Hmm... I wish it were that easy. My own sadness and disappointment concerning a family member would indeed be a sibling, an older sister with whom I was very close as child, but something changed, and I have long since given up trying to find that connection again. Sometimes it just can't be, and recognizing that is somewhat of a relief. I've tried and tried, but there is a gulf so wide between us and our visions of living now- coupled with probable resentment on her part that my life is full, rich with friends and love, music, and children-that I don't believe we can ever go back again. Beautiful essay, nonetheless, and I hope it urges someone else to try again.
What a void your sister leaves in your life. She lives but the bond has died. I have more (lots more!) to say on the topic of sisters through the life cycle. My sister and I were estranged for a while but are now closer than we were as children.
Yes, I have seen you both document this somewhat publicly, but I am afraid it is very different for us. Truthfully, I don't believe the lack of closeness with her leaves much of a void in my life, and that in itself might be the saddest part. One line I learned in my thirties from my shrink back then which has helped a lot: "It's very difficult to have a healthy relationship with someone who has psychological issues herself."
Beautiful as always, Rona. My father, who left when I was three so I never really knew him, was a compulsive drinker and ended up sort of homeless. Some members of his family tried to find him and help - and it would work for a while - until he disappeared again. Late in life he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and it was never treated. So many lost souls on the streets. Thank you for this beautiful meditation. I admired the use of “Someone.” Your writing is such a gift. I mention it in my newsletter that went out today as one of my favourite things of 2023.
Oh, Anne. I just read your newsletter. I thought you meant one of your favorite Substacks. Favorite things? Even more wonderful. Glad you noticed my use of "someone," a challenge I set for myself. It's fun to try something new and negotiate the obstacles along the way.
Your post has me traveling down my own rabbit hole of brothers gone awry. I am the sister of two older brothers, both recovering alcoholics. My parents served in WWII came back to finish and graduate from college. They married at age 25, and even though my mother & father always held that it was best to wait till one was married until having sex, after my Mother's death I discovered that she was pregnant with my oldest brother when she and my dad said their vows. Till death do us part. They kept those vows, a fact that still amazes me for all the heartache they experienced in their own families and then the one they created. They were married nearly 50 years until my Mom died. They had been through so much (early deaths of 3 of their parents, the loss of a sibling in the war, being a shot down fighter pilot & prisoner, on and on) so that when they reached their 60s which proved not to be all they were cracked up to be, my Mom needlepointed a pillow that read "screw the golden years."
From a tender age, they assigned me the role of saving my brothers. I was not yet 11 when my eldest brother was arrested in Connecticut for selling a nickel bag of marijuana to an undercover agent. At the time the offense was a felony. If he and my parents agreed to him receiving psychiatric help in the form of spending a long stay at the state mental institution, the mandatory 5 year jail sentence would not be enforced. He was 16 at the time. I remember visiting him there, the sound of the locked metal doors being unlocked, the keys jangling, the smell of the hallways, and the metal doors slamming shut behind us. That was only the beginning of that brother's troubles. He was expelled from several schools and remained in trouble until he was 30 at which time a bouncer threw him across a dance floor which broke his arm, forcing him to leave the premises. The psychiatrist he was seeing back then said if he didn't stop drinking he'd be dead within that year. My other brother suffered from depression though truly no one paid much attention to mental anguish and suffering back then and in my family's case, the oldest brother took up so much oxygen, there just wasn't any left for the younger siblings, or anything else for that matter. Back then, the younger of the two brothers ran away from a boarding school he was attending. One seemingly ordinary day my parents loaded me in the car saying if I was with them my brother would come home that was if we could locate him. Sitting in the backseat of the car riding with my parents to find & save my brother seemed an incredibly sad and daunting endeavor which turned out to be true, as he didn't come with us that day. We met him beside an open field. We parked alongside the roadway, my parents begging him to come home. But he refused and instead we took pictures of him in that field, standing alone, hands in pockets, looking into the distance, a colorless photo on a sunless day. I went away to school too when it was clear that my brothers had blazed a wild & potholed path at our public high school which meant so many families knew to steer clear of ours even if theirs had that same or similar raw and wounded underbelly. It was the 60s after all. When I was done with schooling, I traveled across country to California and never went back home to live. Eventually I got a call from my parents. They were planning an intervention, would I come home and try with them to save him one last time. I arrived at midnight, secreted away at one of my mother's friends home. I was overcome with emotion, and wanted badly not to be anywhere but my parents' home. But as was the case in my family, whatever we were feeling, we meaning my mother and me, was put aside to accommodate what was deemed more important. The next day, we gathered in secret waiting for my brother to arrive. We sat in the living room, my oldest brother, my parents, and others who were important to that day's hoped for success. My dad had built a fire, the family dog was on the couch. My brother arrived and quickly learned what the day would hold. Each of us read our heart wrenching statements to him, telling him how we felt, how much he mattered to us and to others, how much we hoped he would take our love and advice and get into rehab which was arranged for him, how we felt he was destined to die otherwise. I watched as my father tended the fire, my mother doted on the dog. I wanted to scream. It remains one of the saddest days of my life even though, after the entire day of pleading with him, he agreed to go to rehabilitation and a recovery facility. Now, so many years later, he is still sober as is my other brother. But life has been anything but easy. He lives nearby me now. I continue to help him live, one day at a time.
