Farewell, Sis…

Posted Fri Jan 2, 2009 in Family

It’s hard to know if it’s my tendency to the dark side of things or if it was premonition. I remarked yesterday that I felt pretty good about the New Year. There are prospects that 2009 will be better than 2008. However, I’m always a little nervous when I feel better, an emotional looking-over-my-shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That shoe came about 1900 PST. My brother-in-law called Wife and I could tell from the conversation that it wasn’t good. I had just started a bit of WoW, so I found a place to shut down and did. It’s easy to tell from a call when it isn’t good.

Denise Lee Thompson Kondrla Jones was born 26 December 1959. Her parents were Jerry Lee Thompson and JoAnn McWhorter Thompson, then living in Encino, California. She died 23 September 2008, if the report I received is correct.

We didn’t learn of her death until three months passed. Her wish, as passed on to us, was that we not be burdened with that news until after the holidays. It was her choice.

My sister’s life was one of choices. The earliest part of her life was not easy. Dad’s mom took her for awhile because my mother was not capable of caring for a baby. Denise followed Debbie by damned-near the minimum amount of time possible between two children. Debbie’s birth was premature and mom still suffered from the stress of that on top of her own issues. So, mom wasn’t doing well and a baby needs a lot of care.

From the time I remember my sister she was all about choices. She was the kind of kid who, when she decided that she was going to do something, consequences were not an issue — she would deal with them.

Dad had a way of correcting us for minor things that I think was learned either from his mom or his dad — he would flick us with his middle finger (we called it “thumping”) as a means to get our attention. He was not one to dispense swats. None of us liked the “thumping,” but Denise especially disliked it.

She loved all animals and read about them constantly. But, she especially like horses. Had our family been better off, I suspect she would have had a horse of her own and spent all of her time with it. But, we weren’t well-off, so she made do with plastic models of horses that were common at the time. I particularly remember one of her favorites, a roan appaloosa quarter horse that she carried with her damned-near everywhere she went.

She made a funny sound in the back of her throat — “Un, un, un…” with her hand formed in a shape with the thumb and fingers down except the index finger, which she extended horizontally. She bounced her thumb-and-fingers along the floor or table or chair, making the sound.

“What’s that Denise?” I recall asking.

“That’s my chick’n,” she replied in her low voice. “Un-un-un…” bounce, bounce, bounce…

I recall her reading her books. She had an affectation for “flipping” the corner of the page with the fingers, which resulted in all of her books being dog-eared on the corners. She would look at the pictures and flip the pages, singing to herself the entire time. The plastic horse resided next to her constantly.

Once she came to the house with about a dozen garden snails crawling up her arms. Mom freaked out. I thought it was hilarious.

She went through a picky-eating stage when we lived in Sylmar, California. For awhile, she would eat nothing but hot dogs and Cheerios. No, not together, but the two foods constituted her diet for a couple of years. Then she went through a period when she said she was a dog and ate dry dog food with the shepherds. I remember Mom and Dad trying to figure out how to get her to stop. She finally gave it up herself and went back to hot dogs and Cheerios.

She was also a fine artist. She had no training other than her own eyes, but I have a wood-burning she did of a deer stepping over a log in the woods. The piece is on the back of the attic door from the farmhouse where we lived in Missouri. The back of the piece (front of the door) still holds the sickly-green paint from the house. She drew constantly on anything handy. Her horses and other creatures adorned many pieces of notebook paper. It was the way she was wired.

I remember seeing some of her fantasy artwork much later. Like many young artists, she copied the works of more established artists. I remember seeing her copy of some Boris Vallejo work that was astonishingly accurate. She branched out on her own, but I don’t know what she ever did with the work.

She took up scrimshaw at some point either before or after she became involved with her first husband. The scrimshaw was good and I saw some of that work — it was top-shelf. The relationship, however, was not good. Eventually she ran away, leaving behind two boys. I suspect abuse was a big part of the reason she left, but she never told me and I only heard parts of the story.

She had friends and one of them brought her to visit us in Missouri in the latter half of the 1980s decade. He was a funny guy and seemed to truly care for her. She seemed happy and I thought they would hook-up, but it never happened. It was one of the few times I saw her after I left home.

She would disappear for years, then suddenly pop back into my life. She called me a few times asking for money, but I never felt good about giving her any. I knew that alcohol and drugs were a problem and I didn’t feel that I could contribute to that. So, I was motivated to say no. It was never an easy decision or one made lightly.

When all the drama associated with my other sister began, Denise was out of it, at least at first. But, eventually, Debbie worked her way to Florida, where Denise and Graham lived, and moved in with them. It was a short-lived time, though, because Debbie’s condition was deteriorating rapidly and Denise and Graham forced her to leave. I think I paid for the bus ticket out so Denise and Graham could be released from that obligation.

It didn’t sit well with Denise, however. We talked about it a few times, particularly after Debbie died. Denise carried a lot of guilt after Debbie’s death. I don’t think the guilt was warranted, but it doesn’t really matter what I think, in the end.

In January or February, Graham died suddenly while at work. I think the blow was too much for my sister. I talked to her a couple of times, I think, but then she disappeared from my life again, as was her pattern of behavior. Wife became concerned in November and began trying to contact Denise. As 2008 closed, we wondered where she was. I sent an e-card as a birthday greeting, knowing that I would get a return-receipt when she read it, if she did.

My brother-in-law called last night with the news. The man who cared for Denise as she died called. It was the other shoe I was looking for. I haven’t seen a death certificate, but the caller said she died of liver failure. I was not surprised — neither by her death nor by her choice. I suspect she drank herself to death.

My sister’s life was one governed by her choices, just like all of us. She chose a hard path. But, as was also typical of my sister, she didn’t complain about it. She lived her life the way she wanted to. She chose what she would do and where she would do it and consequences-be-damned. Although we were never close, she was my sister and I cared about what happened to her. She chose to not share much with me and I respected that. I respected her choice to keep distance between us. I still do.

I am the last of my nuclear family. Out of the “Full House — Jerry, JoAnn, David, Debbie, and Denise,” I am the last. I didn’t expect that. Mom died in 1984. Dad died in 1995. Debbie died in 2007 and Denise in 2008. Vaya con Dios, Sis.