In Loving Memory of Carol Interian (7/5/64 – 11/19/20)
At the break of dawn, on Thursday, November 19, 2020, my younger sister died. Days later, her fiancée, Tom sent a note asking if I was planning to attend her Memorial Service and, if so, whether I would be willing to share a few stories of what Carol was like when she was little, imagining, I’m sure, that, as should be the case with siblings, there would be a treasure trove of loving, light-hearted memories for me to draw on – one or two which would lighten what was otherwise certain to be a dark and heavy day. The assignment seemed simple enough – or so I thought – as I put on my memory cap and headed out on my afternoon walk later that day. But, six miles and an hour and a half later, when, despite racking my brain, not a single such memory had surfaced, I realized it wasn’t simple at all. Truth is: There was nothing “simple” about our family of origin, our childhood home, or the relationships that my siblings and I had with each other and our parents and would continue to have for the better part of the rest of our lives. All were forged by the stern, often angry, but always unsteady hands of an alcoholic mother and our own desperate – albeit mostly subconscious – attempts at emotional self-preservation.
In my older brother’s case, those efforts took the form of open rebellion and, when access to his first car provided the means, virtual abandonment of anything having to do with home. I responded first with compliance (I was, after all, the middle child), but, as I grew older, with isolation – all the while unknowingly constructing what would later prove to be almost impenetrable walls around my heart to safeguard it from what I mistakenly grew to believe was it greatest enemy – an expectation of and dependency on requited, if not selfless love. I spent every droplet of daylight immersed in activities outside the home (beating golf balls in a nearby field, riding bikes, fishing, playing pick-up games of catch, baseball, football, and hoseball) or, when weather or darkness necessitated it, holed up in my room listening to music, writing, or, during the school year, doing homework. Our little sister, however, took a very different course. Left alone in the middle of the ring (i.e., without an often-out-of-town dad or older brothers to “sub in” when the going got too tough), she stayed. And, with one foot firmly rooted in empathy and the other in a seemingly inexhaustible willingness to forgive, she absorbed a daily onslaught of undeserved and unwarranted “blows to the heart” from the person charged with illuminating her path to womanhood – and she loved anyway.
While all of us eventually stumbled away from that emotional battlefield – none was left unscathed. Where my older brother and I are concerned, at a minimum, it’s meant a lifetime spent detached from the compass that is for many the beacon of light used to navigate Life’s storms – the steadfast, unconditional love of a mom and dad – and the safe harbor that love affords. For me, it also meant decades of Life lived behind those titanium heart walls, hungering for love, acceptance, and affirmation that, until quite recently, had no way in. Still, there’s little doubt our sister bore the brunt of the battle scars and fared the worst. Her life, at least until the last several years, would certainly seem to reflect that – a string of broken and abusive relationships, poor choices, substance use and abuse, and a stubborn refusal to accept well-intended offers of help. And yet, she loved anyway … her two children, our father (intensely), my brother and I, childhood and other friends some of whom she’d known for more than 40 years, veritable strangers, and animals. She even loved and cared for the woman who’d been the eye of the storm – our mother – literally until the day she died, something my brother and I could never find a way to do.
Mercifully, in time, that love came home to her in the form of her fiancée – a man who redefines all that love is supposed to be: steadfast, tender, patient, whole-hearted, non-judgmental, faithful, unconditional, and, when necessary, sacrificial. This then was the story of “when she was little” that I chose to share with those gathered to remember her – not in the hope that it would lighten the mood, but rather inspire a heart (or two) to honor and redeem a life that too often was marred by suffering. I offered three ways to do that. First, by not waiting for an “invitation” to reach out to those in our lives (siblings, relatives, friends, strangers in need, etc.) to remind them that they are worthy, that they are valued, and that the world is a better place with them in it. Second, by reaching out for help and redoubling efforts to ferret out, confront and overcome all forms of mental illness and addiction and choosing (with daily intentionality) to embrace the fullness of Life. And, finally, and most importantly, by committing to love like she and her fiancée did – whole and open heartedly – especially when it would be easier not to. I’m grateful that my sister finally found that love here on Earth and is now enjoying its perfection in peace and wholeness for all eternity.
donblackwell 