Steps

L. E. Merithew
3 min readSep 15, 2022

L. E. Merithew

Posted on unsplash by Nong V (https://unsplash.com/photos/SZ-sHjSvejw)

Early infancy, age uncertain

I know how everything felt, but it wasn’t until later that I had the vocabulary to describe it.

I’m standing in the kitchen, my back to the refrigerator. My mother’s hands are above my head. I cling to them. Gravity is trying to have its way with me.

“Come here, baby,” someone says (sister? Aunt?) I’m the poster child for “roly-poly.” My weight presses on my joints. I feel them begin to ache. My mother pulls her hands from my grip. Gravity pulls stronger, forward and to the left. I lift my left foot, intending to place it out to steady myself. I’m not fast enough. The world tilts. The side of my foot hits the linoleum floor, immediately followed by my ankle. The pain begins its light-speed race up my leg. Now I hit knee hip hand elbow shoulder. Each compounds the unwanted soreness. Somewhere in the process I began to cry.

Early May, age 29

I stand before the small gathering. Part of my speech comes back to mind. “It’s easy to imagine her with the Lord in Heaven,” I say. “He takes her by the hand and says, ‘Come, daughter. Let us explore all that is goodness and light.’” I turn to the casket behind me. “Goodbye, Mom.”

Mid-December, age 13

My mother comes back into the living room, eyes red. She calls to me and my younger brother. “That was the State Troopers.” A shuddering breath. “They found your father in his truck at the dock in New York City.” A pause. “It looked like his heart gave out. He won’t be back for Christmas.” She locks her gaze on me. “That means I need you to be the man of the house.”

Unspoken is my promise to take care of her if I can.

Christmas Eve, age 19

The conversation of the night before echos in my mind. Home from college on winter break. I walk into my older brother’s house. He’s asleep. It’s late at night (typical college kid partying for a bit before going home.) My sister-in-law is on the sofa. I try not to wake her, unsuccessfully. We engage in some brief small talk. “You need to know,” she says. “Your grandfather passed away. The funeral is tomorrow.”

Mid-March, 2010

I’m in the hospital room with my sister, waiting for her to recover from the anesthesia. “The doctor agrees,” she says more coherently. She shows me a pencil drawing, indicating the affected areas.

An extremely rare form of cancer.

Inoperable.

Late March, 2010

I’m online at the American Cancer Society website. My sister’s prospects look fugly. Near 50% mortality the first 6 months, well over 90% within a year.

Late February, 2011

All of a sudden, my sister’s not answering the phone. No response from my niece who’s living with her, acting as caregiver. Three weeks plus of silence. Secondhand word has it that my sister had beaten the odds by making it this far, but the most recent test shows the chemo has lost its effectiveness. The cancer has re-awakened, with a vengeance.

The doctors are still deciding their next step.

The lack of contact is frustrating, to say the least.

Making matters worse is that life is forcing me to start final preparations to return to New Mexico. The signs are clear that my presence in New York is no longer needed or desired. If I stay, I may be stuck here for the rest of my life. If I leave, the next time I see my sister may be at her funeral.

Nine years dry, and I so badly want to surrender to the voice daily shouting, “SOBRIETY SUCKS.”

Mid-March, 2011

Two phone calls, a few days apart. My sister informing me that discussions are underway regarding going into hospice. I can already guess what it means.

Second call, a week before my sister’s 59th birthday. My niece telling me the fight is over. The cancer won.

Filed under “life’s lessons learned”

The cause is irrelevant.

Letting go hurts.

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L. E. Merithew

A writer that has refused to quit, even after 50 years of anonymity. No matter how fast the Muse runs, I WILL catch her.