First Chapter: Sister Surrendered by Darla M. Grese

Title: Sister Surrendered
Author: Darla M. Grese
Publisher: Darla M. Grese
Pages: 210
Genre: Memoir
Format: Paperback / Kindle

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When you’re a twin, loneliness is somewhat unfamiliar because you’ve always had each other. So when a twin passes, the other is left unprepared. Our loyalty was steadfast and our devotion to one another, solid. Our love was unconditional no matter what the circumstances. I’m so grateful every day for the memories of the joy and laughter that we shared together. I know the bond that Kelli and I shared is impossible for anyone to replace. This memoir has become something so much more than initially intended. It’s become a documented journey barely scratching the surface of the love between two sisters. And surprisingly, it’s also become an outlet for me to speak candidly and honestly about my struggles with the cause of Kelli’s death. This is a love story turned tragedy. An exposure of one of the greatest healthcare failures killing Veterans and civilians, and a cry for help to remedy the fiasco. I’ve stressed about who I would mention in this book, nervous that I would hurt someone’s feelings by not mentioning their names. But I’ve realized that it’s impossible to do. Kelli had so many great friends, some I’ve never even met. I need each person to know who has taken the time to reach out to me in whatever capacity that if it weren’t for your heartfelt show of support and love, I don’t know that I would be able to muster the energy to even get up each day. Kelli, we did it.

Chapter One:

Why?

Growing up, I never envisioned a future without my sister next to me, I couldn’t. Life without Kelli would never make sense. Why did it have to be this way? Why Kelli?

And now I’m left with emotions that I’m not sure what to do with, struggling with a naked aloneness. An identical twin is the security blanket we all long for, a lifelong being of lasting love and friendship. To have that abruptly taken away can rattle you to the core.

I am inviting you on a journey of disturbing twists and turns, riddled with circumstances that bind the soul. The events that take place are not for the fainthearted nor the weak. At the same time it’s a memoir and a promise, a promise that I made to my identical twin sister Kelli embodied with laughter, heartache, transformation, and triumph. It is just missing the right ending.

Chapter Two:

Always and Forever

Kelli and I were born and raised in the Jefferson suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Our house sat on a steep incline on Payne Hill Road. It was a monster of a hill, unfortunately once claiming the lives of both our pet dog Snoopy and an ornery duck named Huey. Yes, we had ducks. Cars flew down that road, and it wasn’t uncommon amidst a snowfall to have a wayward driver grind to a halt in our front yard. It was really exciting peering through the living room window watching-hoping that something dramatic would happen. This was just one among many simple pastimes Kelli and I shared as children growing up.

We didn’t have iPods, laptops, Kindles, or a Wii. Like our neighbors, we had one television that showed soap operas and Steelers games. Which meant we either watched what was on or stayed busy doing something else. And we almost always chose something else. However, at night just before bedtime, we could choose one show of our own. For me and Kelli it was The Dukes of Hazard. Yep, we were those tomboys who shunned baby dolls and anything pink. During the day it was about getting down and dirty, riding big wheels, throwing footballs, and chopping down my mom’s rose bushes with our new hatchets that our father bought us. Even Grandma Sorrentino once tried gifting her baby girls with dolls on Christmas Eve, which we hastily returned for a train set. A beautiful Lionel with a working steam engine, obnoxious bells and screaming whistles. But at the heart of the set was a beautiful Christmas Village. Every year that Christmas Village grew, allowing our imaginations to grow right along with it. We could sit there for hours, one at the controls and the other managing the village.

Wintertime was never-ending in Pennsylvania which meant that a great deal of our time was spent tempting frost-bite. Unlike kids today who might melt in the heat or suffer hypothermia in the cold, we didn’t care. We stayed out as long as we could, only going in when our legs and toes were numb. Kelli and I were fearless daredevils searching for bumps and bruises. There was a metal handrail that flanked the sidewalk leading up to the house with only nine inches of space between it and the ground. We would trek to the top of our hilly front yard, lie flat on our backs in our red toboggans and race towards the narrow open space under the handrail. Amazingly, we would clear that space without shearing the front of our faces off, but barely. We would notice our mom standing at the living room window yelling at us, but we never seemed to “see” her.

We lived in a rural town and were surrounded by woods and trails which was paradise for spitfires like us. Along with our neighborhood friends, we would carry our toboggans to the woods looking like a convoy of snowsuits, moonboots, and bulky mittens. We tested the limits of our cheap red torpedoes, flying down hills like speeding bullets, somehow not killing ourselves in the process. One day though, my luck ran out. As I soared down the hill towards Kelli, who was already at the bottom, I hit one of our homemade jumps and rocketed into the air, high off the snow. I realized as I was airborne that I was in trouble, but in true daredevil fashion I didn’t care. I eventually hit the snow and holy cow it hurt like a mother. My rear end hit first and instead of providing me a cushion, it faltered big time. Pain! That’s what I felt. It was pure and utter agony. My tailbone felt like it had split open and I started screaming. At first, Kelli and our friends laughed hysterically but after my endless wailing they figured out that I was really hurt and not just being overdramatic. I ended up in the emergency room getting my back end x-rayed. My tailbone wasn’t broken, but it sure felt like it was; I couldn’t sit comfortably for weeks. And as expected, Kelli howled rallying my friends to do the same. I had to take a cushioned donut to school-not fashionable. Every ounce of coolness that I had achieved up to that point was gone, completely destroyed. I became the butt of the jokes and usually with Kelli leading them. Kelli was a naturally funny person, and the more laughs that she would solicit the funnier she became.  That injury by the way would prove to haunt me years later.

