My counselor urged me to write a letter to my beloved younger sister, Lynn, who died on September 10, 2004. Initially I thought the idea rather silly, but went ahead and wrote the letter. Here it is. This is my holiday offering to anyone who, like me, is feeling sad at this time of year for having lost a loved one.
Dear Lynne,
I’m spelling your name the way you liked it spelled, although since you died, I’ve gone back to spelling it the way it was spelled on your birth certificate. That’s because I’m pretending you’re actually going to read this, and I know you always preferred “Lynne” to “Lynn,” although, personally, I never saw anything wrong with the original spelling. By the way, after you died, I asked Madelon if she knew whether there were any special reason Mom decided to name you “Lynn” when you were born. Madelon said there was no special reason, just that Mom had always wanted a daughter named Lynn. The “Edith” part, your middle name, you know about of course: that was Grandma Winrow's name.
I’m writing this in the midst of a season, and in a place, both of which you loved more than anything. Yes, it’s officially the holiday season now, December 1st as I write this. And guess what? I’m writing to you from Spokane. And guess what further? There is snow on the ground. And on top of all that, I have XM Satellite radio streaming over my computer speakers, and as I type these words, somebody is playing Angels We Have Heard On High on the piano. I’m in the attic of an old Victorian house in Spokane, at Christmastime, in a landscape filled with snow, writing to you as Christmas music streams over the Internet. If you were here, you’d be in seventh heaven, I know. If you were here, I know what we would be doing: stringing lights, putting up decorations, playing the familiar holiday CDs…and laughing, laughing, laughing. That’s what you and I did best together, and most, although admittedly not quite so much at the end.
Except sometimes. Remember the day, I think it was in February or March of 2004, maybe six months before you died, when we went shopping together to Target and Kohl’s out in Eastlake? We were looking, I think, for a bedspread for my bed. It was a Saturday, overcast and gray. Walking around the aisles of the store, we passed the little girls’ section and, spotting a “Barbie” bedspread, you suggested I buy that. Then you added to that a “Hello Kitty” telephone, and we were off and running with another of our hysterical gags. “This is KELLEY’S room? A ‘Barbie’ bedspread and a ‘Hello Kitty’ telephone?” “Oh, you know Kelley, he buys whatever’s on sale.” And we laughed and laughed all the way home. It was like old times.
You remember the old postcard cliché, “Wish you were here.”
Hemingway sought to write “the truest sentence” he knew. And the truest sentence I know is “Wish you were here.”
Wish YOU were here, that is. Christmas in Spokane. Bing Crosby’s home town. Our place. Tonight, or rather this afternoon because you were usually drunk-asleep by evening, we would have the 102,000th running of White Christmas on the VCR, and I’d be rolling my eyeballs because as you know that never was MY favorite movie. I always preferred Holiday Inn, (despite the comically racist "Lincoln’s Birthday” number) mainly because I much prefer Fred Astaire as a foil to Bing Crosby over Danny Kaye, whom I always found just about unbearable. But I liked the music from White Christmas well enough; who could dislike Irving Berlin? Say, do you remember the video I sent you from Moscow, Christmas, 1993? Remember on the videotape, it was about 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon and already dark outside because it does that in Moscow at Christmas, and we were waiting for our Russian dinner guests to arrive and I had White Christmas going on the VCR and I panned the camcorder across the TV screen so you could see that we were watching that movie, or at least had it on for background noise? I almost felt you were with me then. Remember, later on the videotape when all of us, Chris, me, Sasha, Nadya, Bob, Masha and Anya, were opening presents, and I panned around the room and had everyone say “hello” to you?
I wish I could do that now. It’s Christmas in Spokane, and there’s snow on the ground and you’re not here. There’s something wrong with that.
