Obituary

As a general rule, we are not comfortable with death and dying; not talking about it, experiencing it, dealing with it, being around it, or watching someone go through the process. If you read the first part of this column about topics that are sometimes not suitable for all audiences, then you know it discussed the fact that my sister was dying. And, of course, you also know why.

My sister died in the morning hours of Tuesday, April 16. It was a peaceful death, and she was not in pain. We as her family were at least grateful for that after months and weeks of watching her suffer in pain. It was not pretty. There were soiled pads, bandages, bottles of fluids, latex gloves, bottles of narcotic pain killers, creams and the constant thump and whir of the oxygen machine.

The last few weeks also included routine visits from the hospice nurse, a wonderful woman named Annie. Annie came every day to check my sister’s wounds (bedsores), talk about administering pain medication, how much and how often and the best way to keep her comfortable. The last week of her life, my sister did not eat or drink anything and she did not speak. Annie said she could, however, hear us.

I had made a list of all the memories I could think of from when we were growing up, on into adulthood, and read them to my sister. Things like the time when we were kids, and we made a frog farm in the basement from a moving box. It was complete with green space and a pond. The dog got into it, let all the frogs out and proceeded to eat some of them. My mom called the vet and asked him what to do. His advice was to keep the dog near the back door — he was going to need ready access to the outdoors.

My sister was always sticking up for the underdog, including me; she was small in stature but mighty in character. Thus, my mom spent a lot of time in the principal’s office, because my sister would get into fights on the playground defending the kids who were getting picked on.

There were the normal tit-for-tat exchanges all sisters have. Like the time we were camping, and she was reading “Love Story,” and she couldn’t pronounce leukemia. It came out “lukeamaya.” I laughed so hard I thought I’d fall out of my camper bunk. I said with all the superiority I could muster, “It is pronounced ‘leukemia.’”. She got me back later at lunch, though, when my mom placed my Spam sandwich in front of me and my sister announced, with a smug grin, “you know Spam is made out of rat meat, right?” I haven’t had a Spam sandwich since. (For the record: Rat meat is not listed as one of the ingredients in Spam.)

We learned to canoe, shoot, start a campfire with only one match and locate the best huckleberries for pancakes. While on backpacking and camping trips, we had to invent our own entertainment, like seeing who could kill the largest number of mosquitoes, turning marshmallows into flaming orbs of molten gooiness and building a lake-worthy raft.

Our grandparents lived on a farm, and it was always fun to do experiments with the farm animals (nothing kinky) and the overgrown produce. Experiments such as, do chickens fly? No. We tried it, by tossing them in the air to see if they could fly, and they proved they couldn’t. For the record, no chickens were harmed during these experiments.

However, if you throw an overgrown zucchini — we’re talking several pounds and as big as a small child — onto the electric pasture fence, it will explode into a lot of pieces.

We shared a lifetime of memories in her 63 short years. I wouldn’t change a thing. In journalism, we generally do not say “passed away,” “passed on” or even “passed over.” We say someone has died. Death is a reality we all must face someday.

It is said grief has five stages — shock, depression, bargaining, anger and finally, acceptance. They don’t come in a neat package, one right after the other, and sometimes they come one on top of the other. I’m in the shock phase. I can’t believe I don’t have my little sister.

A few days ago, I read my list of memories to her. She was on morphine and deep asleep. Annie assured me, though, that she could hear me. In the last line I told her she was the best little sister I could ever ask for, or hope for, and she would be in my heart forever.

The point is — and there is a point — even though she was silent, and physically unrecognizable, I’m glad I was able to spend my sister’s final days with her. I don’t remember seeing this task in the job description for Big Sister, but apparently it was in the fine print. It has made me realize how important every day of one’s life is and not to waste a single minute of it, and to hold close those you care about and tell them you love them. I once read that where there is great grief, there is also great love.

That memory list? I’m sure my sister heard me.