To Amy, With Love

I've mentioned "heartbreaking loss" briefly before and now I'll share.

I have two older sisters. I love them both dearly.

But one has passed away, and every so often, outside of my own thoughts, I'm reminded of the loss.

You know, like when someone, maybe a doctor, asks you to list your siblings?... What do you say?

I have two older sisters.

No.

I had two older sisters.

No.

I have one living sister...

That was how I phrased it most recently. The doctor took pause, then quietly asked, "and how did the other pass?"

I usually abbreviate; a car accident.

8/5/09 will be the 13th anniversary. Thirteen years later and I'm still grasping for words. How to share her.

Now I've got a "blog" and I'm pretty sure she would have had one too. I've posted older writings before, and she always loved to read what I had to say... so I'll share once more.

My version. Unedited (pulled from a floppy disk a few years ago no less! OK - I've added scanned photos this time, and maybe a word change here or there). But otherwise, un-abbreviated.

What I wrote for an English class my Senior year in college ('98), when the pain was still fresh...

“On Her Way to San Jose”

My oldest sister matured into a photographer and delighted in taking my picture. She also took pictures of clouds, strange pieces of daily life, and Barry Manilow. She uprooted to move to California two summers ago to focus on her art. I often picture her there, but the thing is, she isn’t.

I had turned 21, finally beginning somewhat of a mature life that resembled hers. I had been introduced into her circle of friends years before, and I had just started to feel more at ease around them; more grown up. For a spell during my childhood, Amy had pretended I didn’t exist. To her, I was a whiny little brat who stole away the attention of our mother. We later joked about it being the cause for a breakdown I would surely have sometime in my old age.

Amy moved out of our country home after high school. Flunking out of a college in Missouri brought her back. It seemed like during that stint in college she was home often, even though it was a 3 hour drive. Mom would do her laundry. Amy didn’t know what she wanted to do, so college wasn’t interesting. After a short stay at home, she moved about 30 minutes away, into the city. She supported herself with an Accounting job at the city paper, even though she had flunked Accounting in high school.

It sounds as if she was a stupid flunk-out. She wasn’t. She was brilliant, always reading. I have memories of her sitting in a big brown easy chair, flipping through novels, newspapers and magazines, soaking them up, analyzing. She kicked ass at Trivial Pursuit and Rubick’s Cube. Hollywood mesmerized her, and she knew six degrees to any obscure actor, not just Kevin Bacon.

Amy’s next move took her a bit further west, across the Missouri river and into Omaha, Nebraska. Here she got another cubicle job for more pay and quickly became the most popular girl in the department. Cathy and I would go visit her. She always wanted to show us off, as we were often characters she included in her witty banter. Her colleagues seemed to me like an elusive Brat Pack, always cracking inside jokes and coming up with crazy catch phrases. At this point I was driving our grandmother’s old Dodge Omni, and evolving into something of a personality myself. I was excelling in high school like my sisters, and following in their footsteps by joining the high school band and gaining that modest popularity that geeks can achieve. I played saxophone in the jazz band, like Amy had.

She and I developed similar interests. I would drive into Omaha and crash at her apartment. We would see movies, go out to eat, or just hang around playing with her computer. The internet was new and she had an account with Prodigy, an early internet provider. She would post messages in the Barry Manilow BBS and I would

participate in juvenile “slamming” in the alternative music ones. We would compare our posted messages and compliment each other’s witty words. Then we would laugh at the enormous response our messages would garner.

Amy was an avid Barry Manilow concert fan and became a talented entertainment photographer. Cathy and I would go to concerts with her and sit in the front row, half embarrassed and half proud of the way our older sister would cut loose, hooting and hollering between snaps of her Pentax. She had tons of “Barry friends” from all over the country who admired her photos. I would fall asleep on her couch, listening to her pace back and forth on the phone, discussing plane and concert ticket transactions. She talked loud and fast on the phone, allowing herself time to listen with just as much energy.

Somewhere between work and her social life (she would’ve said “lack of social life”), school became a priority. This time she knew what she wanted, and dabbled in History, English, and Journalism before focusing on Photography. She had a crush on one of her work colleagues who was also going to school with her for photography. They had great chemistry and it was reflected in the work that was produced from their shared studio and darkroom schedules.

When my high school graduation neared, I asked her take my senior pictures. She jumped at the chance. We spent a day on the farm. Walking around looking for good natural light and backdrops. We would stop and she would take about 10 shots. It felt so natural, like there wasn’t a camera between us. She would prompt me to smile and tell me if I looked fake. Of course she was always making me laugh. She was raunchy and hilarious. She would tell me I was beautiful. And through her lens I was, for what seemed like the first time.

I moved away to college and we began writing back and forth, via email and snail mail. Her letters and email were so alive! She phrased things bravely and poignantly. She would beg me to write back. “Did I mention, I want to move to LA???? Write me or lose that creative edge... Ame” She loved my writing, although I think it paled in comparison to hers. We inspired each other creatively. She lived vicariously through my funky fashion sense, party scenes, and freshman sexual escapades. We would compare class schedules and help each other study Art History during late night phone calls. When I was home on break she would invite me over to bleach her hair. I would use what was left of the bleach to put streaks in mine. We matched.

