Part 2, Christmas: A Child’s Way of Knowing Who’s the Favorite

I have a myriad of wonderful memories of Christmas as a child. There were hundreds of joyous moments from driving around Christmas light watching with our dad, to the varied antics of the Pryzgoda family. This part of the story is not about any of that! This part is about the gifts my sister got that I envied.

That’s not to say that I didn’t get some amazing gifts from Santa. Oh, that’s right. I never mentioned how Christmas presents work in our family. We actually always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve. This way, those with significant others could spend Christmas Day with their spouse’s family. In the case of Sam and me, we spent Christmas Eve with the Pryzgodas and then Christmas day with the Clelands.

So on Christmas Eve, right about the time dessert was ready, everyone would come to our large living room and sit around laughing and opening presents from one another. Now this was all well and good, but Sam and I both knew that the BEST presents came from Santa. Santa was the one that got us the bikes, the rollerblades, the Xbox (even though by that point we knew no big, red guy was toting around a bag of Christmas gifts). It was tradition, though. Family got us cool stuff and clothes. Santa got us the awesome stuff that we’d been wanting all year.

I’ve been amazed and grateful to our mom since I found out there was no Santa Claus. To think that every year she was able to find the ONE thing that both my sister and I wanted SO bad, and then not even take credit for it when we started screaming with joy on Christmas morning? That is some dedication and every parent deserves to be appreciated for letting their child hang onto that magic for as long as they can.

I’m getting distracted though. This story is supposed to be about envy! Not warm and cozy feelings!

So onto the envy. This particular year, envy came in the form of a full sized, McDonald’s play-kit with built in drive thru and fake French fries that really crackled when you put them in their plastic fryer. It was amazing. Beautiful, even. Sam and I had come hurrying downstairs this particular Christmas and there, smack-dab in the middle of the living room, was the coolest thing we’d ever seen along with a giant red bow and a note from Santa. “For, Samantha. From, Santa.”

Fuck, Samantha. Fuck, Santa. At least I imagine that’s what I would have thought if I had known how to appropriately use the F-word at that time.

I stood in shock, Sam started screaming for joy and ran towards it. I honestly don’t remember what I got that Christmas from Santa. I am certain it was amazing and exactly what I wanted, but whatever it was it paled so much in comparison to Sam’s gift, it has been completely wiped from my memory.

Let’s be clear here. I was way too old to be playing with this toy, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t want it to be mine with every part of my being. I watched Sam longingly as she set everything up and put on her little apron and McDonald’s visor that even had a plastic headset built in for “drive-thru orders.” Grandma was up cooking eggs at the time so the flock of our family members had begun groggily wandering downstairs like extras in Night of the Living Dead to get their morning cup of coffee.

Every single one of them stopped to observe Samantha in the middle of the living room cooking fake French fries. Our mom eventually made it downstairs and sat on the couch to smile and absorb the joy of Christmas emanating from her daughters. It was soon after that Aunt Kathy and Laura came in too. Laura scooched across the carpet on her knees and “pulled up” to the plastic drive-thru window to give Samantha her first order while Kathy sat in one of the easy chairs near Mom.

Kathy had a grin on her face and she idly glanced over to our mom, “I’m glad to see Santa is preparing her for her future.” My mom just gave Kathy a look and Aunt Laura burst into laughter and so did I. That was the first time I’d ever understood sarcasm and after hearing that comment from our wonderfully cynical aunt, I felt better. Thanks, Santa!

Part 1, Christmas: Our Family

Christmas is my favorite time of the year. Not because of the presents or the rusted, fake Christmas tree that stood tall in our living room, but because it was the one time of the year that our family would all come together. We’d sit down at the big dining room table (that as kids we weren’t allowed to eat at unless it was a special event) and share a meal together. When I was young, it was before about half of my aunts and uncles had gotten married, so we could still reasonably fit everyone at the same table.

There was no “kids” table in our house. At least not in the traditional sense. A lot of times my uncles would eat in the kitchen to avoid the calamity of politics, music and art talks coming from the women of the family. There was one year that one of my aunts even launched a plate of food in protest to some topic. I can’t remember if it was Aunt Laura or Aunt Kathy that did it, but it really could be either of them. Something that I’ve always loved about the Pryzgodas is that they are a passionate bunch. When someone in my family believes in something, be it an idea or theology, they will argue it to the end with all the passion and righteousness of a stereotypical evangelist.

