Switch to desktop
To enjoy the complete experience, we suggest browsing our website on a desktop or laptop.
Introduction
This is a memoir I never wanted to write about a series of paintings I never wanted to paint. It's been over a decade since my identical twin, Suzanne, succumbed to cancer after a brave nine-year battle with her health. Yet, I am only now ready to share these paintings and the story behind them.
It's hard enough to lose a loved one and we all suffer this pain in our lifetime. The rare few are unscathed by personal tragedies. Some deaths we learn to slowly accept, like that of a parent if only that nature generally predetermines their death before ours. Others, like that of a child or a sudden loss of a dear friend, can stop us in our proverbial tracks and grief becomes overwhelming and often debilitating.
But for a twin to lose their other half it can often feel like they have somehow died as well. I truly believe to a great extent the only me I ever knew perished along with Suzanne on April 19th, 2009. I was immediately forced to be reborn as a singular being to whom I had no connection.
Losing my twin after such an emotional journey where I literally lost myself in the roller-coaster of hospital stays, caregiving, survival guilt, and false hopes almost destroyed me completely. Although I am blessed with support and love from my family, close friends, and my husband, my true path to healing lies in these six paintings. This is where tear-stained sketches evolved into portraits of love and an acknowledgment of the gift I was so lucky to have ever had…
After her death, Suzanne spoke through a dream saying I would paint her and that I would "heal with every brushstroke." These paintings are the legacy of my healing.
And here is my story of transforming pain into beauty …
scroll down
Twinship
I could start with the usual anecdotes most twins share about being "womb-mates." The finishing of each other's sentences or the inherent closeness that seems to be our very birthright. When I think back, especially to our early childhood, I only recall her constant companionship. Whether it was playing with our Barbies for hours on end, our love of animals (especially the yearly brood of barn kittens we so adored), or our shared interest in art, we were inseparable. We often sketched for hours quietly - probably to our parents' delight as it was one of the few times we stopped our relentless chatter. I would like to think that perhaps for our parents having twins sometimes was slightly easier, as we often forgot that anyone else existed. We were content in our own world. Much to our older sister's chagrin, we were probably pretty annoying at times with our constant warp speed twin babble echoing from our shared bedroom. Those memories of nights suppressing our giggles while ignoring repeated warnings from Dad to finally "Get to sleep!" still brings a smile to my lips.
Starting kindergarten changed things for us as our school didn't allow twins to be in the same classroom and we were very shy without one another. Although I believe it was done to encourage independence, sadly I only remember how traumatic the forced separation was. Over time we adapted to being apart but it wasn't a smooth transition and there were many tears along the way.
Unlike some identical twins, we both decided by around grade three to ask that we no longer be dressed alike. Looking back I have such fondness for the incredibly beautiful handmade clothing my mom made for us. She was a gifted seamstress - even our dolls benefited from her talent! It's hard to recall why we requested this distinction in our apparel but I can only surmise it was a natural part of our individuality and growth. Early on in my own life, I required eyeglasses and this certainly set us apart as well.
Decades later, near the end of Suzanne's life, I reverted to wearing my hair shorter to resemble my twin's style. It became a source of amusement to be seen so clearly as identical twins in our adult years. But sadly, instinctively I feared her health was spiralling and I would soon lose the chance to continue to have this uniquely twin experience.
During our schooling years, life became quickly marred by peer bullying which by all accounts is quite common when one is in any way different. Coming from a small rural town, Suzanne and I stood out like sore thumbs as the only set of twins. Thankfully, we eventually found a few quirky friends to join forces with. I still don't understand how anyone gets through their school years without the support of a built-in best friend. Our twinship gave us strength.
Aside from the usual drama of high school, we grew to revel in our sense of individuality and creativity. We were both artists and known for our crazy "looks." Keep in mind this was during the 1980s and Suzanne was the first to rock bleached crimped hair (ala Billy Idol) and I, unfortunately, picked my idol, Boy George, as an icon to emulate. So perhaps the bullying was sometimes warranted!
