On the outs

When years have rolled by and there has been a rift or misunderstanding with a sibling and out of the blue a holiday card arrives, I am tempted to run to him. Especially because the signature line makes it seem that it is quite possible that he could be in a lot of pain.

Then my pride or whatever you want to call it takes over and I do not know what to do. I want to grab the telephone and call him because he sent his new phone number. I want to tell him that I am here and never went away.

Then this voice inside of me wells up and wants to scream: YOU CUT ME OFF.

You did this and it hurt my heart...Without explanation and with a lot of chat between our parents and sisters, you cut me and my family out of your life.

I think that I know why you did it. My Number One Daughter had sent several letters and messages to you when you were very, very ill. You never replied and I scolded you. I think you were ticked off about it. Well, what price my daughter's feelings? You have three daughters and never considered how they would feel if I had done the same to them. You would have moved to protect them.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the years that have been lost. I am sorry that it looks like you are still in pain. Most of all, I am sorry that you didn't understand that a little heart reached out to you. A little heart was trying to comfort you. You didn't even acknowledge her.

Where did you learn that? Her heart is worth the trouble of a note. Even one sentence: Thank you, Number One Daughter. Just one sentence.

I am sitting here paralyzed by this. I have written you a Christmas card, too. I only wrote them last night. But it is sitting here because I don't want to set my kids up for pain again.

Seven years ago, I left my parents house on Christmas Eve. We were hundreds of miles from home and I left anyway, husband and 18 year old in tow. It was an awful night. Eighteen year old was 11 years old. I was pregnant with Number One Daughter. The awfulness was in the air. It was smothering. I yelled at my father. He said things; I said things and we left. I remember looking towards the back door and he turned off the light before we drove away. That was a defining moment. I left their home in darkness. I remember that night as if it were yesterday. 18 year old vomited in the backseat. His tummy was a rage because of the awful confrontation. We didn't even get that far away and stopped at a hotel. We had Christmas in a hotel that year. Bright and early we arose opened gifts and then hit the road. It was a 14-hour drive home on Christmas day. We had the roads to ourselves that year.

Several weeks later, I called to talk. My dad said, "It's a bit too early for that." So I hung up the phone. I do not know when we began talking again, but it was that year.

I talk to my parents and miss them, too. I would like to go visit them again, but that chance that there will be ugliness weighs on me and I do not go. Neither Number One Daughter, nor Little Big Boy have met my parents. I have invited my parents to my home, but they do not come. To be fair, they do not visit any of us-their children that is. They have their reasons.

The disfunction in this family has caused many a rift. Now I need to decide whether or not "fixing it" is worth the trouble and possible pain. I remember when my dad was gone...In Vietnam and when he was simply stationed abroad for a year at a time or stationed in San Diego when we lived four hours north, that I was the one who walked down scary dark hallways to make sure that bogeymen were at bay. It always turned out to be a branch against a window or something benign, but there was that one real-live bogeyman in our lives. The "grandfather" who trolled the halls at night.

But the bogeyman that remains alive and well in my imagination now is the one that I cannot figure out what to do with. I know that families cause each other pain and you move on, but I am hypersensitive when pain lands on my children's doorstep. I am determined that they will not be harmed. So I sit here and I can't make myself step into that darkened hallway in my mind.

I would like to call my brother; I really would, but I am staring at the phone. I would like to go visit my parents for the holidays again...But the trek is haunted with carnage and the phone lines are tied up in carnage. Once upon a time, the carnage was my heart.