Ruby Lee Cornelius Big Sister, Little Sister

Big Sister, Little Sister

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” she said. “Out of where?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel and steeling myself for her response. “Out of this God-forsaken town!” For two years I had been asking my sister Ruth to consider leaving the southeastern boot heel of Missouri. She had moved there from her Wisconsin home a few years earlier, to be near our brother. She hated it. She complained about the climate -- the hot, humid summers, and the starkly conservative politics. Our brother’s health deteriorated unexpectedly, and two years ago he died, leaving her in the care of his widow.

Ruth, herself, is left with cognitive and physical disabilities from a stroke-like brain bleed 28 years ago. Now in her late 70s, she falls regularly and is on a firstname basis with the local 911 medics. Her last spill left her with a cracked vertebra. So, after two years of cajoling and encouraging her to admit to her need for in-home assistance, she was telling me she was ready to come west. And I realized with a jolt that I had never really expected her to say yes! My eyes were fixed on the road ahead as I passed fields of carefree sheep and contented cows -- lucky critters with nothing to do but eat and sleep. My already crazed mind began to race. Life is full to bursting. Every ball of responsibility is in the air as I feverishly juggle in a futile attempt to keep them aloft. The balance and selfcare I crave mock me as I race from one day to the next. My musical instruments silently collect dust and my next book remains unwritten, while my accounting business sucks the creative juice out of most of my waking hours. I squeeze in moments of connection with my partner, adult children, grandchildren and a greatgranddaughter who lives 2,000 unreachable miles away. Where will I find time to do this thing -- this thing that my heart tells me is right, while my head anxiously disagrees.

“What are you saying?” I hesitantly ask. “Are you ready to move into a community apartment complex?” I cautiously avoid the term "assisted living." She has been stubborn and insistent about independence. “I guess I have no choice,” she replied. “I just can’t stay here.” I pulled into a lakeside park and turned off the

engine. Looking out at the reflection of the sunset, I breathed deeply, “OK, Sis. Can I call you later?”

Arriving home, I went to my bedroom to think. As I sat on the bed, I stared at the collection of old photos on my antique dresser: Mom at 13, Dad as an infant, my brothers and me sitting on the couch in our 1960 Sunday best. I picked up a favorite picture of my only sister -- a black and white 1945 photo -- four years old with blonde braids, a plaid dress and eyes glistening with tears. For years I have wondered what happened just before the flash of the camera. Did our mother scold her in criticism, as was all too familiar? Was she missing her father who was banished from her life since the divorce?

Ruth is twelve years my senior, and my earliest memories recall her as a teenager. She was beautiful in a way I would never be. She sang like an angel. All of my first adventures were with her -- Lake Michigan sun bathing, train rides and museum visits, restaurants and movie theaters. I was six when she moved into her own apartment, and I was heart-broken. Ours was an emotionally volatile home, and she had been my safe place. But when we had sleep-overs in her space, she would make popcorn, and we would stay up until the wee hours of the morning watching her favorite old movies, and sharing secrets that were ours alone.

We remained close as adults until I moved away some thirty years ago. Since the "brain thing," as we laughingly refer to it, she has been a very different sister, and our roles are reversed. I am the one she calls when she is angry, confused or just needs to laugh. I fill in the words she can no longer recall, as her damaged brain continues to frustrate her every thought and movement. I am little sister turned big sister. It is simply my turn. I picked up the phone.

“Sis, it’s going to be OK. You’re coming to Oregon.”

Ruby Lee Cornelius

Ruby Lee Cornelius, raised in Wisconsin, currently resides in the Pacific Northwest. She has recently published a memoir, Choiceless: A Birthmother's Story of Love, Loss and Reunion. She is a lifetime musician, singer and recent songwriter.