Year One

One year ago today, my sister closed her eyes for a nap in her room at the hospice.

She never woke.

She died of cancer, evil, wretched, horrible beast that it is. Her suffering the previous months (and even years, before her diagnosis) was intense and unbearable. Her tiny, frail body finally succumbed to it and I lost not only my closest sister but one of the biggest influences in my life in my childhood all the way into my teens and twenties.

I could go on and on here today telling you all about her; how she was a musical prodigy, a writer, as beautiful as she was brilliant. I could tell you about her sense of humor and obsession with science fiction. How she was a disk jockey at her college radio station and few things ever made her happier.

I could tell you the sad story of a rough time as a teen and searching for herself in her twenties. I could tell you the sadder story of the way our relationship changed in my thirties as she changed because she was unhappy in life. Regardless, there was always deep love and connection between us.

I’ll tell you that a brilliant light went out one year ago, and I’m still seeking its warmth everywhere I look. I’m still listening to her musical favorites and watching films that remind me of her. I still have her photographs on display, I especially treasure the ones of us together as children.

I urge you all, with all my heart, if something about your body feels wrong or ‘off’, go to the doctor. Don’t dismiss it as ‘nothing’. If we could turn back time and somehow convince my sister (as I tried to do, many times) that she needed to see a doctor maybe she’d still be with us.

Then again, her cancer was so invasive, so aggressive, perhaps there was no changing her fate. I’ll always wonder.

I just know this: I miss her, and it hurts like hell. I’m only now, after a year, beginning my grief journey for real.

For a year I’ve been putting it off, denying it to myself, shoving my emotions into little boxes and closing them off one at a time. The process has left me numb, yet, with a deep rage at the world just beneath the pain threshold. So I’m working now with my therapist and with a good book on grief (which are hard to find…) and beginning to unravel my feelings. Slowly, in small doses, because otherwise the pain of this grief would be completely overwhelming.

I remember her today and honor her memory with song, tears, and love.

Hold your loved ones close, people. My sister’s death at age 55 came just five months after her cancer diagnosis. I only got to see her in person twice in that time (due to Covid protocols/hospitalization issues). You don’t know how much time you’re going to be given with anyone in your life, appreciate every chance you have to show them all the love you can.

In the end, I know my sister loved me, and she knew I loved her. We spoke the words but more than that the way she looked at me the last time I saw her, in the eyes, even as I was forced to keep my mask on my face, spoke more of love than any words ever could.

“We had a good run,” she said to me, softly.

“Not long enough for me,” I replied. “I always pictured us someday like Grandma and Aunt Irene. 75 years old and sitting on a beach somewhere together. That’s what I wanted.”

I’ll never be ready to say goodbye to her. A hundred years more wouldn’t have been enough.

She’s one with the ocean now; her ashes were made part of a coral reef off of Florida. I can’t see or think of the ocean without thinking of her, but then so many things make me think of her it’s impossible to go an hour without her crossing my mind.

I just wish I could tell her one more time just how special she was, though I did tell her that.

My only consolation at this point is hoping she felt as loved as she was. Because I love her (present tense) mightily, and I always will.

Be at peace, dear sister. May your spirit fly free of pain, and may the ocean soothe you as you rest.

You’ll never be forgotten.

-bru