This is a story of me and my sister. We're cute, aren't we, in the snow. That's me with the big snow lolly. There's another photograph that tells a story of our relationship, though. Mum couldn't find it when I asked. I have my arms around her - I must have been six, and her about 4. For the viewer, it looks like we are hugging. But the story is something else, however - she's doing her best to wiggle and squirm away from me. It's a funny family story. To me though? It taps into my old wounds of being outcast - a narrative that seems to have threaded itself through my life and, I was told once, perhaps all my lives. I try to connect, and I'm rejected. Woe is me. We tell ourselves the strangest stories sometimes.

My sister and I were always challk and cheese. I was demonstrative, loud, emotional. She was restrained, quiet and unforthcoming. She had a cat, I had a dog. She played piano and I went surfing and skateboarding and bareback horse riding. She listened to tunes from old black and white movies while I listened to punk rock. She was a welcome to take anything she wanted from my room, but would scream blue murder if I walked into her room and 'borrowed' a ribbon. I had no boundaries, she had all the boundaries. I'd walk around the house naked, she'd wear t-shirts without plunging necklines.

There's two memories I have of my sister at school. One, was looking after her when some boys threw itchy bombs down her jumper and I found her crying. It's memorable because she let me help her. I felt sisterly love rush through me in the same way I felt it at nearly 3 years old holding her on the couch when Mum brought her home from hospital. The other was abandoning her when the bus driver kicked all us kids off the school bus for throwing food. Us older kids thought it was a grand adventure and hitch hiked home. When I got home, Mum asked where my sister was. I remember feeling mortified. I'd totally forgotten about her.

Me and my sister, Mt Macedon Victoria. First time seeing snow.

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And forgot about her I kinda did. She went up to Monash in Melbourne to study literature and I studied literature at Deakin. She'd come home the odd weekend but I didn't see her a lot. I'd stay at her place one night a week on a mattress in St Kilda as I was studying teaching at Melbourne Uni and it was easier to stay at hers than go home. I'd mostly rock in late, after she was in bed, after being out drinking with friends.

She was still my sister. We still loved each other. But we just didn't have the relationship that other sisters seemed to have, like best friends. Years later - well, now - I realise I did to her what I did to most of my relationships. Once you feel rejection, you create a distance so it doesn't happen again. I loved my freedom. I didn't like being tied down to obligatory relationships. I'd resigned myself to being a distant sister. Yet she came over for my wedding in England, and I flew out back to Australia for hers six months later - she cried when I walked in the door. I started to realise she did love me, just in her way. When she had an unexpected heart attack at 37 years old I rushed into hospital to see her and she reached for my hand and held it and cried, amidst a joke or two, as we do in the face of illness in my family. Recovering, things went back to normal - she has her little family, and we never catch up.

And then Dad got ill.

When I rang her, crying, she said she'd meet me for a walk on the beach. We walked and cried and talked about how we felt about it. I realised I'd not ever walked on a beach with my sister, not since we were kids. Over coffee we took a selfie of each other in the sunshine and sent it to my parents, who were in hospital dealing with the awfulness of chemo. We laughed over how it took Dad to get sick for us to go for coffee together.

Since Dad got ill, I've been making more of an effort. I'll text her to see how her week was. I'll pop over for a cuppa or arrange to meet her for lunch, as we both have Friday arvo's off. She's softer now, more accomodating. The other day we spoke for an hour on messenger about all kinds of things. I worry about what'll be like when my folks go. I worry we will drift apart, so I'm holding on tighter. It's working, so far. The more I pop over, the more I try to connect, the more I give her a hug, the more she responds. I went over in tears last month because my heart was breaking over Dad, and she made me a cuppa and gave me a hug. "I just wanted to see my sister", I said, wanting to let her know in words that I loved her and needed her. 'Do you want milk with that?" she deflected. As I said, she's not demonstrative. But she loves me. I'm not a rejected sibling after all - just a different one.

At her place for dinner last fortnight, I noticed her cracked heels. I suggested she tried coconut oil in the shower and she joked she'd slip over it. I think it was hard for her to accept advice or help - we're both like Mum in that way. We don't like to be told and we don't know what to do when someone reaches out with kind advice. She brushes me off, tells me it's fine, she doesn't mind.

And so I go home and make her a cracked heel salve, and place it on her doorstep. It feels like an offering of love.

Cracked Heel Balm

¼ cup shea butter
¼ cup coconut oil
3 TBSP beeswax
¼ cup magnesium flakes (mixed with enough boiling water to liquify)
10 drops each of oregano and peppermint essential oils (can also use tea tree)
1 tsp vitamin E oil (optional)

Melt the shea butter, coconut oil and beeswax in a double boiler, or simply in a jar in gently simmering water if you don't have a double boiler (I use the jar method).

Then mix in the essential oils. You can also whiz in a blender for a more creamy balm, but this makes too much of a greasy mess of my blender so I don't bother.

To apply, rub over clean feet and put on socks - a good thing to do whilst watching telly! I like to pumice my feet and wash them with coconut oil in the shower, then put the cream on.

If you don't have coconut oil, I imagine calendula infused oil would be nice with this too.

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This post was written in response to @naturalmedicine's wisdom challenge, which asks you to share medicine stories. Whilst this post is a personal, family story, it doesn't have to be. You can be creative if you like, or talk about stories from history or your culture. Read more about it here.

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