My Word's Worth: a weekly column by Marylaine Block

vol. 5, #17, November 5, 1999

IT WAS A WONDERFUL LIFE

My sister Joan died this week, and the world is poorer for it. I am not mourning for her -- I did my grieving four years ago when the doctors gave her up for dead, and two years ago, when they declared her case hopeless, and six months ago when they recommended discontinuing all life support. The sheer force of her will to live always brought her back, until the occasional joy no longer exceeded the effort involved in remaining alive and she said, "enough." It was her choice to go, but not until she had gotten the chance to welcome two new daughters-in-law and cherish four more grandchildren.

Joan was eight years older than me, off to college before I was really paying serious attention to my world, so my childhood memories of her are sketchy. I remember her teaching us card games which she literally played for blood, sharpening her fingernails before beginning a game of Slap, and I remember all the word games we all played (Joan remained a crossword puzzle addict all her life). I remember her teasing our brother Walt unmercifully as girls began calling him, holding out the phone to him while singing "Walter, Walter, lead me to the altar, Walter."

I think of her always in terms of music. She played piano and sang, part of the generation that still provided its own entertainment with family singalongs, where she and Walt would sometimes sing the songs our father wrote, and sometimes sing duets. We all grew up on the show tunes of the 30s, 40s and 50s, and knew Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hart cold. Her idea of a great night out was going out to a piano bar, drinking beer and singing along.

I remember her telling me about sex when I was ten, patiently explaining who did what with what to whom, where, all of which sounded pretty silly to me. I asked her why on earth anyone wanted to do that and she giggled and assured me that in time, I would understand its attractions. I kind of understood when I saw her staring dreamily into space at the doorway after George brought her back from a date, because she adored him as much as he adored her, and she believed as passionately as any romance novel heroine that love was neverending. But her romance was real, proof that even now when divorce is cheap and easy, marriages could last and love could just get better all the time.

I remember my conviction that she had, as she claimed, x-ray vision, the ability when she was babysitting for me and our brother Gordon to know exactly what trouble we were getting into even though she wasn't in the same room, or even the same floor of our house. Now, of course, I understand her trick, because I too can interpret the meaning of noises, mentally diagnose a solid-sounding thunk as a big atlas being knocked to the floor, a squishy sort of thunk as a two-liter pop bottle being dropped, but then I believed she was magic.

But then again, she was magic. To be around her was like coming in from dank November cold and sitting by the hearth. Like our mother, she was the natural center of a home, gifted at love, gifted at taking joy in the present moment. She and George loved kids, which is not uncommon, but they also respected kids and gave them room to become themselves, which is not. They raised five of their own, but they were part of the lives of thousands more, George as a teacher, principal and coach, famous for straightening out "bad kids," George and Joan together as head for many years of a summer camp for underprivileged and emotionally disturbed children. Their secret was that they didn't believe there were very many bad kids, though there were way too many damaged ones. Whenever I visited them, their household always seemed to include hangers on, lost kids in need of a family, who wanted it to be THIS family.

She read the Oz books out loud to her kids, and when she finished reading the last one in the series, she started all over again, passing them on to me and my son in a state of well-loved tatters. She found her kids hugely entertaining, enjoying the messes and noises and sheer physicality of her rough and tumble brawling boys and girls. She chewed them out when they did bad things, but she never made them feel small. She laughed at them and teased them, as if to say "I know about your flaws, I just love you anyway."

And where she loved, she was fiercely, staunchly loyal. She did not forgive meanness or betrayal of someone she loved. She was passionate about her family, her college (Michigan State), her sports (she's the one who taught me how to score a baseball game), her teams (Lions and Tigers and Pistons), her beer (Stroh's, brewed in Detroit), her country. Like our mom, she donated her body, scarred by so many surgeries, to Michigan State University, rejoicing in the thought that in a way she would be joining both our mom and the university she cared so much about.

Like our mother, she did what needed to be done and did it cheerfully, understanding that if you couldn't control what happened to you, you could at least control how you responded to it. She chose to be amused by life, chose to regard its ups and downs as interesting challenges to which her reply was, "Yep, I can do that." She packed up the family and moved them, and turned strange houses into homes more times than I can count. When her youngest son was seriously ill, waiting years for a kidney transplant, she was the family's hope and strength.

Even during her own long battle with chronic heart failure, she remained herself, genuinely interested in the lives of her nurses and doctors, and able to joke about her illness. Emerging from a surgery or a coma, she'd ask how WE were doing, and remind George to get a present for a grandchild's upcoming birthday. Each year, her life became more constricted, as she lost first the ability to travel, then to go out for a drink and a few songs, then to walk around the house, and even feed herself. Even worse, she couldn't do her crosswords anymore, finally couldn't even read. But only when she was completely lost in her pain did she lose her lively curiosity about the world, or her deep interest in her family's lives -- and even then, she'd come out of that inward-looking haze and light up when a grandchild walked in the door.

My brothers and I largely watched from the sidelines as her illness ate away at her, marveling at her strength, agonizing at her pain, mourning the daily pleasures of life she had lost. We perhaps were ready to let her go sooner, if that was her wish. Perhaps on occasion it might have even been her wish. But you see, there was George, who had loved her for 50 years ever since he gave up the presidency of the woman-hater's club in school for her in ninth grade.

He took such loving care of her. Some might have seen the time and effort it cost him as a burden -- I know Joan worried that it was. But he didn't. He kept telling the doctors, "Don't give up on her. I know her, and I'm telling you, she's coming back." He wasn't ready to let her go.

I don't know if even now he's ready. I don't grieve for Joan so much as I grieve for George, one of the kindest, most decent men I have ever known. Being alone, after years of being that one inseparably linked entity, JoanandGeorge, must be terribly hard for him.

We're not having a funeral for her -- black dresses and hushed tones and lilies and organ music aren't right for Joan. But we are going to have a celebration of her life. We will gather and sing songs and tell funny stories about her, and put a pitcher of beer on the piano for her, because we're pretty sure her spirit will be there with us, and it should have a chance to get a little mellow and tiddly too.

She always believed Mom was still around somewhere, getting an enormous kick out of the funny things her kids and grandchildren were up to. If so, it's only fitting if Joan and she get to hang out together, side by side, making snarky, snide remarks. And if she gets the heaven she deserves, there'll be a piano there, too. Whatever kind of afterlife is out there, Joan, enjoy it as much as you did this one. I know the people there will love you as much as we did.