Amy was always happy to be with family and friends. She would hug us all, hello and goodbye and in between. Her conversation enlivened a room. She was blooming in her late twenties and we were all encouraging it. When she decided to move away, to California, no one was surprised. She had a hard time deciding things, especially major life changes. But when she made one, she stuck with it. We all helped her move out of her apartment into temporary living quarters with Cathy and her roommate, a family friend, Laura. She took about a month to finalize things and then we were summoned to help her move.

My boyfriend Stew (who she completely approved of), Cathy, Laura and I were to there to help her pack up her small car and a rented minivan. We were all going to drive her west to San Jose, making a stop in Lake Tahoe, one of her most favorite spots in the world. It was going to be grand. A road trip! We were humming bars from “Do you know the way to San Jose?”

We packed until midnight or 1 a.m. and then started getting ready to drive. Everyone had slept at one point or another and we were energized, ready to hit the road. Before we pulled away from the curb she had us all get into a group hug, and then took a picture of the circle our feet made and a few parting shots. Cathy, Stew and I took the lead in the minivan, with Amy and Laura in her small two-door tailing us. It was lightly raining when we got out of city limits onto the interstate, and then it began to pour.

There seemed to be a bit of a distance between our cars and we slowed down to catch sight of her lights in our mirrors. We passed through a spot of road construction where the eastbound and westbound traffic were slowed and merged into two-way traffic. We lost sight of her lights once again when we were out of the construction and pulled off to the side to wait. A semi passed and maybe another car. We started to worry when no more headlights came from behind us. Just as we headed out to find a spot to turn around we got a call on the cellular phone. There had been an accident. They had both been thrown from the car, even with seat belts on. A witness with a cellular phone told us that Laura was conscious and that Amy knew her name. He said that it was “bad.”

By the time we got across the median, the traffic eastbound was starting to back up. We were at a stand still and couldn’t see anything but cars for a mile. Stew got out and ran up the road in the rain. Cathy and I started to panic. We saw an ambulance zoom by and then police. Stew came slowly back, drenched. He had seen them put into ambulances and asked a police officer where they had been taken. We had to turn the minivan around and backtrack to get back onto the interstate, into the city, towards the hospital. I was trying to be optimistic. I don’t remember if I was praying or what, but it was some form of complete concentration on one hope in the whole world. She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.

We were led into a private room off from the waiting area. A box of tissues and blankets were brought in. Our parents had been called and were on their way. After about 10 minutes, two doctors came in and told us that there had been nothing they could do. She had been given CPR from the scene, but extensive internal injuries had taken her life.

We had been crying when they entered and now we were weeping uncontrollably. There was disbelief. We were on our way west damn it! We had to get back on the road! But there was no more Amy and no more reason to go. Our parents arrived and we had to tell them. My father, who I’d only seen cry once before, broke into tears, saying her name over and over again. My mother sat calmly and went to see the body when the doctors came back. She returned and told us that Amy had looked peaceful. It was when the nurse came in with Amy’s watch and jewelry that mom fell apart. We drove back to the apartment in the rented van, packed full with her things, in silence broken by sobs.

Laura had survived with a bad head wound from hitting the windshield. She had been taken to another hospital. It wasn’t until early morning when her parents brought her to us. She was in shock but gave us some details. They had been cranking Melissa Etheridge and eating Vanilla Wafers. They had slowed down when the heavy rain hit and Amy was having to fight the water pulling at the tires as she merged into two-way traffic due to the construction. She told Laura it would be okay, and then suddenly they were swerving. A four wheel drive vehicle heading east hit them, tearing the driver’s side door away, pulling the small car in half.

I strived to get an internship in New York City the following summer. Amy would have been behind me 100 percent in the flesh, and I know she was in spirit. She loved the Big Apple and knew one of us was destined for it. I walked around the city looking at it through her eyes, trying to find angles she would have photographed. At the Museum of Modern Art I stood in front of black and white photography exhibits that could have been hers. I visited places she had told me about, like Radio City Music Hall and the New York Public Library. She loved those huge lions at the entrance so I sat on one and wrote to her in my journal.

I have surrounded myself with pieces of her life. Photographs, pillows, stationary, and trinkets that are treasures now. It has been about two years, and I still cry off and on, but not so much anymore. I can feel her with me, hugging me, egging me on. Whenever I am on long road trips I think of her as my Patron Saint of Travel.

I am not extremely religious and neither was she, but I feel as though her aura surrounds me, and all those who she touched in one way or another. I write to her in my journal, sorting things out and bragging about achievements. She still inspires me. She had favored the phrases, “Carpe Diem” and “Fuck It” and I try to live by both.

I keep her in my back pocket where a Sunday School teacher once told me Jesus was supposed to be. Ha ha, remember that from CCD? This way, she is with me as I submit poetry for publication, or work on my portfolio with her art tools. She is with me as I skip a class to enjoy the spring weather with a walk through the woods. She is with me as I make plans for my fame and fortune. She’ll be with me as I bloom into my late twenties, and she’ll help me on the way to my “San Jose.”

Miss you Amy (7/16/1968 - 8/5/1996)

Love,
Sandy