The disagreements were not always about religion, but ranged from philosophy to what order you’re supposed to use the dinner forks in. It was glorious. Around Christmas, our house was filled with laughter and pointless arguments. I always felt a little bad for the boyfriends or girlfriends that were dragged along for Christmas festivities. Some of them would sit stock still, staring with wide eyes at the insanity that was our family. Others embraced it and became part of the chaos. Those are the ones that I now call aunts and uncles.

Like Uncle Steve. My first encounter with Uncle Steve, aside from the pleasantries of initially meeting him, took place at 6 AM on Christmas morning. Sam was sitting diligently by the pile of presents from Santa, waiting for Mom to get up and I had gone into the kitchen to make Mom a cup of coffee. As an aside, my mother would pretend she was sleeping on Christmas morning until one of us delivered a cup of coffee to her. Then she would begrudgingly get up and go downstairs, with a small hidden smile, and present opening time began. I found out about two weeks ago that she had been “faking it” my entire young life. Go, Mom.

Anyway, I walked into the kitchen and I saw Steve leaning into our refrigerator, bare foot with a t-shirt and pajama pants on. There was a pot of coffee already brewing and I stood staring a moment at the stranger before he leaned out of the fridge. He had a plate of left overs in one hand and was taking a bite out of a whole kielbasa. Without missing a beat after spotting me staring at him, Steve pulled the kielbasa away from his face and offered it toward me, “Want some?”

He was definitely part of the family.

It was PINK!

This is another one of those “Sam was sick” stories. It was a normal night in the Cleland/Pryzgoda household. Our mother had decided during the divorce that she was going to keep our father’s last name. She said she didn’t want a different last name than her children. I think that gesture speaks droves about our mom.

Anyway, normal night, I think it was Friday. Sam had been sick all week, and at this time we were sharing a room and bunk beds so while she was upstairs in bed, I was avoiding the room. As I mentioned, we rarely could agree on what TV show to watch and at that point Mom had set up a TV and VCR to watch in our room while Sam was stuck in bed. Needless to say, when she was sick I always lost the argument of what we were going to watch. So, tonight I was downstairs with Grandma and Grandpa watching Fawlty Towers rather than bothering with the upstairs television at all.

Earlier in the evening, Grandpa had come home with a platter of shrimp cocktail. Sam’s favorite. Sam LOVED shrimp. It didn’t particularly matter what form it was in. If it was shrimp, Sam loved it… so obviously being presented with an entire platter of shrimp sent her into a euphoria of crustacean joy. She ate the whole platter pretty much by herself. After that, she wandered into the living room with her heart blanket and passed out on the love seat.

We were about halfway through an episode of that zany British show, giggling at Basil’s antics, before Sam appeared at the base of the stairs. She had her heart blanket clung to her chest and it was the first time I’d ever seen anyone look GREEN. She stood there a moment in silence as the three of us slowly turned our attention to Sam.

Grandma finally spoke up, “Honey, are you feeling ok?”

Sam shook her head and when she opened her mouth, no words came out. Instead a steady pink faucet of chum projected in an arch across the family room, even going so far as to cross my line of sight to the television. Not only was the arch of refuse bright pink, but the sheer smell of dead fish and bile easily could have turned the most stalwart man’s stomach. So, weird color, terrible smell and it just went on. She puked in one steady heave for, I swear, thirty seconds. It just kept coming until it began forming a chunky pile about three feet in front of my sister.

The monstrosity of a moment finally drew to an end and my sister was again standing in silence, pink goo dribbling down her chin and tears in her eyes. We all sat in silence, staring at Sam. It was our Grandfather who finally spoke up, “You feel better now, sweetheart?”

Sam bobbed her head and he stood to carry her upstairs to clean up and put her in bed, leaving Grandma and I still in a stunned and disgusted silence. We both covered our noses and stood to begin cleaning up the mess.

There was a massive pink stain on our family room carpet up until the day we actually moved out. Like a disgusting testament to the capability of the human body and will of a little girl.

The Man with the Golden Sugar Cone

As brash as our grandfather could be, and contrary to his outward appearance, Grandpa was one of the most gentle and kind men I have ever met. We lived in a very loud household, which probably was also why Grandpa always had headaches. Our grandmother, mother, Sam and I did not help. Between the four of us, we argued a lot. Though, whenever there was a blow out of yelling, no matter who was involved, you could bet that about fifteen minutes after everyone had calmed down Grandpa would sneak upstairs with his car keys in hand.