Rona, I agree with you it is hard to share difficult experiences, especially family ones. But, sometimes it is a relief too, sad, and difficult, but the telling can feel like peeling back layers and layers of bloodied gauze to reach the wound desperate for air. I'm grateful for you and your sister's writing. You help us sometimes find a way.
You are a good sister, Karen. You rose to the occasion. I am profoundly sorry for your family's suffering. I have a feeling Derek and his sister may be part of a similar story.
I have seen that sign and passed it over, without making a photograph. Thank you for publishing it and for the reflection. There is a story in every face we see on the street and in the signs we leave behind: deliberately or otherwise.
I find it hopeful…there is always hope. Your writing pulls us in…full of feeling and concern. Thank you for reminding us not everyone is tucked in to happy heathy lives. I will pay more attention to lampposts and fence posts and occasional trees…missing faces staring out; hoping they are soon found. Hope floats.
Yes, hope floats like dandelion fluff on the wind. I'm glad you caught mine. As for lampposts and the like, you may find, as I do, that they beat writing prompts. There are stories everywhere, waiting to be found.
À beautiful story, Rona. I don’t really want to write about my brother today, but I will. He has been estranged from the family for many years, moved several states away and refused to see our father for the last ten years of his life, because of his perception of an argument, which does not agree for the most part with the way the rest of the family sees what happened. I’m the oldest of 5 and he is next. I have some “big sister “ feelings toward him and have visited several times and enjoyed conversations with him when he is open. He has, at 75, found a new therapist who has told him, he says, that his family is “evil” and the last time we talked, after a cordial few minutes, he shouted obscenities at me and said to never call him again. I’m a therapist myself and I doubt if his therapist bought his version of things or actually said that, unless perhaps the therapist is brand new. I hope my brother is able to resolve something things but I doubt if his perceptions will change. Sadly, I am left with two thoughts. I will wait and see and will not pursue him, at least for now and if he is that angry, still, I’m scared and glad he lives away from the rest of us.
If he should call me, though, his big sister would be happy to talk with him.
This is a beautiful and important piece Rona. It shows us both sides of a heartbreaking story.
For so many years I couldn’t understand how someone could be estranged from their family, how naive I was. Now I see how easily it can happen but am thankful I haven’t had to deal with it. My prayers go out to those that have❤️
That sign post is heartbreaking because there are so many Dereks in the world. And so many parents, siblings, friends wish for them to come home. Some never do.
My sister has been a Derek for 8 years now, and my dad was also one, until he passed. We can never know why people choose to disappear and leave us to wonder forever.
A double heartache, Kristi. So much for one family to bear. The other day I passed the lamppost and the sign was gone. Did Derek rip it off intending to call his sister (whose number appeared on the poster)? Or because he intended to stay gone? These two are still on my mind.
Rona, I find your post bittersweet. Love drives us into the void and hope posts signs along the way. I have my own story of losing my devoted father as a small girl and then searching for him as an adult. There were so many lies to push past. I’ll be writing more about my experiences and appreciate your sensitivity to this unique and painful kind of loss.
Angela, writing is the best way I know to grapple with this kind of loss. Stories like yours need telling- for the teller and also for the reader whose life will be changed in the reading.
A lovely perspective Rona of finding story in the most unexpected places. Your humanity shines through in your concern about Derek and his sister. It's what unites us all.
Likewise! I will be in Toronto in April. Let's book a date! I'd love for you to meet my eldest as well. We are collaborating on a poetry collection and hope to make some headway while I'm there.
Hmm... I wish it were that easy. My own sadness and disappointment concerning a family member would indeed be a sibling, an older sister with whom I was very close as child, but something changed, and I have long since given up trying to find that connection again. Sometimes it just can't be, and recognizing that is somewhat of a relief. I've tried and tried, but there is a gulf so wide between us and our visions of living now- coupled with probable resentment on her part that my life is full, rich with friends and love, music, and children-that I don't believe we can ever go back again. Beautiful essay, nonetheless, and I hope it urges someone else to try again.
What a void your sister leaves in your life. She lives but the bond has died. I have more (lots more!) to say on the topic of sisters through the life cycle. My sister and I were estranged for a while but are now closer than we were as children.