How many times did we talk about coming back here? And that’s all we did, just talk about it. And it would have been so easy to make it happen, as Valerie showed me. And by the way, when you quoted Terry Lawson as saying Spokane was “ruined” now, you were misinformed. I’ve spoken to Terry since Valerie and I moved here last spring, and found out what really lay behind that remark: Terry just hates cities, that’s all, and she thinks Spokane is too big a city. Gimme a break. When we moved here in April, she was living in Chattaroy, a wide spot in the road on Highway 2 about 25 miles north of Spokane. She said she “pitied” me living near downtown Spokane. Was she crazy? Spokane is no bigger than Chula Vista. I didn’t think I needed “pity” at all. I was glad to be here. Chattaroy? It’s nothing but a bunch of mobile homes, at least what I could see from the highway. If Terry wants to live in a huddle of mobile homes out in the woods, fine for her. I’d rather be in town, as long as the town is Spokane.
“Ruined?” I’m here to tell you Spokane is still as charming as it was when we were kids and used to ride the North Monroe Street bus downtown on Saturday afternoons. (Remember those horrible old green buses Spokane used to have in the 1960s?)
You would still recognize downtown Spokane, although a few things have changed. Riverfront Park was not here when you and I lived here, but that’s an improvement. We could stroll through it together now. You’d like it. There’s even a carousel. The old Bon Marche building is still there, although Macy’s has engulfed and devoured the Bon Marche store itself. The Parkade Plaza, a landmark in our childhood, is still there, although the Ice Creamery and that place we used to go for German wurst are gone. The old Main and Post Market is gone, and so is the Post Theater, where I remember going to see Thunderball one hot summer afternoon. The old, red Spokesman-Review building is still there, although it’s had a substantial facelift. Clarke’s Old Book Store is gone. The old Crescent department store building, which you loved because it looked like an old-fashioned department store out of I Love Lucy or Miracle on 34th Street, is still there, but it’s no longer a department store. It’s been converted to office space for rental and is now called The Crescent Center.
Perhaps the change you would find most dismaying is that the Woolworth’s where we used to stop for a hot dog and a cup of coffee before boarding the bus for home, is gone. There’s a Nordstrom’s where it used to be, and in fact that entire block is now a three-tier shopping mall. Oh well. There are still plenty of places around where we could drop in for coffee and a hot dog if you were here. There’s a nice little pizza place right around the corner from our house where Valerie and I often go for lunch.
But the river is unchanged, as is Riverside State Park and Bowl and Pitcher monument, where you and I went lure-losing that legendary summer day and where, as you know, Carla and I scattered your ashes on October 29, 2004. In short, Spokane is still much as we left it. The old neighborhood where we lived, around the intersection of Francis and Alberta over on the north side, is almost unchanged, although your old school, Loma Vista Elementary, is gone: there’s a park where it used to be. Jamison’s and Pete’s Pill Box are gone, but that little strip mall where they were located is still there; there’s still a little grocery there, and a Domino’s Pizza.
I have an important issue I want to discuss with you this Christmas. It has to do with your death.
I suppose anyone who loses a loved one is going to try and find some rationale for blaming themselves in that person’s death. I have to tell you that when we told Dr. Leon that Dad was getting more confused in the evenings, and Dr. Leon concluded that it might be due to the Vicodin, and promptly changed his painkiller prescription from Vicodin to Methadone, I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me (it SHOULD have) that since you were taking most of Dad’s Vicodin and Dad wasn’t really getting that much of it, the Vicodin COULD NOT be the culprit. I didn’t think to say that. To my everlasting shame, I remember thinking, when I heard that Dr. Leon had made that decision, that perhaps having the Vicodin taken away from you would “cure” your painkiller addiction. Silly me. But whatever culpability I bear ends there. I’m not a pharmacist; the fact that Methadone is stronger than Vicodin, and lasts longer in the bloodstream, was something I could not be expected to know.