He would lean into our rooms (which we’d usually been banished to) and whisper in his deep, gruff voice, “I heard they have a new flavor of ice cream at Thrifty’s. Get your shoes.” And while we always knew there was no new flavor of ice cream, we’d hurry to grab our shoes and quietly creep down the stairs like we were super spies out of a James Bond movie.

He’d hold up the act of secrecy until we were in the car and on the road. Once in the car, usually only Sam would keep up conversation. She’d hum something to herself or tell Grandpa and me a story as he and I stayed quiet with a small smile on our lips in anticipation of the impending ice cream.

When we got there, it was always the same. Grandpa got two scoops of Rocky Road, Sam got a sugar cone of Mint Chip and I got one scoop of Rocky Road. Then we’d pile back into the car with our bounty and Sam still singing in the background . She really never stopped. She’d just keep going and going and going, but on super-secret ice cream trips it was hard to get irritated with her.

Grandpa would always drive around until we’d finished our ice cream so we could dump the evidence before we got home, so we spent a lot of time in the car as he and I both took forever to eat and Sam would have inhaled hers well before we had even made a dent into our icy mounds of chocolate and marshmallows.

After getting rid of empty cups, we’d usually run into a gas station bathroom to rinse off any remaining stickiness. In the early years of doing this, that part of the trip tended to take a little bit longer as Sam had a way of getting ice cream pretty much everywhere. There was even a trip that we had to stop and buy her a new shirt as she’d dropped an entire scoop down her front.

Once we were all cleaned up, we’d head home. This was one of the rare times Sam was quiet when she wasn’t sick. She knew as well as I did that we now had the challenge of creeping back upstairs and into our rooms without being discovered. Of course, now I know Mom and Grandma knew about these trips every time we went, but at the time Grandpa kept us under the belief that this was secret and special. So, we’d creep back inside and slowly crawl our ways back up the stairs and down the hall until slithering back into our respective rooms, pretending like no adventure had ever been had and not daring to even speak to our mother until we were sure the scent of chocolate was no longer on our breath.

“You’re Sisters!”

Our grandfather was a quiet man. A brilliant and quiet man. In his younger years he had dreamed of being a jazz trumpetist. He even graduated from Julliard. For those of you who don’t know, attending (let alone graduating from) Julliard is a big deal if you’re an aspiring musician.

He also played at Carnegie Hall multiple times. That’s a big deal too. In fact, Grandpa liked to flaunt that he had played at Carnegie Hall. It was always when I was getting frustrated playing my violin that it would come up.

He would walk into the den with a grumpy expression  and fold his arms as I struggled through scales. When I was on the verge of giving up he would speak in his gruff, baritone voice (that sounded like a mix of James Earl Jones and Clint Eastwood in one man), “Joanna Lynn Cleland, how do you get to Carnegie Hall?” He always used our middle names when he was trying to be serious.

I would roll my eyes before turning around and replying evenly, “Practice, practice, practice.”

Grandpa then would chuckle and mutter, “Good girl,” before letting me get back to my practicing with a small smile on his lips. I have heard that dumb joke over a million times and I will probably tell it a million times more.

Anyway, with having to support nine children and going to war in his early twenties, Grandpa’s dreams of music fell victim to the suffocating drone of reality. He was a door-to-door salesman for a while and eventually joined the navy. You see, my grandfather thought that he was going to join the navy and play in the navy band. He never dreamed that his ridiculous skill of perfect hearing would land him on a submarine as one of the top sonar guys of his time.

No, joke. My grandfather had such a good ear he learned to recognize the difference between the passing of a humpback whale’s song, a pack of dolphins romping by and the bay of an enemy sub looming in the depths beyond. He could hear everything.

Even in his elder years, he didn’t lose this skill. A pin dropped in the front hall of our two story home, and he heard it no matter where he was in the house. Not just heard it, but was irritated by it. Being great at hearing was a blessing and a curse for our grandfather. He was often stricken with headaches which only added to his grumpy outward demeanor.

For two little girls, this was a tough thing to deal with. Especially as two little girls that were sisters tended to fight. A lot.

I’m not talking the normal arguments of dissention. I’m talking about a war of vocal magnitude so loud that our neighbors a half block away could hear it. While in public I was a quiet child, but when it came to fighting with my sister I could scream with the best of them. Oh, how we yelled. It would be over the dumbest stuff too. Most of the time it was about what TV show we were watching. Our fights also went from grumpy whining to screeching at the tops of our lungs in seconds. There was very little middle ground.

