosed with breast cancer.
Carry is 48-years-old. Mom was 48 when she died. There was a time when none of my sisters or I believed we'd ever live past our 48th year. We convince Carry that she's lucky. She's found this cancer early, and Dr. Janet Grange, our own surgeon, will probably perform a simple lumpectomy.
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| Carry with daughter Morgan |
But it's not that easy. A few days later, as Carry and I sit side by side in a tense examination room, Dr. Grange explains that Carry's tumor is aggressive. It must be treated immediately with chemotherapy before surgery is even considered.
Carry groans, drops her head and wails. Dr. Grange and I try to comfort her, but Carry, when she raises her head, is angry. "So it's already gone to my organs! AND I'm losing my hair?" she lashes out at Dr. Grange.
I attempt to intervene, but Dr. Grange waves her hand at me. "No," she cautions. "She's just received terrible news. Let her deal with it."
Carry pulls herself together, but she barely listens as Dr. Grange explains that chemo will kill any errant cells. "This is a treatable, winnable cancer," she tells us. Later, though, in the elevator, Carry sobs. She is my heartbroken baby sister, and we cling to each other for dear life.
It is not fair that my two little sisters have been stricken by this terrible disease. Terri and I are in the car after visiting Carry one day. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed by the family affliction. When will we be done with it? I have 18 gorgeous nieces. Must they all live in fear of cancer? Are we a family of women destined to lose our breasts?
"Terri," I sigh, "do you ever wish sometimes we could just all go to Heaven and leave this business behind?"
But Terri's having none of that. My little sister is a cancer survivor. She's fought too hard to wish her life away. "It'll be okay," she says soothingly.
Immediately, I am comforted. Terri is the sister who made all the rest of us brave. She will make Carry brave, too. And she has. My brother Joe, a cancer survivor himself, texts us. "Everything will be all right." My brother Rick sends us a special prayer to say. We band together, like we always do, and I am supremely grateful for my good brothers and sisters. It is one more hurtle we will conquer together.
Only a few days after the terrible morning in Dr. Grange's office, Carry makes an appointment to be fitted for a wig. Yesterday, Dr. Grange inserts a port in her arm, and next Wednesday, she will begin her first chemo treatment. Her close friends will invade her house this Saturday, and they will shave Carry's head.
"I'm not waiting for my hair to fall out," she says briskly. She has also decided, after her chemo, to have a double mastectomy. In the meantime, she is taking caring of her children and selling cars. She is that little girl who climbs the kitchen shelves determined to get the peanut butter - all by herself.
But she doesn't have to do this by herself. Surrounded by her kids and good friends and family, Carry will plow her way to the other side. Because that's what she's done all her life.
She's a drama queen, my baby sister. But she's a tough cookie.
And we'll be with her all the way.