One of the great added perks of being an identical twin was rarely having to wear the same outfits twice. Being the same size meant we had an extensive wardrobe. Even now, years after her death, I still have sets of pieces. Suzanne would often buy two of the same items to make sure I had the same thing she fancied. She had impeccable taste and an eye for bargains so if something caught her attention, she knew I'd love it as well! This was just the kind of sweetness and consideration of others that was inherent to her character.
Our love of fashion, music and the arts grew, and early on it also became clear that my twin possessed the better singing voice and a knack for impressions and comedy which resulted in fits of endless laughter and silliness. We would often go for long after-dinner walks as the openness of country fields provided the perfect arena for enthusiastic duets and hilarity. Only the cows bore witness to our routines, which may have been for the best. There are still songs, even now, I can't hear without crying - like anything from the 80's band The Stray Cats, or even Elvis Presley (her favourite to impersonate). I had no idea that some memories will always remain too raw to revisit.
Post high school, our twenties brought the excitement of leaving our small town for art college in the big city. It barely crossed our minds to be separate in our school choices, even though we had different creative interests. Suzanne loved animation and I experimented with crafts and design - both programs offered at Sheridan College in the Greater Toronto Area.
As close as we always were, this was finally a real opportunity for us to forge our own paths. It was a great time to have freedom and explore the big city, developing different sets of friends and interests along the way. Yet we never considered the thought of having separate roommates as it was seamless and natural to continue living together. We shared the same aesthetics, comforts, and both enjoyed experimenting with new cuisine and the diverse culture Toronto provided. It was a welcome shift from the conservative hometown we grew up in, although funny now how one longs for home and simpler times as the decades pass.
Whenever we could we would frequent local nightclubs in search of large enough dance floors to match our endless energy. We loved to dance and often would mirror each other's footsteps, synchronized with our infectious enthusiasm. This drew more than a few curious stares but we were suckers for attention and grinned the whole time! We revelled in our twinship and had an absolute blast doing so.
We were often asked the seemingly obvious question, "What is it like to be a twin?" We would smile and wryly respond, "What's it like not to be a twin?" It was, of course, tongue in cheek as this bond was all we ever knew. How could we know any differently?
It was in our mid-20's when romantic relationships would take natural turns and I met the man that in a few years would become my husband. But no matter what was ever transpiring in our lives, whatever boy drama, work stress, or anything that was going on, we always talked multiple times a day, especially when we were no longer living together. I've learned since that this isn't unique among twins but singletons think it's a bit excessive. We could start and finish sentences for each other and had an endless stream of tangents, segueing to random conversation points, much to the confusion of others!
It took me years after her death to stop oversharing with people in the way I had done with my twin for my entire life. I didn't realize our extreme closeness and connection were considered so unusual, as we were completely open and honest with each other. It may have been at some times to our detriment or considered codependent, but I'm not entirely convinced that my now evolved state of guardedness is really in any way an improvement. I accept I may never again come across a connection as close as I have had with my twin.
Nothing replaces the feeling of being a twin: the contagious laughter, the lifelong history, the communication with a mere glance, and the utter feeling of completeness from just being together. Suzanne was an extension of me, and I of her. If I could go back in time… My God, to feel this again, this gift of twinship I was so very blessed to have even had.
I remember an incident early in our 20's - fresh from the farm when we were so green and new to city life. We had accidentally become separated on the subway line while travelling together, and I still recall the sheer panic that felt like ice coursing through my veins. This was prior to the convenience of cell phones and the separation and confusion felt like pure terror to us both. Of course, we eventually caught up with each other but the trauma of this memory never faded. Suzanne's death years later felt like a gross and cruel exaggeration of this exact moment. She was going somewhere now that I couldn't envision nor could I simply meet up with her.
