Sister, I miss you

It’s been a while. I’m not sure where to pick up The Second Half thread, so I’ll just start here: October 30, 2019, about 3:30pm.

I’m at a coffee shop in Brooklyn, finishing up a bit of work. October is my favorite month—the leaves, my son’s birthday, perfect soccer weather, post-season baseball—so I remember feeling good about life in that moment. 

Then my phone rang. It was my oldest sister, Jennifer. “I have some hard news,” she said. “Jessie tried to take her life yesterday.” 

My other sister Jess was my hero for a long, long time. In 1988, she co-captained the Westfield High School girls soccer team to New Jersey’s Group IV State Championship. Four years later, I’d be part of my own state title team, but as a reliable foot soldier, not captain of the squad.  

FRESH FACED Here’s Jess with the ‘85 Freshman Girls Soccer Team. I remember her as a clever, crafty player, qualities I tried to embrace in my own game. I checked in with a few of her old teammates, including Marli, to her left in the photo. She talked about Jess’s talent and grace, but also the fact that she was “always calm, even under stress, always fair and supportive to those who didn’t have her skill set. I always loved playing with her and watching her do her thing.” You and me both, Marli.

It was always like that. Jessie had a charisma and creativity that made her a leader in ways that I’m simply not. I followed her everywhere—or tried to at least. When, as an early teen, she covered her bedroom walls with artful drawings and snippets of song lyrics from the Beatles and Bob Dylan, I did the same. Only mine looked like the mad ravings of an inmate who’d been stuck in solitary confinement for too long. “Hey, those are cool!” Jessie said. She was endlessly loyal and supportive. And fun. We had many, many outrageous times.

Of course, it wasn’t all wine and roses. Jess had her quirks, which became more jagged and pronounced as her life became increasingly complicated. And I’m no picnic either. But even after our most heated blow-up (Jess: “You never say anything!” Me: “Yeah, well you never shut up!”), we found our way back. As Bruce put it, you can’t forsake the ties that bind.

Back to Brooklyn, the hard news from Jen was a surprise. I had last seen Jess in August at our father’s 80th birthday. He rented a house in the Poconos for the whole family, about 20 of us in all. It was a happy occasion. Jess had been off the booze for a while and seemed at peace—maybe a little too into the online sobriety community she’d found, but I wasn’t about to judge. Especially since the drinks started flowing by noon for the rest of us.

Jen filled in more of the details, including the fact that Jess had been in a downward spiral for several weeks, deeper and darker than anything from her decades of depression and mental illness. I regretted being so unaware. But for now, at least, Jess was safe at a treatment facility in southern Vermont. “Maybe you can give her a call in the morning?” Jen offered. I said that I would. We hung up. Not five minutes later, my phone buzzed again. It was the babysitter.  

“I think Alex broke his wrist,” she said, then quickly added, “no, he definitely broke it.” 

After a half-mile sprint from the coffee shop to the schoolyard, I saw what she meant. The bone hadn’t busted through, but it was close. Cue twelve hours of ER mania. At one point, the affable doctor turned to my wife Rebecca and, with a nod at me and the polyester soccer gear that Alex and I were both wearing, joked, “Let me guess, this is all this guy’s fault.” Alex had to be transported to another hospital for surgery, so I headed home to be with our daughter. I still hadn’t told Rebecca about Jessie, because, well, there wasn’t really a good moment.

The next day was Halloween. It was stressful. Alex was in a lot of pain, but desperate to trick-or-treat with his pals. Rebecca had a tough work situation that was blowing up. I found a moment to fill her in on the situation. It wasn’t pretty, for a lot of reasons. 

I’ll cut to the chase here, since these other details aren’t all that important.  

At some point in the overnight hours, while under the care of medical staff in Vermont, Jessie had found a way to all but finish the mission. She ended up on life support for a few days while her daughters made their way from as far as Mexico, and all the necessary arrangements were made, including the eventual donation of several organs. She died on November 4th.

I can’t pivot back to me and soccer and body mass index without sounding like a major asshole. But I will say that the game was one of the things that Jessie and I shared deeply. I remember countless hours knocking the ball around in our backyard as kids. As adults, I recall looking for any excuse to get away from the grown-up stuff to go and juggle. The World Cup was our quadrennial obsession.

Here’s one particularly vivid memory. Ten or so years ago, I went to visit Jessie and her family in Vermont. Her marriage was coming undone, which had been apparent for some time. There was an old barn on the property. I woke up one morning and heard a steady thump, thump, thump. It was Jessie, taking her touches and striking the ball cleanly against the barn wall. 

“This is what keeps me sane,” she said, as I walked out to join her. 

Man, how I wish she could have kept banging away. 

So what now? It’s been nearly a year since we lost Jess—but a COVID year, so family and friends haven’t been able to do all the things you do when someone goes. Like others in this situation, I feel so bad that I wasn’t able to save a person I loved so deeply. But maybe with Jessie, I can take the lead and do what it takes to not just save myself, but be the best I can be. And so, it’s onward with The Second Half.