Warning: Violence and disturbing subjects

Shattering Expectations: A Tale of Love and Loss

Sisters in the Rain

I easily remember my sister Nancy’s birthday since it falls three days after Christmas. Every year, Mom reminded us to make a big deal out of it, as it can be tough for people with birthdays so close to Christmas.

Funny, my birthday, April 20th, has, on occasion, competed with the resurrection of Christ. Try competing with that, Nancy (a sisterly joke).

December 30th, 2021, two days after her 72nd birthday, Nancy died while being treated for respiratory problems. Covid was not given the official blame, but if I were handed the stethoscope, I’d be skeptical. It doesn’t matter, she’s gone, and gone is gone. I can’t write a syrupy, Hallmark-card-worthy tribute about her because she lived a life suited more for the thriller genre.

With the news of her death, the strangest memory came to my mind —

Nancy was visiting my husband and I shortly after our wedding. We were seated at the dining room table in our 1970s mobile home, eating breakfast. I was 21 years old and quite proud of the French toast I’d made and served on the Corelle china that she and our other sister had gifted us for our wedding.

While expressing how much we liked the set, she grabbed an empty plate off the table, exclaiming, “You literally cannot break this stuff. Watch!”

Without hesitation, she chucks the plate at the wall behind my husband.

The innocent, rather boastful Corelle, hits the wall and shatters. In one of those moments when shock causes a glitch in time, we sat open-mouthed, watching slivers of Butterfly Gold Corelle explode onto the wall, shards flying in all directions, then floating to the floor in a surreal manner.

I don’t remember which of us broke the silence by bursting into laughter.

Recollecting this memory, I realized it perfectly encapsulates Nancy’s approach to life. She believed she was emotionally invincible, tossing herself passionately at life’s walls, only to be left shattered to pieces.

I confess that I was jealous of Nancy. We lived under the same roof, with the same rules and models, yet she pushed every boundary. In our house, girls were under strict laws to maintain maximum lady-like status.

For example, we were not supposed to take part in sports not up to feminine standards, leaving badminton or hopscotch. The thought of a girl spreading her legs for a Cello was too unladylike.

Nancy didn’t listen. At least once a week, she’d get in trouble for ripping her dress under the arms while playing tetherball or scrapping with some boy.

Some rules were known yet left unsaid, like outsmarting a boy or demonstrating assertiveness. Girls must be agreeable, especially to men and boys. According to our house mantra, a boy won’t like a girl if she is too smart (at least not smarter than said boy).

Additionally, girls should never burp, and for God’s sake, if you ever pass gas, you better hope it’s a good one, and the entire room goes up in flames. I’m convinced Mom lived her 77 years without ever experiencing the relief and satisfaction a simple burp or fart can bring. Or possibly, all the times we blamed the family dog, it was her, but I rather doubt she was capable of such unladylikness.

Nancy excelled in school, getting good grades, and early in her job history. It’s not that she didn’t know the laws. Maybe she even planned on following them, but she’d pucker her lips, sounding a giant raspberry when it came down to it.

I admired her. Take a room full of boring people, add Nancy, and I promise something will ignite, not necessarily in a bad way, but a sit-up and take notice event.

Babysitting is a good example. Nancy was a popular sitter of choice in our neighborhood. She was responsible, polite, and well-groomed, if you didn’t notice the armpit holes on her dress. Mom boasted Nancy’s resourcefulness to all.

Like the time I projected random turds out the leg of my diaper while crawling across the doctor’s office floor. That’s when four-year-old, superhero Nancy came to the rescue, scooping the turds up and hiding them in a planter box. Being the toddler in the story, I did not appreciate the tale’s long-running success.

Responsible or not, when Nancy was involved, stuff happened.

One evening, as we sat at the kitchen table drinking homemade soda in our color-assigned aluminum glasses, our avocado-green phone rang, sending Mom to the wall where it hung. After hanging up the receiver, Mom returns to the table, hands extended like an emcee about to say “ta-da!”

“You hypnotized the Roger kids?” she asked, looking directly at Nancy.

Earlier that afternoon, Nancy returned home from babysitting when, out of character, she retreated to her room to complete homework before dinner. The phone call revealed that when the Rogers returned home from work, they found Nancy in tears with their three children in a zombie state. Using a necklace with a dangling gold locket, she somehow convinced the kids they were in a trance.