Yes, I have seen you both document this somewhat publicly, but I am afraid it is very different for us. Truthfully, I don't believe the lack of closeness with her leaves much of a void in my life, and that in itself might be the saddest part. One line I learned in my thirties from my shrink back then which has helped a lot: "It's very difficult to have a healthy relationship with someone who has psychological issues herself."
"Love Is not a rose, it's a bindweed. " This post made me both sad and hopeful.
Just the response I’ve been hoping for (although I love to see any and all responses).
Beautiful as always, Rona. My father, who left when I was three so I never really knew him, was a compulsive drinker and ended up sort of homeless. Some members of his family tried to find him and help - and it would work for a while - until he disappeared again. Late in life he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and it was never treated. So many lost souls on the streets. Thank you for this beautiful meditation. I admired the use of “Someone.” Your writing is such a gift. I mention it in my newsletter that went out today as one of my favourite things of 2023.
Oh, Anne. I just read your newsletter. I thought you meant one of your favorite Substacks. Favorite things? Even more wonderful. Glad you noticed my use of "someone," a challenge I set for myself. It's fun to try something new and negotiate the obstacles along the way.
Your post has me traveling down my own rabbit hole of brothers gone awry. I am the sister of two older brothers, both recovering alcoholics. My parents served in WWII came back to finish and graduate from college. They married at age 25, and even though my mother & father always held that it was best to wait till one was married until having sex, after my Mother's death I discovered that she was pregnant with my oldest brother when she and my dad said their vows. Till death do us part. They kept those vows, a fact that still amazes me for all the heartache they experienced in their own families and then the one they created. They were married nearly 50 years until my Mom died. They had been through so much (early deaths of 3 of their parents, the loss of a sibling in the war, being a shot down fighter pilot & prisoner, on and on) so that when they reached their 60s which proved not to be all they were cracked up to be, my Mom needlepointed a pillow that read "screw the golden years."
From a tender age, they assigned me the role of saving my brothers. I was not yet 11 when my eldest brother was arrested in Connecticut for selling a nickel bag of marijuana to an undercover agent. At the time the offense was a felony. If he and my parents agreed to him receiving psychiatric help in the form of spending a long stay at the state mental institution, the mandatory 5 year jail sentence would not be enforced. He was 16 at the time. I remember visiting him there, the sound of the locked metal doors being unlocked, the keys jangling, the smell of the hallways, and the metal doors slamming shut behind us. That was only the beginning of that brother's troubles. He was expelled from several schools and remained in trouble until he was 30 at which time a bouncer threw him across a dance floor which broke his arm, forcing him to leave the premises. The psychiatrist he was seeing back then said if he didn't stop drinking he'd be dead within that year. My other brother suffered from depression though truly no one paid much attention to mental anguish and suffering back then and in my family's case, the oldest brother took up so much oxygen, there just wasn't any left for the younger siblings, or anything else for that matter. Back then, the younger of the two brothers ran away from a boarding school he was attending. One seemingly ordinary day my parents loaded me in the car saying if I was with them my brother would come home that was if we could locate him. Sitting in the backseat of the car riding with my parents to find & save my brother seemed an incredibly sad and daunting endeavor which turned out to be true, as he didn't come with us that day. We met him beside an open field. We parked alongside the roadway, my parents begging him to come home. But he refused and instead we took pictures of him in that field, standing alone, hands in pockets, looking into the distance, a colorless photo on a sunless day. I went away to school too when it was clear that my brothers had blazed a wild & potholed path at our public high school which meant so many families knew to steer clear of ours even if theirs had that same or similar raw and wounded underbelly. It was the 60s after all. When I was done with schooling, I traveled across country to California and never went back home to live. Eventually I got a call from my parents. They were planning an intervention, would I come home and try with them to save him one last time. I arrived at midnight, secreted away at one of my mother's friends home. I was overcome with emotion, and wanted badly not to be anywhere but my parents' home. But as was the case in my family, whatever we were feeling, we meaning my mother and me, was put aside to accommodate what was deemed more important. The next day, we gathered in secret waiting for my brother to arrive. We sat in the living room, my oldest brother, my parents, and others who were important to that day's hoped for success. My dad had built a fire, the family dog was on the couch. My brother arrived and quickly learned what the day would hold. Each of us read our heart wrenching statements to him, telling him how we felt, how much he mattered to us and to others, how much we hoped he would take our love and advice and get into rehab which was arranged for him, how we felt he was destined to die otherwise. I watched as my father tended the fire, my mother doted on the dog. I wanted to scream. It remains one of the saddest days of my life even though, after the entire day of pleading with him, he agreed to go to rehabilitation and a recovery facility. Now, so many years later, he is still sober as is my other brother. But life has been anything but easy. He lives nearby me now. I continue to help him live, one day at a time.