But damn it, our sister Carla should have said something. She’s a NURSE, for chrissakes, she knows about pharmaceuticals. It was she who told me, after you took that deadly overdose, that Methadone is stronger than Vicodin. The whole family knew you were taking Dad’s Vicodin. Carla should have put two and two together and figured that if the Vicodin were taken away, you would naturally start taking the Methadone. And Carla should have sat you down and told you, right to your face, “Look, we all know you’ve been taking the Vicodin. Methadone is actually stronger, even if the pills appear smaller. BE CAREFUL WITH IT.” But she didn’t bother to do that. Nobody said a word to you about the properties of Methadone. And I suspect the reason you overdosed that morning was that very one: the little white Methadone pills were smaller than the ovular, yellow Vicodin pills, so you thought you had to take more to get the effect you wanted. You took three, when one would have been sufficient. The autopsy found 15 milligrams in your bloodstream. Those were 5 mg tablets. Carla should have said something to you. You might be alive now, and helping me string Christmas lights, if she had.
And here’s the supreme irony: the Methadone proved ineffectual against Dad’s pain, and Dr. Leon eventually canceled the prescription. Too late to save you, unfortunately.
After Dad died, we sold the house. I was sad to see it leave the family after 65 years (remember? Grandpa Winrow bought that house in 1941.) But the people who bought it did not tear it down as the lawyer thought they would. They’ve decided to fix the place up. Lord knows it was overdue for fixing up. That makes me feel somewhat better anyway, and I would hope it would you, yoo.
I promised you, in a letter I wrote six years ago this Christmas, that I would never leave you. I’m glad I lived to keep that promise. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to keep it longer.
Kelley
Dear Lynne,
I’m spelling your name the way you liked it spelled, although since you died, I’ve gone back to spelling it the way it was spelled on your birth certificate. That’s because I’m pretending you’re actually going to read this, and I know you always preferred “Lynne” to “Lynn,” although, personally, I never saw anything wrong with the original spelling. By the way, after you died, I asked Madelon if she knew whether there were any special reason Mom decided to name you “Lynn” when you were born. Madelon said there was no special reason, just that Mom had always wanted a daughter named Lynn. The “Edith” part, your middle name, you know about of course: that was Grandma Winrow's name.
I’m writing this in the midst of a season, and in a place, both of which you loved more than anything. Yes, it’s officially the holiday season now, December 1st as I write this. And guess what? I’m writing to you from Spokane. And guess what further? There is snow on the ground. And on top of all that, I have XM Satellite radio streaming over my computer speakers, and as I type these words, somebody is playing Angels We Have Heard On High on the piano. I’m in the attic of an old Victorian house in Spokane, at Christmastime, in a landscape filled with snow, writing to you as Christmas music streams over the Internet. If you were here, you’d be in seventh heaven, I know. If you were here, I know what we would be doing: stringing lights, putting up decorations, playing the familiar holiday CDs…and laughing, laughing, laughing. That’s what you and I did best together, and most, although admittedly not quite so much at the end.
Except sometimes. Remember the day, I think it was in February or March of 2004, maybe six months before you died, when we went shopping together to Target and Kohl’s out in Eastlake? We were looking, I think, for a bedspread for my bed. It was a Saturday, overcast and gray. Walking around the aisles of the store, we passed the little girls’ section and, spotting a “Barbie” bedspread, you suggested I buy that. Then you added to that a “Hello Kitty” telephone, and we were off and running with another of our hysterical gags. “This is KELLEY’S room? A ‘Barbie’ bedspread and a ‘Hello Kitty’ telephone?” “Oh, you know Kelley, he buys whatever’s on sale.” And we laughed and laughed all the way home. It was like old times.
You remember the old postcard cliché, “Wish you were here.”
Hemingway sought to write “the truest sentence” he knew. And the truest sentence I know is “Wish you were here.”
