I didn’t get to sleep until after five, this morning, getting iCloud onto my laptop (or, I think it might be a notebook). I have backed up, transferred and deleted so much stuff, I don’t recall precisely where everything is, now. Four of my yogurt jars firmed up within nine hours, and so I put lids on them and stored them in the refrigerator. I’ve put the other three back into the incubator in hopes that they just needed more time. The house is chilly, because I have the base heat set to 66°F; it hasn’t yet dropped that low, even with the heat off.
I’m tense enough that I don’t want undiluted coffee on my stomach, and yet I really want coffee, and so I am drinking Toddy coffee made with the last of the milk. (I called to ask Al to bring some more with him, as well as more yogurt, when he returns home.)
I find that I am, with another death possibly eminent in the extended family, filled with sorrow that I did not make a telephone call to my sister before she died, last year. She did call me when she found out that she was ill, but she was optimistic about treatment, and since she always ended up yelling at me, when we talked, I did not make the call. I felt that if I were to call, it would be all about me wanting to feel good, and her being ill was not and should not have been “all about me”. And so I waited for her to initiate. And not long after, she had a stroke and never regained consciousness. And I still am not making it all about me. I am sad, but I know that she now understands much better than I do. She had a full and companion-filled life, many people around her who loved her and cared about her.
I was the oldest sibling, and she was next to youngest, with 12 years separating us. Essentially, we grew up in two different families; we were raised by two different sets of parents. She screamed at me, attacked and made fun of me because I did not see the same people that she did, when we looked at our parents and other siblings. That is legitimate. But she needed me to affirm what she saw as being “the” truth, and I could not in honesty do so. And so she saw me also as the enemy. In the way of so many people, she felt that if I did not agree with her, I did not love her.
It is a sorry thing that so many of the people who once were in my life considered a discussion to be a battle to be won, a demand that we must agree with full heart—never simply agree to disagree—in order to be friends. My life is much emptier than it might have been. What would marriage be like, if one’s partner needed to have the other agree on all points in a discussion, or share aesthetic sensibilities or music/literary genres? Ah! Perhaps that is why we formed our relationship and married so much later in life.