The problem is she jumped into her hypnotic career before learning how to undo the spell. It turned out okay, the children eventually came to, with the help of some ice cream, and I became the new babysitter with the strict rule of no hypnosis.

Come to think about it, I had a lot of rules tacked onto me because of Nancy.

Although we did not always get along, she did something special for me I will never forget. When I turned 13, Nancy planned and organized a birthday party with games and other kids. Our family always had a cake and presents but never friends and games. I would guess she did this for me because it was something she would have loved for herself. I’m certain it was not easy to get permission from Mom and Dad.

We all worked our way through high school. Her bosses and fellow workers always valued Nancy. Her main job as a teen was as an usher at the local theatre and later as a manager at the drive-in movie theater.

Our dad believed keeping his family fed with a roof over their head was his one job. In his defense, I realized he had no other tools in his belt many years ago. Mom was a beauty that we all aspired to be like. After all, she received Dad’s attention. As daughters, we longed for male attention and acceptance.

In 1966, Nancy accepted a ride from a man who’d shown her a great deal of attention at the movie theater. As I write this, my heart sinks, wondering if I even know the whole story. Mom and Dad were known for giving us a diluted or deluded version of events when they felt it was better for us or, sometimes, for them.

I was told the man exposed himself in the car, and Nancy ran away. I know she went to court and settled, receiving enough money to put a down payment on a used car.

Like me, Nancy practiced the family hobby, drinking, early in life. She had many friends, and now, with a car, her independence had soared. After school, she continued to work, but now, after work, she’d party. Her grades dropped, but not enough to be a problem. Attendance became a threat to her upcoming high school graduation in 1968.

We lived in the Seattle area, so I can guess the day was dark and cloudy, with rain likely. At least, that’s how I remember it. All I know is, if the day wasn’t dark and rainy, it should have been. I walked in the front door after school like any other time and was surprised to see Mom since a few months back, she had taken a nurse’s aide job, her first job since being a mom. We all knew things had gone beyond our usual hand-to-mouth finances for her to work. Dad was given a new responsibility — waking us up for school.

Mom’s expression looked familiar, but she didn’t have the bruises that usually accompanied her tear-streaked face. I remember being told to brace for a shock, to keep calm — and some weird semi-justifications for Dad losing his temper.

Again, the rain partners with this memory, dark cloudy skies with rain pouring down the windows. Opening the door to Nancy’s bedroom, I thought I was prepared. She was in bed with pillows propping her neck and head. To this day, I’ve never witnessed a sight, fictionalized or real, as horrifying as this, not even the Apollo Creed scene in Rocky.

Her purple and black face protruded out like the Elephant man, leaving Nancy’s intense dark brown eyes swollen shut. I didn’t take her hand or wipe the tears from her face. I wonder now if it even crossed my mind. I just sat on the end of the bed, listening as she graphically recalled the horrific scene.

Nancy’s story, laced with details I later heard from Mom, created a nightmarish scene.

After numerous attempts to stir Nancy from her bed, Dad received a phone call from the school’s principal, warning she would not graduate if she missed one more day of school. To Dad, not graduating from high school meant not moving out on the agreed-upon schedule. It seems since birth he’d let us know our expiration date was up the day we finished school. Heck, it may be stamped on our behinds. When he found out she’d missed that much school, Dad flew into a rage, racing into her bedroom and screaming for her to get out of bed.

That’s when she used the eff word accented with a finger. One word and one finger unlocked his rage. To survive the telling of what happens next, I have to picture my dad as a damaged angry little boy at the schoolyard. It might help if you, the reader, do the same.

With his knees, holding down her shoulders, Dad bludgeoned Nancy’s face with closed fists while demanding she, “Say Uncle!”

I remember asking in disbelief if he really said those words. And she confirmed it was exactly what he said.

Unless you’ve been there, you won’t understand my reaction to this, and I can only hope you don’t judge my confused fifteen-year-old self.

After an awkward attempt to comfort my sister, I ran to Dad’s side. He had left the bedroom where he was asked to wait and was now resting in his favorite recliner under a blanket.

Sobbing at his feet, my heart broke for the abuser. I imagined his unbearable pain knowing if I’d lost control and beaten my child to a pulp, I would believe I did not deserve to live. I tried to tell him I understood how he felt and that I still loved him.

