Sisters

My mom was pregnant nine times in 10 years and produced seven actual children; five girls and two boys. After me, No. 7, her body finally gave up (or merciful doctors called it) and she spent the next couple of months recovering from me and a total hysterectomy.

The name of that procedure, by the way, bothers me. It's the removal of the uterus and the cervix (or I assume in my mother's case also the fallopian tubes and ovaries) so why isn't it called uterectomy? Or uterine-cervectomy? When they take out your appendix, it's "appendectomy." Ditto for "tonsillectomy." Why did they feel the need to imply hysteria in connection to the female reproductive organ? 

And by "they" you know it's a bunch of old men.

Human reproduction IS a kind of crazy process: a bit from a male and bit from a female human creates a third, and the female  then has to carry it IN HER BODY, grow it and spew it out in an exit strategy that would never be a designed by, say, a female engineer.

But I digress.

I have four biological sisters. And a whole host of others who, while unencumbered by my agrarian and Pentecostal roots, have/do/and will again provided me with a support structure that I hope everyone else in the world has at least a little bit of.

There were (and still can be) tons of fights and hurt feelings and anger among the Bickel sisters. There are a respective 10, eight, six and four years between me and them, with me at the youngest end of the spectrum, so my drama with them wasn't as much as among some of them. 

Donna, for example, carried a shotgun and chased Diana down the road one day, threatening to shoot her because Diana called Donna the b-word, which in our family was akin to the c-word, but I don't know if we knew that word back then. Donna didn't get the shot off -- none of us are renown for our running abilities let along sharpshooting on the fly -- and claims the gun was unloaded. Key here is that Diana didn't know that and ran faster that day than she ever has since. Also, yes, there was always a gun handy should want or need one.

Nancy and Diana tussled (I think) mostly over Nancy not supporting or shielding from my mother Diana's rebellious habits that ran afoul of the church and her teachings. 

Debbie, the middle child, didn't often get in disagreements with anyone, but once took her revenge on a brother who was pestering her by hiding in a tree as he searched for her then jumping on him, squashing the air out of his lungs and giving her at least an afternoon's respite from him.

My mother and my Aunt Shirley (my mom's youngest sister) watched the whole thing from the picture window in the living room. Intervention was never a consideration. They had probably locked us all out of the house to get some peace and quiet. As Donnie lay on the ground gasping for air, they probably let Debbie in the house as a reward. They certainly high-fived her from the stands.

With my mom in the hospital for my first couple of months, I got shunted off to grandparents for a couple months and then, Donna was largely in charge of me. Poor thing. How would you like to be 10-years-old in charge of the latest infant to come along? When she brought Jim home 17 years later, I assumed he was my boyfriend, too, and unless they left the property without me, I was happily wedged between them.  

Diana's boyfriends were similarly attractive to me, but she was less charitable and kept them to herself for some reason I'm sure I didn't understand. My big issue with Diana -- a grudge I carry to this day -- was the day she and I were home alone. Unusually, we had a special treat in the house: fudge bars. They came six to a box. Remember we had seven children and two adults in our family. Those frozen treats had a short shelf life once they were discovered, and I knew there was only one left. I had my grubby little paw on the box when someone knocked on the door.

"Hey, Cheryl," called my babysitter-guardian, blood-relative Diana. "Want to get the door?"

I was the youngest of seven. I never got to answer the door or the black rotary landline that sat on the kitchen telephone stand. I shot like a rocket to see who'd come to visit. Diana promptly snagged the fudge bar and laughed at me (my recall is that it was quite hyena-like in tone and evilness) when I came back to discover the crime.

Not only did I lose my fudge bar, the visitor was a random salesman; 100 percent uninteresting. At the time, I'm sure I would have believed that Diana had conjured the guy up out of black magic just to get my fudge bar. To this day, she has zero remorse and claims it was a teachable moment. 

Now, do you believe me that I was raised by wolves? 

Despite our occasional squabbles and grudges, we DO have an unbreakable bond, my sisters and me. It sometimes takes drama to bring us together, but we're like best friends parted due to circumstances: when we're together it's like we've never been apart. And we'd give body parts to each other if that's what's necessary. Some parts of the wolf pack aren't so bad.

I wasn't raised with Jennifer Reed Chase, and she certainly was not raised by wolves. But she is definitely my sister. The only daughter to Marian and Gary, and the only sister to Jeff and James, she's had her own sisterly burdens to bear over the years. In her younger days, she was a lot like Diana but she's more responsible now and has more shades of Donna. She's super smart, a great sounding board, an incredible Auntie and an amazing friend. I not only can't imagine life without her, I refuse to do it. 

My nonbiological sisters are quite the same. Whether it's Bunco, Book Club, the Showgirls, my FOB family, women from IDEM and Angie's List, newspaper buddies, the women in PR I work with every day in one way or another, and others I've met along the way, I have been incredibly lucky in my friendships and sisterships. 

Like my bio-sisters, we squabble and snipe from time-to-time, but in the end, we will have each other's backs. No questions asked. It's that coming back together and accepting people AND their shortcomings is what earns you the sister badge.

Even the Fudge Bar Thief, who I will remind you was practically an adult who stole from a child.

I hesitated to add photos to this blog because I don't have photos of all of my sisters, but they know who they are. If you're reading this and you have ovaries (or ever did) you're in. You're appreciated. You're loved.

If you don't have a sister tribe, I encourage you to get one. Or to take some time to acknowledge and
be grateful for what you have but may take for granted.

• They'll bring you underpants if you need them. 
• They'll show up.
• They'll call you up to say, "I think you need some time with a friend." 
• They'll leave you alone if that's what you need.
• They'll send you a note or a text just to remind you that you're loved and important in their life. 
• They'll ask and give professional and personal advice. 
• They'll tell you when you're being stupid, stubborn or ignorant and shake you out of your funk. 
• They'll pick your kid up for you when you have to work and carry her screaming from one office building to the other. 
• They put the "there" in "being there."

Doesn't matter if they're next door or in another state of country. They're there. 

My mission for the rest of my life is ensuring that I'm there, too. 

Thanks, my sisters and sister-friends. You've made such a difference in my life. 

I'll try better to remind you of that.

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