Wish YOU were here, that is. Christmas in Spokane. Bing Crosby’s home town. Our place. Tonight, or rather this afternoon because you were usually drunk-asleep by evening, we would have the 102,000th running of White Christmas on the VCR, and I’d be rolling my eyeballs because as you know that never was MY favorite movie. I always preferred Holiday Inn, (despite the comically racist "Lincoln’s Birthday” number) mainly because I much prefer Fred Astaire as a foil to Bing Crosby over Danny Kaye, whom I always found just about unbearable. But I liked the music from White Christmas well enough; who could dislike Irving Berlin? Say, do you remember the video I sent you from Moscow, Christmas, 1993? Remember on the videotape, it was about 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon and already dark outside because it does that in Moscow at Christmas, and we were waiting for our Russian dinner guests to arrive and I had White Christmas going on the VCR and I panned the camcorder across the TV screen so you could see that we were watching that movie, or at least had it on for background noise? I almost felt you were with me then. Remember, later on the videotape when all of us, Chris, me, Sasha, Nadya, Bob, Masha and Anya, were opening presents, and I panned around the room and had everyone say “hello” to you?
I wish I could do that now. It’s Christmas in Spokane, and there’s snow on the ground and you’re not here. There’s something wrong with that.
How many times did we talk about coming back here? And that’s all we did, just talk about it. And it would have been so easy to make it happen, as Valerie showed me. And by the way, when you quoted Terry Lawson as saying Spokane was “ruined” now, you were misinformed. I’ve spoken to Terry since Valerie and I moved here last spring, and found out what really lay behind that remark: Terry just hates cities, that’s all, and she thinks Spokane is too big a city. Gimme a break. When we moved here in April, she was living in Chattaroy, a wide spot in the road on Highway 2 about 25 miles north of Spokane. She said she “pitied” me living near downtown Spokane. Was she crazy? Spokane is no bigger than Chula Vista. I didn’t think I needed “pity” at all. I was glad to be here. Chattaroy? It’s nothing but a bunch of mobile homes, at least what I could see from the highway. If Terry wants to live in a huddle of mobile homes out in the woods, fine for her. I’d rather be in town, as long as the town is Spokane.
“Ruined?” I’m here to tell you Spokane is still as charming as it was when we were kids and used to ride the North Monroe Street bus downtown on Saturday afternoons. (Remember those horrible old green buses Spokane used to have in the 1960s?)
You would still recognize downtown Spokane, although a few things have changed. Riverfront Park was not here when you and I lived here, but that’s an improvement. We could stroll through it together now. You’d like it. There’s even a carousel. The old Bon Marche building is still there, although Macy’s has engulfed and devoured the Bon Marche store itself. The Parkade Plaza, a landmark in our childhood, is still there, although the Ice Creamery and that place we used to go for German wurst are gone. The old Main and Post Market is gone, and so is the Post Theater, where I remember going to see Thunderball one hot summer afternoon. The old, red Spokesman-Review building is still there, although it’s had a substantial facelift. Clarke’s Old Book Store is gone. The old Crescent department store building, which you loved because it looked like an old-fashioned department store out of I Love Lucy or Miracle on 34th Street, is still there, but it’s no longer a department store. It’s been converted to office space for rental and is now called The Crescent Center.
Perhaps the change you would find most dismaying is that the Woolworth’s where we used to stop for a hot dog and a cup of coffee before boarding the bus for home, is gone. There’s a Nordstrom’s where it used to be, and in fact that entire block is now a three-tier shopping mall. Oh well. There are still plenty of places around where we could drop in for coffee and a hot dog if you were here. There’s a nice little pizza place right around the corner from our house where Valerie and I often go for lunch.
But the river is unchanged, as is Riverside State Park and Bowl and Pitcher monument, where you and I went lure-losing that legendary summer day and where, as you know, Carla and I scattered your ashes on October 29, 2004. In short, Spokane is still much as we left it. The old neighborhood where we lived, around the intersection of Francis and Alberta over on the north side, is almost unchanged, although your old school, Loma Vista Elementary, is gone: there’s a park where it used to be. Jamison’s and Pete’s Pill Box are gone, but that little strip mall where they were located is still there; there’s still a little grocery there, and a Domino’s Pizza.