When Kelli and I weren’t reckless outside, we wrestled on my parent’s bed. Flip, twist, throw, and pin. We battled tirelessly. We did our best to emulate Hulk Hogan or the Rock n’ Roll Express, pounding our chests and flexing our biceps. Our mom was constantly yelling at us to stop, tired of making her bed several times a day. We’d tear that bed apart as quickly as she could fix it. She would scream and we would giggle, and continue our good-natured beating on each other.

There was this one incident though when I did push the boundaries and fractured Kelli’s arm. Kelli was downstairs in the game room doing a backbend and of course I seized the opportunity. I snuck up quietly and pushed her arm from underneath her. That didn’t go exactly as planned though and instead of just scaring her, I hurt her, a lot. Kelli ended up in a sling and I ended up grounded.

Our father returned home one day after work with a motorcycle for Kelli and me-and it wasn’t just any bike, it was a lime green Kawasaki racing dirt bike. It was like two adventurers hitting the lottery. The only problem was we didn’t even know how to turn it on, let alone ride it. I’ll never forget revving that engine for the first time. It was really loud music to our ears. I fired it up first and told Kelli, “Hop on!” Foolishly, she did. Without helmets or any shred of fear, I peeled off. I sported an accidental wheelie, but fortunately for Kelli her vice-grip on the bike and me was strong enough to hang on. I opened the throttle as if I’d been riding for years. But before I could react, we were headed straight towards our German Shepherd Charlie and I plowed right into him. Yep, I ran right into our dog. I knew how to start the bike but I hadn’t put much thought into stopping it. Charlie was fine, but my mom, well, not so much. The following week my father came home with a red Honda 50 and the Kawasaki was gone. Nope. Never saw it again. I’m pretty sure weeks went by before my mom actually spoke to my father after that one. That didn’t stop us though. We broke the Honda in beautifully, tackling jumps like Evel Knievel. We were insanely brave and when reminiscing I literally shake my head at how we managed to avoid broken bones and repeat hospitalizations.

When we weren’t tempting fate, we were searching for stray animals. We were animal lovers, something that stayed with us into adulthood. We had dogs, ducks, guinea pigs, cockatiels, hamsters, cats, and a pet turkey named Sandy. If it wasn’t slimy and slithery, we were bringing it home.

When our dad brought Sandy the turkey home, we actually thought she was our pet, and we were convinced that we were keeping her. I mean, that’s what he told us, so why wouldn’t we believe it? We refused to let our dad keep her outside because it was too cold, so being a good sport he allowed us to keep her in the garage. Every morning before school we’d visit with her, feeding and loving on her. We were the coolest kids on the street, after all not too many kids had pet turkeys. She lived with us for weeks and truly felt like part of the family. But one day, when we got home from school, we discovered that she was gone. Our dad told us that she ran away and I’m embarrassed to admit this, we believed him. We grieved Sandy for days, devastated at the thought of Sandy wandering around outside, feeling lost and alone. We even skipped a few days of school hoping to find her.

Thanksgiving Day arrived and there was nothing unusual, just a typical turkey and stuffing dinner. But after dinner my father confessed that we had in fact just eaten Sandy! Oh man, were we angry. We had just consumed our pet turkey, the turkey that we had grown to love. It took us a long time to get over that grudge against our dad. I have to admit though, Sandy was tasty. My mom was furious that our father disclosed Sandy’s death. We weren’t supposed to find out the truth. Thanksgiving was never the same.

And then there was the hunting dog. My father was an avid hunter. One day he came home with a puppy Beagle which he proudly ordained his helper and hunting buddy. Kelli and I had other ideas. He gave the dog some masculine name that I honestly can’t even recall and insisted that he stay outside in a pen. My father manly shared, “Hunting dogs are supposed to remain outdoors.” But Kelli and I couldn’t allow that. We would cleverly wait for our parents to fall asleep and then sneak the sweet little pup into our bedroom. We named him Baby. Needless to say, that dog didn’t hunt and for the longest time our father never caught on. But one night, we got sloppy which caused us to get caught. I’m pretty certain that my mom actually knew what we were doing, but if she did she never let on.