It was also in our late 20’s that things started to go wrong for Suzanne`s health. Although we were both diagnosed in our teens of having a suspected blood disorder and Suzanne had a near-fatal pneumonia episode in her youth, we generally seemed unaffected by our shared condition. Looking back I realize Suzanne's frequent sinus infections and over-prescribed use of antibiotics was a hint of a weakened immune system. Being the older twin by a grand twenty minutes, I maintained a fierce protectiveness over Suzanne, although I can see her claiming the same sentiment. But nothing would prepare me for the battle which would be the turning point of our 30's. I would have thrown myself into a fire if it could have spared her the pain she was about to endure.
scroll down
.jpg)
This is the
hard part
This is the section
I want to skip
Suzanne often joked near the end of her life that she wished to write her life story and title it 'WTF.' It was said in jest but the underlying gravity was always there. Her humour was a strength she pulled on. Her grace, I will address later.
In writing this memoir, I want you to know that illness did not define Suzanne. Although as a family we grew closer from this experience and Suzanne's strength of character became even more evident with each challenge, I remember most Suzanne's kindness, humour, energy, and love. But to detail even a brief history of her struggles is necessary. This series exists as a testimony to the love I have for my departed twin. Undertaking this dedication was my true means of beginning to heal from the overwhelming grief I felt with her death.
The cards were not stacked in her favour. We were both diagnosed with a blood disorder, but it only seemed to affect Suzanne during our 30's. This is a rare genetic condition that was diagnosed fully in 2012, three years after Suzanne's death. It increases the risk of life-threatening infections (both viral and bacterial), blood cancer, virus-induced cancers, and bone marrow failure. This condition has since been isolated as an autosomal dominant Mono-Mac syndrome with a Gata-2 mutation. Its profile and occurrence are varied. The only current treatment is a complete bone marrow transplant.
With new information after her death, I consulted a top immunologist and asked, “What can I do (to maintain health)?”. His only response was, “Don't get sick.” I have since dealt with my own immunological issues and have battled cancer as a result, so far successfully. Time will tell and I don't take anything for granted. Ever.
A rough chronological order of events follows below. Although after a decade I may miss some details, I will keep this clinical as it's still too hard to revisit. I share this so one may understand how a remaining twin would be affected. Graphic descriptions do not serve anyone now, and as mentioned, I will remember Suzanne in all her light.
- Autumn 2000 - Bell's Palsy: Suzanne would fully recover and her knack for clowning around helped her regain her facial control and symmetry.
- January 2001 - Pyomyositis: a rare inflammatory disease that attacks the body, leading to an Intensive Care stay for months (which initially was misdiagnosed as flesh-eating disease as the symptoms were so similar. Proper diagnosis saved her from amputation). Thankfully, she was treated with massive intravenous antibiotics and received incredible care from the infectious disease team. Her body swelled to twice her size and she was covered in purple welts and abscesses. It was so unreal to witness and I was horrified. She was hospitalized for many weeks and suffered severe weight and muscle loss. It took considerable time for her to walk again and regain her strength.
- Autumn 2001 - West Nile virus: It took multiple tests to determine that her coma-like state was caused by the virus. The infection resulted in permanent nerve damage to her left leg, causing atrophy and wheelchair use. Eventually, with a cane, she learned to walk again; twice in one year.
- A diagnosis followed stating her liver was compromised from her previous infection and that she would require a transplant within a few years.
- Multiple infections, hospital visits, overnight stays, e.coli infections, etc.
- Winter 2006 - Vaginal cancer, chemotherapy, and brachytherapy.
- November 2007 - Vulva cancer and subsequent radiation treatment.
- Summer 2008 - Proposed exenteration surgery to remove any area cancer could attach to in the region; partial vulvectomy was performed instead.
- Summer 2008 - Repeated severe infections.
- Autumn 2008 - Listeria infection, ICU stay. Each of these infections could have been her last. A Homecare visit revealed a hospital bandage had been left inside her surgical wound from her cancer surgery, for which the hospital took no responsibility. An unfortunate negligence that compromised her even further.
- Winter 2008 - New debilitating, unexplained abdominal pain symptoms that were not properly diagnosed.
- Spring 2009 - Major abdominal pain and mysterious swelling in her good leg was diagnosed as a rare bone bacterial infection. We never got to treatment as unbeknownst to us, her previous cancer had returned and metastasized. She was rapidly spiralling.
- April 19, 2009 - Suzanne left us.