Obviously, for our grandfather this was a nightmare. He was constantly assaulted with the high pitched harpy cries of his two granddaughters.

One day, amidst one of our fights, we heard Grandpa bellow from the front hall, “You two are sisters! You should love each other!”

This only caused us to stop briefly before the screeching began again. To us, fighting was part of how we loved each other. We never really physically hurt each other minus two times. Once Sam nailed me in the back with a massive universal remote (which dropped me melodramatically to the floor) and the other I shoved her into a wall for no reason other than I was mad at Mom and she was there.

After a few moments, while we were screaming at each other, we heard the heavy stomps of Grandpa coming up the stairs.

We lived in an older house that creaked with every step you took. We had learned over the years to be able to recognize who was walking around based on the sound of the creaking footsteps that the house made. Low and behold, Samantha and I had been blessed with our Grandfather’s gift as well. At least when it came to listening to houses creak.

This time it was rather obvious it was Grandpa coming up the stairs. He came barreling into the room after a few more heavy steps, bellowing over our screaming in a deafening roar, “If you two don’t stop this I’m going to take my belt off!”

Both Samantha and I stopped immediately. We’d never been struck as kids by an adult, so the idea that our giant of a grandfather was about to beat the crap out of us with a belt gave us both a sudden abject fear of the future.

It was then from way downstairs in the kitchen all three of us heard Grandma chime in with a warning tone, “If you do that, Tom, you’ll be chasing those girls with your pants around your ankles!”

Turns out Grandma had perfect hearing too. She also had a wonderful way of diffusing situations with random interjections. I’m pretty sure Sam picked up some of her word-weaving skills from Grandma.

Anyway, Grandpa’s face immediately went beet red. He grumbled something beneath his breath before storming off, leaving Sam and I stuck in an awkward place between receding terror and laughter. I can only imagine our Grandfather’s contorted and embarrassed expression as he stormed back down the stairs in the wake of his granddaughters’ giggles.

“I have to go to the bathroom…”

It’s pretty obvious by this point just how sick my sister was as a kid. Super sick. The various doctors she was sent to all had different diagnoses as well. First it was cancer then when proven it wasn’t cancer there was a long list of different diagnoses that I’m not even going to try to pronounce. Inevitably they always defaulted back to cancer when they couldn’t prove what her actual illness was.

Part of the weird thing about Sam’s illness was it only really got bad in the springtime and lasted about midway through summer. She had small bouts during fall and winter, but nothing like how bad it was in the spring.

I think it was about age seven that it got even worse. She was so sick that my mom was taking her to the hospital on a weekly basis. Sometimes daily just for testing. During one of these tests, Samantha’s hair had become so tangled in the various wires and tubes attached to her that the nurse just cut off her beautiful fairy tale locks without permission from my mother. Of course Mom was furious, but for Sam it simply seemed like one less annoyance she had to deal with.

You see, my sister was a hardened veteran when it came to hospital testing. I’m not talking about normal tests either. Think catheters and tubes stuffed down your throat. At seven years old she wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at some of the things any of us in our adult lives would run screaming from. I’m twenty-nine now and if someone mentions catheter and me in the same sentence I have a panic attack.

Anyway, by this point in her young life, Sam had gone through some of the most painful, uncomfortable and traumatizing medical tests American hospitals had to offer. This was all par for the course for her. One day came when she was in for a usual check in. I don’t remember what she was actually there for, but I do remember how the short-lived visit began.

Sam was in the hospital bed waiting patiently for the inevitable. At some point she began shifting uncomfortably, but the adults were talking and this was one of her rare quiet moments. I watched her from the side of the room surrounded by hospital equipment that in my young mind had been transformed into various methods of torture that I was trying to ignore.

The doctor and nurses began moving toward my sister to insert the catheter to which my sister sat up and abruptly said, “I have to go to the bathroom.” The doctor stared at her a moment and the nurses looked to him for their next move.

My mother chimed in, “Alright, sweety. Let’s go.”

I remember the doctor turned to my mother and gave her a very harsh look over the rim of his 1980s fabulous glasses. They were the kind with the big brown rim that were a rip off of Buddy Holly’s but way tackier. My mother paused as the doctor began to speak. “She’s just trying to avoid what’s coming.”

