Jennie

My sister is a superhero. In her daily life, she runs a successful, high-powered business; she sits on multiple boards for very grown up sounding things; she is a kind and generous host to a wide circle of family and friends; she is an amazing mom to three of the best kids in the world. This is not just little sister awe talking–her friends once went around the room saying who they’d call if they wound up in jail, and every single one said Jennie.

So I guess it’s not that surprising that she gave a masterclass in how to support someone through something awful.

She wanted to see Oliver when he was in the hospital. She wanted to see him with all the tubes and scars and EEG wires. She wanted to know what I was seeing and feel what I was feeling.

She called a lactation consultant to get advice on how to stop lactating, because until Oliver died the only thing I could do for him was to keep feeding him. She found tips about cabbage leaves and sudafed and weaning so that I didn’t have to.

She didn’t shy away from explaining Oliver’s death to Alice and Lionel, her older kids. She didn’t try to protect them from me. She let me see them and hug them and be comforted and charmed by them.

She checked on me every day for months. Some days it was a phone call, most days it was a “how are you today?” text. She didn’t stop even if I answered some version of “I’m sad” for several days, or didn’t respond.

She called me two or three times a week so we could walk and talk together. Whenever she could, she also came up to see me so we could walk and talk in person.

She asked me about Oliver’s life and let me talk about his bedtime routine and how much he was eating. She was maybe the only person who gave me space to acknowledge that there had been a time when I had a baby, when he was alive and doing normal baby things, and it wasn’t all just a fever dream erased in the beat of a bleeding heart.

When I said, “I can’t imagine facing people.” She said, “Yesterday you couldn’t imagine getting out of bed. And here we are on a walk. Imagine what you’ll do tomorrow.”

She brought me home with her after shiva, so I didn’t have to face an empty house.

She talked to me like I was still a person. She didn’t walk on eggshells or choose her words, she just talked to me.

She let me say all the hardest, darkest things and she didn’t get scared or try to change the subject or find a silver lining. She just let me say them.

She told me about her life. She told me about her work and her kids and her house, which got me out of my own head. She trusted me with her own stuff and in doing so made me feel like I could still be someone with something to offer other people.

She asked me questions and let me say all of the thoughts in my head, listening patiently. She responded to everything, sometimes validating, sometimes reminding me that I feel different today than I did yesterday and I will feel different again tomorrow. And sometimes gently telling me I was being ridiculous.

Once in a while, she didn’t know what to say, or she didn’t say just the right thing. When that happened, she would say, “I don’t think that was the right thing to say.” And she’d try again.

Once in a while, something I did threatened to hurt her–like when we booked a trip with friends who had a one year old when we couldn’t bear to be around Lucas, her baby. When that happened, she wouldn’t get angry. She would say, “I’m having a hard time understanding this.” And she would let me explain, and she would listen, and she would say, “That makes sense.”

She made sure I knew I was never alone.