I have an important issue I want to discuss with you this Christmas. It has to do with your death.
I suppose anyone who loses a loved one is going to try and find some rationale for blaming themselves in that person’s death. I have to tell you that when we told Dr. Leon that Dad was getting more confused in the evenings, and Dr. Leon concluded that it might be due to the Vicodin, and promptly changed his painkiller prescription from Vicodin to Methadone, I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me (it SHOULD have) that since you were taking most of Dad’s Vicodin and Dad wasn’t really getting that much of it, the Vicodin COULD NOT be the culprit. I didn’t think to say that. To my everlasting shame, I remember thinking, when I heard that Dr. Leon had made that decision, that perhaps having the Vicodin taken away from you would “cure” your painkiller addiction. Silly me. But whatever culpability I bear ends there. I’m not a pharmacist; the fact that Methadone is stronger than Vicodin, and lasts longer in the bloodstream, was something I could not be expected to know.
But damn it, our sister Carla should have said something. She’s a NURSE, for chrissakes, she knows about pharmaceuticals. It was she who told me, after you took that deadly overdose, that Methadone is stronger than Vicodin. The whole family knew you were taking Dad’s Vicodin. Carla should have put two and two together and figured that if the Vicodin were taken away, you would naturally start taking the Methadone. And Carla should have sat you down and told you, right to your face, “Look, we all know you’ve been taking the Vicodin. Methadone is actually stronger, even if the pills appear smaller. BE CAREFUL WITH IT.” But she didn’t bother to do that. Nobody said a word to you about the properties of Methadone. And I suspect the reason you overdosed that morning was that very one: the little white Methadone pills were smaller than the ovular, yellow Vicodin pills, so you thought you had to take more to get the effect you wanted. You took three, when one would have been sufficient. The autopsy found 15 milligrams in your bloodstream. Those were 5 mg tablets. Carla should have said something to you. You might be alive now, and helping me string Christmas lights, if she had.
And here’s the supreme irony: the Methadone proved ineffectual against Dad’s pain, and Dr. Leon eventually canceled the prescription. Too late to save you, unfortunately.
After Dad died, we sold the house. I was sad to see it leave the family after 65 years (remember? Grandpa Winrow bought that house in 1941.) But the people who bought it did not tear it down as the lawyer thought they would. They’ve decided to fix the place up. Lord knows it was overdue for fixing up. That makes me feel somewhat better anyway, and I would hope it would you, yoo.
I promised you, in a letter I wrote six years ago this Christmas, that I would never leave you. I’m glad I lived to keep that promise. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to keep it longer.
Kelley
2 comments:
Kelley
I am so sorry about the death of your sister. Your writing is so eloquent and beautiful.
I found this because I was doing research on methadone deaths as I lost my fiance on 6/24/06 to methadone also.
I will keep you and your family in my prayers.
lots of love
Melissa
www.renato-capozzo.memory-of.com
http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/472711451?ltl=1162001553
Kelley,
Thank you for contacting me and sharing your story. I am so very sorry to hear of your loss. There are so many of us who have felt the wrath of what Methadone can do. Although, our stories may differ, the outcome is the same, death of a loved one.
On June 11, 2006 I lost my 24 year old son after a doctor prescribed Methadone to him for pain. He took it as ordered and still died. Being a nurse myself, I did not know how lethal and unstable this drug could be until it was too late. Only in the last few years have they started using it more and more for pain management. I blame the doctors and pharmacies for not informing the patients on how deadly this drug can be. There are documented cases of death occuring after only one 5 mg pill being taken (that's scary)
I was saddened by your story, and the tears formed as I continued to read. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.
Many blessings,
Nancy Garvin
Please visit my website:
http://motheragainstmedicalabuse.org/
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