What I didn’t understand then was that he was still angry and somehow able to justify in his mind what he had done. I carried the guilt of my reaction for years, wondering if I was some kind of psychopath for hurting so badly for my dad when it was my sister who had suffered from his wrath.

It wasn’t until my husband, a former mental health counselor explained the complicated emotions linked with a trauma bond, that I was able to forgive myself. A trauma bond is when a person forms a deep emotional attachment with someone that causes them harm.

Nancy did graduate. There were no doctors, police, or counselors ever called. I don’t know how they pulled that off. The year was 1968, people did not ask questions, and terrible things happened behind closed doors.

Upon graduation, Nancy moved out of the house into an apartment with a friend. Soon after, she fell in love. Back then, girls were not planning on having sex, so they were ill-prepared, facing life-changing consequences in an unforgiving world. The man immediately severed the relationship, breaking her heart. After one-sided counseling from Mom, Dad, and a minister, Nancy agreed to put her twin red-headed boys up for adoption.

I have no right to say whether this was the best decision. She made it clear she did not want to ever speak about it. Years later, I asked if she had considered trying to locate them. Nancy sharply replied, “I was told it was best to never look back or speak of them again and that’s what I plan to do.”

While pregnant with the twins, she met another man, and they fell in love and married. I believe they decided to go the adoption route, together. The next decade was probably the happiest season of her life. Nancy and her husband, Tony, went on to have two wonderful boys.

If there was an award for most fun mom, Nancy would win. Both boys, now adults, inherited her love and creativity in visual arts and are both living happy, productive lives.

I don’t know why her marriage fell apart and yet it makes sense to me that it did. How can you tame and bury that much hurt? It seems it had to come out eventually. There was never a divorce, but they lived apart.

Nancy’s uncaged rage opened old wounds giving way to new ones. Her lifelong struggle with weight now consumed her. She tried all the diets, pills, and whacko advice, even attempting aversion therapy. One time she called me, laughing —

“They told me to bring the holiday food I craved the most. I brought fudge. While they cranked the shock box all the way up, I was supposed to hold the fudge in my mouth without swallowing. When they told me to go ahead and spit it out in the cup, all that was left was a nut.”

Nancy believed her life would transform into a beautiful fairy tale if she could just lose the weight. As a last-ditch effort, she chose Vertical Banded Gastroplasty surgery.

Like me, Nancy continued with the family’s drinking tradition. Now, she could only consume 1/4 cup of food at meals. After the surgery, she ignored what she’d been taught in therapy. The drinking and some prescription drug use increased. I have no medical knowledge, but I believe the drugs and alcohol went into her blood sooner than before the operation. After the surgery, she seemed to always be in turmoil and danger.

One day, she was hospitalized following a beating by her current boyfriend. By then, she had sworn off all communication with family, excluding her boys. Years later, I learned she had to have all her teeth pulled as a result of the broken jaw.

I can’t imagine what this repeat horror story did to her soul. Although I never suffered to the degree that Nancy did, Dad’s fist landed on me enough times to know it destroys something inside you that can only be repaired by a divine Physician.

When she died, I couldn’t grieve, or possibly I couldn’t break out of the grief. My mind would not allow me to linger in thoughts of her. It was as if a scream lay stuck in my throat, refusing to come out.

In writing this, I don’t want to end on the devastation. Nancy was, oh, so much more than the darkness she experienced.

She was a great mom, a talented photographer, and the most fun at any party. As her younger sister, I studied her gift of flirting and her ability to tell a great story. I loved her willingness to try anything, even joining a nudist camp once, to please a boyfriend. To impress her niece, my two-year-old daughter, she greeted us at the airport in a dog costume.

After our mom’s death, we spent hours talking on the phone about God and faith. For me, separating God as my Father and Dad as my earthly dad helped me to believe I was worthy of love. I hope Nancy was able to do the same.

Nancy, like the Butterfly Gold Corelle dish, threw herself into the walls of life, believing she was invincible until her last breath. I apologize that this story is devastatingly sad. If you can, I ask that you honor her with a loud, full-on, head-back, laugh. After that, cry if needed.

Deb Palmer’s writing sweet-spot combines humor with the struggles we all face. If you enjoy her work, please subscribe below.