More animal tales… We had a big Italian family with many relatives living close by. Our Grandma Goose (who inherited the nickname Goose because we couldn’t pronounce her last name–and I can still hardly pronounce it today), lived on a farm with cows, ducks, geese, and other animals. She was a tiny adorable deaf as a door knob tough woman. We learned early on that we had to scream in order for her to hear us, although she was amazing at reading lips. But even Grandma Goose fell victim to our love of animals. After spending the day together, one of many in the past, she was driving us home when Kelli and I spotted a free-puppies sign at some random gas station in the middle of nowhere. We begged for her to stop and just as she always did, she obliged. We strolled into the worn-down gas station and spotted the pups. They were your typical mutts, nothing fancy about them at all. But Kelli and I didn’t need fancy, we just wanted one. So again, we began begging her. She told us to call our parents-get their permission, and Kelli and I knew instantly what the other was thinking. We’ll pretend to call because she can’t hear! Yep, we totally faked the call, even moving our lips as if we were talking. Kelli and I were ALWAYS on the same page. That’s the twin-thing you hear about, something that’s not explainable, it just is. After assuring her that our parents said yes, we picked out our pup and headed home. During the entire drive home, Kelli and I were chuckling. We knew that our parents wouldn’t say no to Grandma Goose. After the car pulled into the driveway, we sprinted into the house with the pup. And then waited. Once our parents digested the news that we had brought a dog home, they started asking questions. Kelli and I cheerfully began telling the story while Grandma Goose stood by us proudly watching and smiling. And we were right. Out of fear of hurting dear old Grandma’s feelings, we could keep the dog. We named her KD, the initials of our names. That gas-station dog ended up being one of the best dogs ever. She was loving, smart, and loyal; especially to my mom who ended up being the one who cared for her.

Next came Huey and Duie, our ducks. Now, I should note here that we didn’t live on a farm, not even close. But at times it felt like we did. Our grandfather caved on this one. He took us to a friend’s farm where baby ducks were scurrying everywhere. They were adorable, chirping and playing as babies do. Our grandfather’s friend said that Kelli and I were more than welcome to have a couple if we could in fact catch them. So, being the competitive and determined young girls that we were we started running, and running, and running some more. Our grandfather and his buddy were rolling back and laughing clearly having no belief that we would catch a duck. But to their utter surprise & subtle admiration, we did! And we didn’t catch just one duckling, we captured two!! So this time we returned home with two adorable ducklings without a clue as to where they’d stay. We had an above-ground swimming pool that had a large deck wrapping around it. My father fenced the deck in with some chicken wire and that became our duck sanctuary. My mom, just as she always did, ended up being the care-taker. She fed and watered them without missing a beat just as she did with our pet rabbits Jordache and Blackie as well. Everything was actually pretty smooth with the ducks until one day while my mom was crawling through the duck enclosure, Kelli and I seized a mischievous opportunity. Gleefully disregarding good judgment, we locked her in and ran. And as my mom screamed at us, the ducks began flapping their wings and flying around my mom’s head uncontrollably. She was livid, rightfully so. Amazingly, we were allowed to keep our ducks anyway. But then tragedy struck. As our school bus was nearing a stop we noticed a dead animal lying in the street that looked like a duck-and it was. Huey was dead. The official cause of death was ducking too late. Our father buried Huey in the back yard. We then took Duie down to a nearby river and released him.

Dad loved that river. Although he rarely caught any fish, he had an amazing amount of patience trying to teach us to fish. Let’s face it, twin girls running around laughing, breaking branches, and skipping rocks wasn’t exactly ideal fishing etiquette. But he took us regardless. And in the thick of it, Kelli and I learned to love fishing just as much as he did, if not more. Except this one time. Getting ready to go to the river, Kelli and I were loading up the back of my father’s truck with the fishing gear. I was in the back and Kelli was handing me the gear. As Kelli passed up one of the rods, I yanked up on it, catching the biggest fish ever…Kelli. Yep, I sure did, I hooked her lip like setting a large mouth bass. Kelli screamed and I ran. And our mom yet again was heading to the emergency room. This time with a hooked-Kelli. They had to cut out the hook and needless to say we never made it to the river that day.

I could write an entire book titled Twincidents when it came to Kelli and me. There was the “railroad tie to the head” incident, the “tree-stand” incident, the “woods catching on fire” incident, the “house-party bust” incident, the “quit making out with my boy-friend” incident, the “blue-satin pajamas in the snow” incident, the “dad’s going to kill us garage-sale” incident, and a laundry load of others. Regardless of the mischief we’d get into, it was pure innocent joy. By no means were we perfect, making our share of mistakes like every other youngster turn adolescent turn teenager does, but our fun was truly without malice. In the thick of it all, our younger brother Andy was a real trooper. He distracted mom and dad just enough for me and Kelli to get into more antics.

Just as most twins, our lives were intertwined in every aspect. Besides sharing the same birthday, we had the same friends, we enjoyed the same activities, we shared the same room, and we took the same classes. We both played on the same competitive softball team, Kelli third base and me second. There was never Kelli or Darla, it was always Kelli AND Darla. That’s just how it was.

Our lives were enmeshed into one, something that never changed that would last forever. That’s what we knew, and it’s how we preferred it to be. Sure we fought like any other siblings, at times wanting to beat the pulp out of each other. But at the end of each and every day, we laid in bed, one of us in the daybed and the other in the trundle next to it and we talked, and talked, and talked some more. We ended each day talking to each other just as we continued to do for the rest of our lives until Kelli’s life ended. I miss those conversations, I miss her voice.

 

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