Just Like a Big Sister

She's like the big sister I never had.

Nancy and I met on February 14, some years ago. No, it wasn't at a Valentine's Day gala with women dressed in red velvet, silk, chiffon and brocade, while men sported red ties and suspenders. There were no violins, nor were there magnums of bubbly.

No, the two of us met laboring in Paterson, New Jersey's St. Joseph's Hospital.
I, twenty-four years old, was there to birth my first. She, maybe a dozen or so years older, was in active labor with her fourth, her oldest in high school. (Surprise!)

That's when it all started; the big sistering thing.

"Get up and walk around," she advised while limping back and forth across the room and introducing herself between grunts. "Let gravity work," she continued amid obviously uncomfortable moments. "Walking makes the labor go faster," she continued, gripping a bed railing.

"I can't get up," I moaned, ever the quintessential, whiny baby sister.

"C'mon," she urged, "just do what I'm doing," said she, the ever-exemplary, wiser older sister.

Suddenly, Nancy staggered to her bed and literally fell into it. "I need my doctor," she squealed to the nurse taking my blood pressure for the seventh time. "This baby is coming," she proclaimed.

The call went out for her obstetrician. He entered our labor room with a god-like swagger. Putting on a latex glove, Nancy's OB snapped it so loudly, it was likely heard in the hospital's lobby. Dr. Whoever-the-heck-he-was examined Nancy and chided, "Oh, you are nowhere near ready to deliver," he said and sauntered out of the room.

"Hah," exclaimed Nancy. "A lot he knows. This is not my first rodeo - a phrase stolen years later by an actual U.S. President - this baby is coming."

"Uh-oh!" my nurse murmured to me. "He never should have said that." After giving Nancy a quick look, she called for my roommate's doctor to return.

As she was wheeled out of our room on a gurney headed for the delivery room, Nancy barked orders at the attending nurse as if she were some Armed Forces master sergeant: "I want a TV in my room. Tell my husband to order my television. I can't miss my stories. And put her in my room," she commanded pointing to me.

Hours later after the birth of my beautiful son, I was wheeled into a room where Nancy was watching television.

"Well, it took you long enough," she teased. "You didn't walk like I told you, did you?" she queried rhetorically.
Over the next days, Nancy and I developed a sisterly bond that continued with advice full of wisdom and growing warmth. I even got hooked on the TV soap operas she watched religiously. After all, she had filled me in on the story lines. All of them.

We grew to be friends over the years, and I cherished her wise advice ... umm suggestions such as "If you have an in-law problem, let your husband handle it," Nancy would caution (referring to in-laws as out-laws).

Or, "Always put aside money for yourself and open your own checking account. You know, just in case."

But in spite of the friendship, in spite of all the wise advice, in spite of the play dates with our Valentine babies, and in spite of the competitive, yet hilariously fun pinochle games we played as couples, we eventually lost close touch.

Sure, there were Christmas cards every year, two birth announcements from us, college and high school announcements from Nancy, but our lives forked in different directions.

The Universe, however - in her infinite wisdom - had a plan for Nancy and me. She threw us back together by way of social media magic.

With our Valentine babies, now approaching middle age, in tow, Nancy and my reunion was joyful.

We had a lot of catching up to do, for sure, and making up for lost years. There were children's marriages to discuss, heartbreaks to cry over, grandchildren to brag about, and a multitude of hugs and kisses to be had.

We made plans for regular lunches together ... and kept them. Our reunion was seamless; it was like we never had years of separation. No, we didn't miss a beat and seemed to pick up exactly where we had left off. Well, almost exactly - considering our babies had kids of their own.

But isn't that the way of genuine friendship; the kind about which poets and authors are so fond of writing?

These days our lunch conversations are not about diaper rash, soap operas. or in-laws. They involve deep thoughts about life, about the future of our grandchildren, about coping with the last chapters in the lives of those we love...even about our own approaching last chapters.

And, of course, as do most of us approaching or in the 'senior' decade of life, we ruminate about results of our latest blood tests, our bone density, results of CT scans and X-rays, attempts at becoming vegetarians or pescatarians, or pontificate about favorite vitamins and supplements.

We once even contemplated some nip and tuck. "You go first," Nancy dared. "No," I countered, "you're older. You go first." Our carefully researched plastic surgeon never did receive a call from either one of us.

We did, however, once go for some 'filler,' responding to a spa special offering two syringes of the dermal stuff and shared the cost. Nancy did her frown lines, and I perked up my laugh lines.

We looked at each other after the procedures and marveled at the results. "You look like you did back in the labor room," Nancy chuckled. "No laugh lines at all," she added. Nancy always did have a snark-like sense of humor, which I loved being a bit sarcastic myself.

But I know beneath her humor, her advice, her gentle chiding, and sarcasm is love and her wish for me to be my best self.

Just like a big sister.

During one of our recent lunches at a favorite cafe, we were raving about the lovely presentation of our healthy salads when I reached for the saltshaker.

"Ummmmmm," Nancy muttered while softly tapping my outstretched hand. "Blood pressure, remember?" she whispered.

See what I mean?