My mother’s brow knit, but I could see she was second guessing herself. Our mom knew Sam. She knew this little girl had gone through far worse than the insertion of a catheter and she knew that Sam could handle it. But… this doctor might know better because he was in fact a doctor and must have a lot of experience with children and he could very well be right. Sam might be avoiding it. After a moment my mother nodded and the doctor and nurses began moving toward Samantha again.

Sam fidgeted again and repeated herself as if they hadn’t heard her the first time, “I have to go to the bathroom.” It was when they put their hands on her she began to struggle and cry. My mother moved forward again as one of the nurses tried to keep my sister pinned down and still. I watched the doctor gesture to the other attending nurse who then moved to usher my mother by force out of the room, dragging me along with her.

We could hear Sam screaming outside the door that was now guarded by the nurse. I remember my mother began to cry, holding her hands over her mouth as she heard the wails of her pained daughter. I held onto her side, burying my face against her and trying to drown out my sister’s screams as we were forced to wait.

It was about the same time that I felt my mother’s entire body tense and her prepare to launch at the nurse that the screaming stopped. There was a very long silence before the door cracked open and the doctor with the ugly glasses stepped into view. His entire torso was sopping wet, painted in a thin yellow coat of fresh urine.

He stared at my mother a moment and then stormed down the hall. Of course we ignored the rather flabbergasted guard nurse and hurried into the room to find the other nurse apologizing to my sister (who was also soaked in urine) over and over again.

Sam was so sweet. She was patting the nurse’s hand and in her little, sick voice told the woman who was on the verge of tears that it was alright and, “I’m sorry. I just really had to go to the bathroom.”

We never let that doctor near Samantha again.

Hope in a Night of Pie

Our parents split up when we were pretty young. I think I was eight when the divorce finalized. Honestly, I don’t remember much of why they split up. I don’t think Sam does either. In fact I have far more memories of Mom and Dad together after their divorce than I do before it.

One of my favorite memories of our parents was late on a Friday night in my grandmother’s kitchen. After our parents divorced, Mom, Sam and I moved in with our grandparents. It was great. I loved it and I love them.

Anyway, it was a year or two after the divorce and Dad was visiting. After he and I went out to dinner and Sam was put in bed (she was really sick that night), we all went to the kitchen. Mom had the idea to make pies, or she was already baking… I don’t really remember. What was special about this night, though, was all three of us sat down at the big kitchen table and started dabbing whip cream on the chocolate cream pies. My parents laughed together.

Looking back now, it’s a bit tragic because as I watched my parents talk and laugh I had a glimmer of hope that we would be a family again. I think every kid from a broken home has at least one of those moments happen in their lives. Maybe it will all be ok?

Unfortunately, for my family that was not the case… but that night was wonderful. At some point, my dad had said something silly which resulted in my mother idly flicking a spoonful of whip cream at him. My mom wasn’t exactly a great shot so instead of hitting him in the chest like she had planned, the large dollop sailed over my head to splatter plainly across my father’s face.

There was a moment of tense silence. My hands were over my mouth and I prayed that this magical moment with my parents was not destroyed over a misplaced spoonful of whip cream. And then I started to giggle as the whip cream slid down my daddy’s face and hit the table. And then my mom began to giggle… and then Dad started to giggle.

Here we were all giggling like idiots well passed my bed time… and then war began! My father’s hand curled, scooping a hunk of pie from a nearby tray and plainly throwing it at my mother. Mom didn’t miss a beat and in no time I was dodging a full pie flying by before it nailed my dad upside the head. Soon chocolate and cream was flying everywhere and my mom had run to the kitchen sink to grab the sink sprayer you use for big pots in order to defend herself.

We all came to a halt, though, when little Sam appeared in the doorway to the kitchen rubbing at her eyes with her heart blanket clutched to her side. “What are you doing?”

“Playing.” My mom replied, frozen in her defensive position with the sink still running.

“Can I play?” Sam was still rubbing at her eyes, looking like a ghost of the little girl she was. It was at this point I would have sworn my dad was a super hero. He flew across the room faster than the Flash and swept her up into his arms, spinning frail little Samantha with him into the kitchen. She giggled the whole way.

It was a great night.

A Cruel Rejection

This next story I don’t particularly remember clearly, but it was our mother that regaled me with the tale in my ‘teens and I’ve felt utterly guilty for it since. This tidbit is about the cruelty of children. Namely how cruel I was as a child.