After the West Nile infection, Suzanne was on permanent disability, and for many periods over the years she spent time recovering in our parent's home after each hospital stay. She was blessed to have their absolute love and care. Once strong enough, Suzanne would inevitably crave independence and return to her Toronto apartment, to try and maintain a degree of normalcy. She had constant support from her friends, as well as from my husband and me.
Throughout the years it was clear that although her spirit was strong, her body was not. There were countless infections and hospital visits. My husband and I were on guard for panicked late-night calls from Suzanne. It took years after her passing not to jump at the ringing of a phone.
During her many extended hospital stays, I rarely left her side. If I could have slept in that narrow bed with her, I would have. When Suzanne was in pain, it tore me apart. I couldn't make sense of why this was happening to only her, while I stayed healthy. The changes to her body now set us apart. Suffering muscle atrophy from the West Nile nerve damage and years of illness had left her frail. Although to look at Suzanne, all one would see was a beautiful and intricately stylish young woman. She tried hard to present herself as such.
Survival guilt was already taking hold long before she succumbed. Although I attempted to be hopeful for my twin and remain positive, the underlying fear always lay just under the surface.
Suzanne's grace and kindness, nevertheless, shone through even during the darkest times. I recall her calming down a nurse who was challenged with the difficult task of attaching a catheter in Suzanne's last days. Suzanne was so swollen and the nurse became distraught, losing her composure. There Suzanne was - in utter pain speaking gently to the nurse - settling her down. Later in the hallway, overcome with emotion, the nurse cried in disbelief that Suzanne could be so patient and kind with her when in such obvious distress. She was touched by this deeply, and quite literally blown away. This was not an exception to her character. Suzanne was someone you would be honoured to call your friend. Her loyalty and concern for those closest to her were unmatched.
The period leading up to her death was very difficult. In the last year of her life, I was more of a caregiver than anything else. I spent more nights with my twin than with my husband. I felt frantic as she spiralled. We had long befriended the head of the hospital's infectious disease unit, and there were many panicked calls as Suzanne slept fitfully. He was instrumental in her treatment, and having him on speed-dial was not only an expression of his incredible character, but also a fondness of my dear twin. Her condition was rare and complicated. After surgery and chemotherapy, the risk that cancer could return was understood, but the addition of new bizarre symptoms (later diagnosed as a deadly bacteria in the blood) was too much to endure.
I knew Suzanne hated going into hospitals and I thought I could promise her that I would not let that happen again. Silly promises to make, I know. But sometimes one believes they can make something true by saying it out loud, especially for those they love. I still feel as if I failed her somehow, as ridiculous as this sounds. Perhaps I will always hold some remnants of survival guilt. Only time will tell.
I remember a homecare worker taking me aside once and instructing me to 'take the weekend off' after Suzanne's 2008 surgery. She said she had never seen anyone so immersed in a patient's care and she saw signs of mental exhaustion. Concerned that I was close to my breaking point, she insisted that I return home for rest, and let homecare handle things for a while. Years later I finally grasped the importance of mindfulness and self-care, but when you're in the middle of a storm all you can do is try and withstand the wind.
If there was anything I could do, I tried. I felt so responsible for her, so upset to see her suffer, I could barely sleep or sit still. In her last weeks, her pain was so intense and I knew once we reached palliative care that finally, her struggles would soon end. I had never felt so conflicted in my life. I loved my twin more than myself. I wanted the suffering to end but I knew that meant we would soon be apart. This concept just seemed so surreal and painful to truly grasp.
I don't believe my twin ever had time to fully recover from any of her inflictions and the roller coaster of her health battles. Suzanne would often remark that her life felt like an extended series of X-Files, a then-popular television series. She was the underdog in the ring, surprising everyone with her endurance. She rose like a phoenix all but once.
It was the evening before she would leave us where I had one last twin-night alone with her in palliative care. Twin-nights used to be our chosen evenings together to share wine and laugh over silly shows, enjoying the comfort of our connection throughout our adulthood. Looking back, I'm amazed that I was functional at this time in palliative care. It’s truly incredible what strength you can find in the worst of times.
