A Year Without My Sister

A Year Without My Sister

Somewhere in between my sister’s last breath and this morning’s timid dayrise, I stopped listening. To those who told me, “Do not exalt your sorrow.” To those who cast me aside because they didn’t know what to say so they steered clear. To those who changed the subject in favor of lighter conversation when I needed their ear or their shoulder most. I stopped listening. To the opinions, the judgements, the chatter, and the deafening silence. All of it. I took care of myself. I took care of my Mother. Kept her spirits up in the very same way she did mine. That’s what my Sister would have wanted. For us to be okay, alone together. And, we are. Somewhat. We’re getting there at least. With the help of willing and gentle familial hands, healing is possible. A dear heart shared a book about sibling loss that helped quite a bit but the truth of it is, one full year later, I am still profoundly grief-stricken. The loss of a sibling, it’s like losing the ability to breathe, losing a limb. It leaves you halved. And, I have four siblings left. The mere thought of ever having to endure a similar loss, is terrifying. My Sister was my friend my whole life, and no matter the state of our relationship, her absence has forged a deficit in my life that will forever plague me. I can’t even imagine how it feels for my Mother. If the loss of sibling hurts this much, I can’t imagine how badly her heart is broken to lose a child. From the depths of such despair, we continue to recover. Frankly, it’ll take a lifetime.

I sit alone today, remembering. Her hospital room. The grey window overlooking the rain-stained sidewalks, bare tree branches drumming on the muddled pane. My Sister, after a long restless night, unhooked from everything aside from her heart monitor, held on. Her heart beat strong even though her lungs lagged. I had one moment alone with her before she died. My family made the trek for coffees and snacks. I sat vigil at her bedside, my hand wrapped around her arm just above her wrist. She was warm and still. I talked to her quietly. She moaned softly in response. I realized after a bit of time passed, I couldn’t move my hand. I knew I should let go. I tried. And still, my fingers stayed snaked protectively around her. I tried to instruct my brain to let go and yet not a muscle in my whole body moved. Not even a twitch. I didn’t fight it. It’s just that when I found the courage to slacken my grasp, a dear friend of hers breezed through her door and called my Sister’s name. The volume and nervous tenor in her voice startled me and caused my grip to tighten but my Sister’s eyes also snapped open in response to her friend’s arrival. It was a hopeful but fleeting acknowledgment. It was all she could muster, a surprised reaction to a voice she loved more than most. For the rest of the visit, her breathing rattled on, my hand still firmly in place. When my family, the faces I’d been facing the inevitable with, returned with hot Starbucks coffee and a bite, I let go of my Sister’s arm. Guilt washed over me. My fingerprints were deep in her soft skin. Unbeknownst to me, I quite literally had a death grip on her limb. I watched the color pour back into place while I sipped my coffee and listened to her heart monitor bleeping above.

There were so many moments the night before, with the faces I’d been facing the inevitable with, circled around her dimly lit bed, that caused me great anxiety. Each time she made a strange sound, or her breath shuddered I held mine and wondered if that was it. It never was. At that time, I realized her heart monitor had been turned down and away from us. When I inquired the nurse told us families find it too scary. I requested for her to turn it around and set the volume to low. After a night of fits and starts, wondering if it was her time, I needed to be fully aware of what was happening. She was more than happy to oblige. She understood exactly the reasons why. I just could not be blind-sided. Nor did I want my Sister to slip away from us without any notice.

I still cannot believe she’s gone. When they transferred her from Dartmouth to Halifax, I thought for sure she’d be okay with the proper team, who could assess what was happening with her body and provide the necessary treatment and care. It did not occur to me that she was dying. Or, maybe it did, and I was in denial. My memory, in that capacity, does not serve. I do remember feeling a pang of optimism. That first night. A Friday. My eldest Sister and I sat with her late into the night. We decorated her space with family photos, trinkets from home, and a painting my eldest Sister’s husband painted for her. Still lucid, my Sister awoke, regarded us with sadness and said, “You guys are going to be so tired. You don’t have to stay.” A ball of pain rose in my throat at her concern considering where she was, “Don’t you worry about us,” I told her, “we just want to hang out with you a little longer, we’re fine.” Either of us wanted to leave her. On the announcement she was being moved over to Halifax, she was paralyzed with fear. She didn’t want to be transported by ambulance. She was tired she said and wasn’t sure she could handle it. I did everything I could to calm her. I promised we’d be there when she was settled in her room. And, we were. It took an incredible amount of time for them to get her there, get her settled, and let us in. We waited impatiently in one of the hospital’s family rooms. The interning doctor finally came to talk to us. She asked us a series of intense and intimate questions. They were difficult to answer. We spoke candidly and carefully. The statement from the doctor, that still to this day, sticks with me, “Your sister is not going to die imminently.” Die? Where did that come from? She died a mere five days later. Which proved to me, the care, or lack thereof, she received across the harbor, in a word, was abysmal. Die? I could have died at her words. I thought we would get answers, not be planning a funeral.