Let me back up a little bit and give some exposition on who Samantha was at four years old. Sam was much different than I was. I had always been a shy child. I always said “please” and “thank you.” I was generally soft-spoken  to the point that our grandmother would make me repeat myself over and over until she gave up on trying to hear whatever it was I was trying to say.

Sam was none of these things. In fact, even physically we were completely different. I had straight, dark brown hair. She had golden and long curls that looked like something you’d find painted across a the page of a fairy tale. I had dark brown eyes while Samantha had rich grey/blue eyes that changed hue depending on the color she was wearing. Even at seven and a half, I was unreasonably jealous of my sister’s beauty.

Not to mention the fact that Sam had the ability to entrance an entire room just by walking in. You see, Sam didn’t actually walk anywhere. Normal people walk… but Sam wasn’t normal. Sam danced wherever she went. I’m not kidding. The kid didn’t walk or run. She danced and skipped. On top of that, unlike me who rarely spoke, she talked all the time. And not just talked, she sang. If Sam had something to tell you, you’d get a light hearted aria or a tragic ballad rather than the usual disjointed stories children tell.

She was magical. People saw it too. And here I was, a normal kid a little bit too short for her age constantly upstaged by her baby sister. Beyond that Samantha was sick. How was I ever going to compete with that?!

I’m not talking about a cold either. Until the age of twelve, my sister was constantly in and out of the hospital because of a mystery illness… but we’ll get to the details of that a little bit later.

Now that you have a better idea of just what I was dealing with at the time and where my mind was at, the cruelty of the lines that follow hopefully will have a little perspective.

It was an early evening in our house on Chrisanta in Mission Viejo, CA. Simple suburban living. Back in those days my sister and I were both addicted to the show Fraggle Rock. Now as all you old schoolers know, Fraggle Rock was only on HBO. Any time the HBO intro logo came on (you know, the one that made the “BwoooooooOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” sound), Sam and I came  running from whatever room we had been in in hopes that soon we would be watching the antics of Red and Mokey. * (**Sam swears up and down to this day that her favorite fraggle was not Red and it was Mokey… but I clearly remember her bouncing around pounding on walls and calling herself “Red” with pigtails in her hair.)

I was already sitting in front of the television this particular evening with a blanket and glass of juice, ready for the impending story of doozers and fraggles to commence. Sam wandered in, not feeling particularly well. She had her “heart blanket” with her. When Sam first started getting really sick, our Mom made her a special little quilt lovingly named the “heart blanket.” You could tell Sam really wasn’t feeling well if she was dragging that thing around.

Tonight was one of those nights.

She was so sick at this point she couldn’t dance. She couldn’t even walk. Along with her heart blanket, this poor, withered, little creature was dragging a bucket. Like the heart blanket, Sam had a medium sized bucket to carry with her if she wasn’t feeling well as she had bouts of vomiting that went along with her illness.

So, here I was wrapped up and ready to go and up crawls Sam and heaves herself beside me in front of the TV with her blanket wrapped around her and her bucket sitting in her lap. And soon after, I did the only thing I will truly regret for the entirety of my life. As the show began, Sam could barely keep herself upright so she began slowly leaning. Eventually she was leaning against my side. She was up in my personal space. I was going to have none of it.

Instead of quietly asking Sam to move over, or gently redirecting her to lay on the floor… I shoved her. Hard. So hard that she went toppling to her side and just lay there and began to cry. Great! Now I was going to be in trouble. In a miniature fit, I stood up and threw my empty cup down then stormed off leaving my poor, sick sister crying on the floor.

Even now, typing the story out I can feel myself begin to tear up. As a child you don’t realize the depths of your actions until you’ve aged to a point that you can appreciate the moments. Now, I look back at that story and feel a deep sense of remorse. It was small and brief. Even Sam has told me that she forgives me and doesn’t really remember it, but I know within me I have an ability to be cruel and without compassion. That for a time my jealousy was so potent that I couldn’t see that my sick sister that I love with all my heart just wanted to cuddle and take comfort with me.

Sam has told me on more than one occasion not to regret because that forfeits the rights of your life. Because if you didn’t do the things you have done, you wouldn’t be who you are now. Of course, she said it much differently during those conversations. Sam always has a way of embedding wisdom in layers of zany ridiculousness. Like, “I ran over a rabbit today and I mourned its death, but then I realized that maybe that rabbit was the reincarnation of Hitler. It was bunny Hitler and I didn’t feel so bad.” It’s an art.

Yes, Sam really believes she killed bunny Hitler.