My family had gone out for food and I chose to stay behind with my twin. She had been there for over a week and was completely medicated, but I'd like to think she was able to hear my words.
While holding her hand with tears in my eyes, I promised her that I would live for her and feel her strength. I would try to be brave for her, as I know she would want me to. I assured her that with every beautiful thing I saw, I would feel it for her too; every flower, puppy, or sunset, everything and anything to keep the joy I felt being with her. I promised her that I would embrace life fully even with her absence and live in a way that would make her proud. I needed her to hear this from me, so she would have some peace when she would leave me behind.
She died a few short hours later.
It is one of my heart's most fervent prayers that she has seen the following six paintings and that she feels my love through them. I know that she understands why they took so long to paint. There is no time or compass for grief, no schedule or deadline, but the work is a steady path that thankfully has led me here.
“There is no coming to consciousness without pain. People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own soul. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”
scroll down
When it comes to death, to lose someone, to feel that connection is now physically gone, is a pain that is universal. Grief and shock can overwhelm and shatter even the toughest among us. Even though I knew she was dying, I was in no way prepared for the emptiness I would feel after my twin's passing.
Initially, the exhaustion from the hospital and palliative experience, coupled with the difficult task of clearing Suzanne’s apartment and dealing with her affairs had me on autopilot. Although I was blessed to have constant support and love from my family, it's difficult even years later to properly describe the enormity of the pain I was feeling.
I was so relieved she was no longer suffering. We all were. But I had never felt this alone before. I had a vast emptiness in my heart taking the place of the calm I had always felt in her presence. The world looked so surreal to me after her death, even colours seemed strangely off as I experienced a completely new sense of vulnerability. It was as if the world could clearly see that I was only half there. Exhaustive bouts of daily crying gripped me for years and although I knew tears were said to be therapeutic, time and tears alone would not be enough for me to begin healing from the loss of my twin.
In the immediate months after Suzanne died, I did find some comfort and guidance from a compassionate grief counsellor. But this period of seemingly endless rumination around my loss and pain ultimately left me with the revelation I needed. Pouring over traumatic details and survivor guilt would not be my salvation. My art would be.
There were many writers throughout the years whose words brought me comfort and insight. Just to name one, Thomas Moore, a Jungian psychotherapist, former monk, and writer of popular spiritual books who wrote the bestselling, “Care of the Soul,” which in particular touched me deeply. In his chapter titled, “Time of Saturn,” he speaks of many circumstances where one may go through a necessary period of darkness and reflection in order for growth and healing to occur. I remember feeling his words spoke directly to the darkness which enveloped me. The following is a partial quote from this chapter where he writes,
I had already instinctively known that tears were in fact healing, releasing endorphins that actually ease physical and emotional pain. But the inherent wisdom from observations such as the following helped to affirm the growing stirrings in my soul.
My navigation through my own “Time of Saturn” was completely dependent on the primal need to tell my story in paint. At first, even getting back into my sketchbook felt too painful, too raw. I felt so changed, everything in my world so alien without her in it. How could I ever feel creative again? Initial attempts of sketches resulted in unintelligible tear-stained scribbles and even angrier text. I couldn't even make sense of the myriad of emotions racing through me. Many nights of consuming too much wine, many days of absolute numbness, disbelieving that I couldn't see her smile or hear her voice. My new reality felt empty and raw and I understood at that point why some take their own lives when consumed with grief. I knew in my soul that I had to use my art somehow, that the seeds for a tribute to Suzanne needed to be planted for me to move past my pain. And although Suzanne's battle had ended, mine had only begun.
How would I begin to portray my love for my twin through images? How would I translate my entire heart into mere brushstrokes? Somehow, self-doubt was slowly starting to be replaced by the greater need for self-preservation. And I gently began to listen to my own instincts to help guide me through the creative process which would inevitably be my salvation.
These six paintings were the only way I could make sense of this separation. Turning pain into beauty and creating a heaven I could cling to, brushstrokes now taking the place where laughter once lived.
From here this series began to take shape and form.