Rona, I agree with you it is hard to share difficult experiences, especially family ones. But, sometimes it is a relief too, sad, and difficult, but the telling can feel like peeling back layers and layers of bloodied gauze to reach the wound desperate for air. I'm grateful for you and your sister's writing. You help us sometimes find a way.
You are a good sister, Karen. You rose to the occasion. I am profoundly sorry for your family's suffering. I have a feeling Derek and his sister may be part of a similar story.
Thank you Rona. I appreciate your reply. Take good care. Karen
I have seen that sign and passed it over, without making a photograph. Thank you for publishing it and for the reflection. There is a story in every face we see on the street and in the signs we leave behind: deliberately or otherwise.
Someone(Derek?) has taken it down. Glad to meet another Toronto walker here.
Dog and a camera…. Good to meet you as well.
Love this. Love how you carry it along with
Someone.
I find it hopeful…there is always hope. Your writing pulls us in…full of feeling and concern. Thank you for reminding us not everyone is tucked in to happy heathy lives. I will pay more attention to lampposts and fence posts and occasional trees…missing faces staring out; hoping they are soon found. Hope floats.
Yes, hope floats like dandelion fluff on the wind. I'm glad you caught mine. As for lampposts and the like, you may find, as I do, that they beat writing prompts. There are stories everywhere, waiting to be found.
À beautiful story, Rona. I don’t really want to write about my brother today, but I will. He has been estranged from the family for many years, moved several states away and refused to see our father for the last ten years of his life, because of his perception of an argument, which does not agree for the most part with the way the rest of the family sees what happened. I’m the oldest of 5 and he is next. I have some “big sister “ feelings toward him and have visited several times and enjoyed conversations with him when he is open. He has, at 75, found a new therapist who has told him, he says, that his family is “evil” and the last time we talked, after a cordial few minutes, he shouted obscenities at me and said to never call him again. I’m a therapist myself and I doubt if his therapist bought his version of things or actually said that, unless perhaps the therapist is brand new. I hope my brother is able to resolve something things but I doubt if his perceptions will change. Sadly, I am left with two thoughts. I will wait and see and will not pursue him, at least for now and if he is that angry, still, I’m scared and glad he lives away from the rest of us.
If he should call me, though, his big sister would be happy to talk with him.
Always a big sister. (I'm one myself.) How could it be anything but hard to tell this story? And how could you close your heart?
So many of us live this heartbreaking story. Thank you for writing with such compassion.
We seldom hear these stories. I think people are embarrassed to share them, or maybe can’t bear to think about their missing petson.
This is a beautiful and important piece Rona. It shows us both sides of a heartbreaking story.
For so many years I couldn’t understand how someone could be estranged from their family, how naive I was. Now I see how easily it can happen but am thankful I haven’t had to deal with it. My prayers go out to those that have❤️
That sign post is heartbreaking because there are so many Dereks in the world. And so many parents, siblings, friends wish for them to come home. Some never do.
My sister has been a Derek for 8 years now, and my dad was also one, until he passed. We can never know why people choose to disappear and leave us to wonder forever.
A double heartache, Kristi. So much for one family to bear. The other day I passed the lamppost and the sign was gone. Did Derek rip it off intending to call his sister (whose number appeared on the poster)? Or because he intended to stay gone? These two are still on my mind.
We can only hope it was him 🙏
I love this story. Derek is loved and his sister is Love . Heartbreaking. But look not away . So many Dereks.
Rona, I find your post bittersweet. Love drives us into the void and hope posts signs along the way. I have my own story of losing my devoted father as a small girl and then searching for him as an adult. There were so many lies to push past. I’ll be writing more about my experiences and appreciate your sensitivity to this unique and painful kind of loss.
Angela, writing is the best way I know to grapple with this kind of loss. Stories like yours need telling- for the teller and also for the reader whose life will be changed in the reading.
Common story, uncommonly good writing. Thanks Rona.
Thanks for the smile, John.
Beautiful. Such love and compassion. Thank you for bringing us Derek, and for refusing to look away.
Mary, I appreciate the understanding of one writer and human to another.
Poignant. And so relatable.
Thank you, Nancy. Glad to reconnect with you here, in a better place for storytelling.
A lovely perspective Rona of finding story in the most unexpected places. Your humanity shines through in your concern about Derek and his sister. It's what unites us all.
Thank you, Leanne. You always get it. I'm glad to meet you here, on Facebook, over a dinner table in Toronto or anywhere.
Likewise! I will be in Toronto in April. Let's book a date! I'd love for you to meet my eldest as well. We are collaborating on a poetry collection and hope to make some headway while I'm there.