aftershocks

The plan was to swing over to Norristown to pick up Peter, then head one last time to to Toms River with "thank you" nibbles for the staff at Community Medical Center that took such good care of Mim & to the nursing home where she lived.  Then Peter called the other day, suggesting I might want to rethink thanking the nursing home.

According to Peter, Mim had confided to him how dreadful the staff had been, how they had provided such poor care, had they had neglected her to the point where she doubted they'd even notice if she died.  

I felt sick.  Not because she'd been so poorly served, but because an aftershock of Mim's self-loathing had rocked my world.

The reality is Mim always painted herself as being dismissed by others.  It was as much a part of her as any of her remarkable gifts.  John & I met the staff where Mim had lived, heard what their tone, saw their faces, witnessed their body language.  The stories they shared could only have come from close, caring contact with my sister.  How many times have I seen the same glowing faces of people whose lives Mim touched?  Unless they were super good actors, they appreciated respected honored Mim.  

It took me several days to decide to write this, but it's very possible that innocent people are being unfairly portrayed & enough is enough.

The tragic reality is that Mim was crippled with a deeply rooted need to describe herself as UN.  From what I can tell, she felt that way from the time she was very young.  Elementary school teachers shared with me stories about her rebuffing attempts by classmates to be nice to her.  I've heard from people who went to high school with her - nice people who are kind & considerate - who still feel remorse at not reaching out to her more, that they "weren't nicer" to her, not realizing that she would have not accepted it.  

The words Peter used to describe the nursing home staff were words I heard Mim use over the years to describe virtually any group or person in her life, including her own relatives.  She simply couldn't let herself be seen as worthwhile.  Never made sense to me, but no one knew better than I did how deep it went - in my presence, she told a counselor how her family lacked any faith in her, how they didn't expect her to amount to anything, when the opposite was true.

A week after Mim's death, my world was unexpectedly rocked by an aftershock of her shocking portrayal of herself.  

Of course, she'd be the first to tell you, "You can't believe Elsa - she lies."  To Mim, I was the most black-hearted of all liars,because I would not let up on telling her the truth of her talents - a keen intellect, rich thought & sensitive writing, a unique artistic sight, an ability to forge & maintain deep relationship.  She would have none of it. 

Decades ago, for one brief shining moment, it felt like I'd gotten through - then the next day she called me out as the most infernal of liars for making her believe she was something when she knew she was less than nothing.

I haven't a clue why Mim was that way.  She was eight years older, already entrenched in her dark self-assessment by the time I was born.  Any attempt I made to open her eyes just made matters worse.

Maybe it was being so much younger that helped me see the chasm between what Mim was & how she saw herself.  Not that it did any good for either of us.  

There are people who regret not being nicer to her back in their school days or not making a greater effort to get to know her at Laurel or Deer Park or wherever.  Over the past weeks, I've heard from old friends & virtual strangers who still feel deep sorrow over having failed her when they might have make a difference - "If only..."   Sadly, I'm not sure anyone could make a lasting difference.

A few days ago, I experienced an aftershock of Mim's passing, a reminder of a quality that defined my sister as much as any of her astonishing gifts.  And I am NOT going to let an innocent group of people who - as far as I can tell - were awe-filled by Mim be tarred by a compulsion to paint herself as the lowest of the low.  

Not them, not her classmates, not her schoolmates, not the casual acquaintances or admiring friends, not the loving relatives, not her little sister.  

Enough.