Be gone, big C - part 1. (A letter to my sister)

I was nine when you were born, and I was helping the midwife and my mother that day. I remember it clearly. It was mild, although it was December. Christmas was only two days behind, so getting a baby sister was a Christmas bonus. Mamma and the midwife was in the bedroom, and I was with my Pappa and my two other sisters in the livingroom. It took so long, Mamma must have been exhausted. Suddenly the midwife came out: Somebody needs to go to Mrs. Vassvik to get an emema pump. I volunteered along with my sister B. We took our kick sledges, and took to the road. We pretended to be ambulances, shouting Bah-boo, bah-boo - like the sirenes, you know - all the way to Mrs Vassviks house. I ran up the stairs and flicked the door open, shouting: I need the enema pump! Mrs Vassvik looked at me smiling, and asked "constipated, are we"? No, I answered, dead serious, Mamma is giving birth and the midwife told me to go get the enema pump. Mrs Vassvik stopped grinning, and said sharply "you should have said so at once, girl". She rushed upstairs, rushed downstairs and gave me a plastic bag. "Here", she said, "now hurry home". We did not use the sirene on the way home, cause we went so fast that we were too short of breath.

Still, it took at least 3 hours after we got back, until the midwife came out and got my father: "You can come now". There was no baby crying, it was quiet in the house. After a while Pappa came into the living room: "You got a baby sister - and you can go see her now". You were tucked into a blanket, a blue one, cause Mammas belly had been squared, so everyone figured you were going to be a boy. And you were so quiet, looking at us with eyes old as Metusalem. Just looking at us, not making one sound - and you were beautiful, more beautiful than any baby I had seen. The midwife only let us see you and Mamma for a little while. Mamma had lost a lot of blood, and had to rest and recouperate, the midwife said.

Later the doctor was called to see if Mamma needed to go to the hospital, but she could stay home he said, as long as she stayed in bed. Which she did. And for days I was the mother of the house - making food, looking after my sisters and going about daily life.

I made clothes for you, I remember one of the outfits, an orange one. Trousers and waistcoat. You looked drop-dead gorgeous in it. Made me feel so proud to see you wear it. We both got a lot of feedback on that one - you for being a cutie, and me for knowing how to sew at such a young age.

Four years later, our brother was born. Not at home, in a hospital this time. By now my dad and Mamma was fighing like crazy. Over nothing and everything. And one year after our brothers birth, they split up, which was a relief to us all. We thought we were safe, that everything was going to be ok. We could not have been more wrong.

She could not let go of her anger, and she cursed us, who got born to such a father - such an imbesil who thought having a degree in engineering made him something special. Well he was shit. And she had been stupid, stupid for falling for him - and now look at her, tied at her hands and feet with nowhere to go - and the responsibility for his kids. His. She kept repeating to us: Never get married, and never get kids. They will ruin your life.

She would not let Pappa see us, because he had abandoned us all. He had to go to the police to get visitation. When he picked us up, she looked like we were a sort of fifth column, collaborating with the enemy. She kept sending messages with us, "tell him to to pay up, I do not shit money, you know". So we told him that Mamma needed money. And he brought money with when he drove us home after the visit. It was awkward, being in the middle like that. We were walking on egg shells, trying not to set her off and not to offend him at the same time. We got quite good at it, the balancing act. You were always the quiet one, and our baby brother too. Anxious and quiet.

Weeks and months went by, and our parents kept their world war alive. She started splitting us up for visitation, because he did not know the first thing about kids. One day, he must have realized that he not only had lost his company and his family, he was also losing the family home. So he made a terrible mistake. At that time, it was so that women automatically got the house when a couple divorced. Mamma did not want to take him back, since he had lost his firm, because he did not know how to handle money. He had built this new house for his ineheritance, that he got in advance for starting his own company. But Mamma was tired of the old house, and insisted on a new one. It got too much, the new company and the new house at once. So he declared bankrupcy in order to save the family home. Because, as Mamma put it, we needed the roof over our heads more than his silly endavours. About the time of his biggest mistake, he was dabbeling in politics. She laughed real hard about it, him with his nasal voice and small posture, a policitan. Get real! He could not even hold job, and started his own company, and look what happened. He was a failure. A failure. She did not tell it so often to him, as she told us.

One day - he had been picking up you and our baby brother for visitation. But he did not come back, when his hours were up. The hours went by, and we did not know where you were. Mamma went ballistic. She yelled and raged, and cursed him and his entire family. His mother, his father, his foster parents and everyone that was slightly related to him. She did so to us, not to anybody else. In front of the neighbors, whose phone she used to call the police on him, she was courtesy itself. Instead of rage, she showed them sadness, despair and tearful eyes. She sent me off to my granny, Mor, to ask Pappas whereabouts. When I got to Mor, she asked "did she send you?". I confirmed it, but also said - diplomatic as always, that I too wanted to know where you and our brother were. That he could not abduct you, because you belonged with us. Mor said a big no - "I would never tell you where they were if I knew, and I don't know". Mor, please, I begged, I know you - I know you know where they are. Please, please tell Pappa to bring them home. She turned her back at me. What she did, I will never forget.

She lifted up her skirt, just like the women of Prague did to the Nazis, when the Germans entered the city. She showed me her ass.

Then she turned around and said, "and now you can go home" (to be continued)