Five days later. Her heart monitor is doing its deed. Keeping us abreast of what is happening inside of her while she slept peacefully, encircled by love of family. The night before, I was in Walmart with my niece. My eldest Sister and two other nieces were with her. We received a barrage of text messages telling us to drop everything and get to the hospital. By all accounts during that day, she seemed like she was almost improving. And then, the fight to detach herself from machines began. We made our way to Halifax in a hurry. Upon entering the room, my Sister’s eyes were open, her hand partially extended. I said hello to her, she looked up at me, and to each face standing guard over her, my eldest Sister, three nieces, and said, “I love you guys.” They were her last words. So sincere, peaceful. One of her biggest fears was dying alone. At least in her absence, we can take some comfort in the fact we know she wasn’t alone and was engulfed in love.

The moment it happened; it still haunts me. I am well versed in her facial expressions from a lifetime of laughing and crying and arguing and worrying. But that last expression, the one where the life left her eyes, changed the whole person I was into someone else. I was stood at the end of her bed. My eyes frightfully went between her face and the urgent activity happening on the screen of her heart monitor. It happened in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s breathing peacefully, the very next second barely breathing, and then gone. Her face. Her eyes. Her essence, gone. Her life force lifted out of her and she ceased being. Her eyes rolled and went grey. I felt my legs give out. In the strangest haze, I lowered myself down onto the stool and whispered, “Oh my God.” I covered my face with my hands in a state of disbelief, shock. I stayed only a moment and exited the room. I sat in the chair just outside her door, composed myself and started making the dreaded calls. A few of my Sister’s dearest friends started to trickle in, ones we thought might want to say goodbye. They were all too late. I watched them, one by one, arrive, and almost buckle to the floor in the despair they didn’t make it in time. It was all so surreal. So fucking sad. Too much. I just kept thinking – I don’t know what I’ll do without her.

What have I done without her? The simple answer is – live. It has been a struggle to settle into a new normal, one that doesn’t include her. I wake up, I go to work, I go home, sometimes I let loose for a bit of fun, and somewhere in between I try to understand this world without her in it – without her boisterousness, her bullheadedness, her comedy, her cursing, and her friendship. She, very much like our Dad, who bore another gaping hole in my Universe when he passed, took up a lot of air. I don’t know what to do with what they left behind – all I can manage is to celebrate what was. Some days, it’s still hard to breathe. Other days, it’s peaceful to recall her. Most days, it’s lonely. But – every day I wake up with a pulse, with those I love still with me, is a blessing. Nothing, as I’ve painfully been reminded, is promised.

I was fortunate enough, at the last minute on Saturday after my Big Magic adventure, to encounter a psychic medium. He provided me with a good dose of comfort. There were specific details about her life, personality, experiences, and otherwise he’d never have known unless she was there to share with him, unless he knew her personally. He did not. The crux of his offering was that she is always with me, around me, appreciates me talking to her, keeping her up to date on the latest news (even though she already knows he said). The most important thing he imparted was that she was safe and happy and among us. I can only hope that’s true. After speaking with him, I am certain it is.

A year without my Sister. A year today, is also a year without me. I’ve learned from losing my Dad, when the firsts come along or occasions, it’s helpful to partake in things they liked most to be close. I’m thinking enchiladas for dinner and a playlist full of her favorite music will be a good place to start. We still haven’t gone through her things, what’s left. That’s on the agenda as well. It’s also calling for a rainstorm today. Appropriate for the current feels of remembering.

I love you, Sister. I miss you like crazy.

In propinquity,

Nic