My Sister Died

My sister Sharon (Sheshy) died at 6:45 pm on October 14, 2010.  

I could tell you about the gruesome months that preceeded her passing, or the horror of watching someone I loved so deeply, die by inches, but that would not really matter.

We three sisters were a unit. We survived the death of our mother when we were in elementary school and the slow death and illness of our father when we were teenagers. Early sorrows bonded us in ways that few people can ever understand.  

When life separated us, sometimes by hundreds or thousands of miles, we never lost touch for more than 24-hours. We spoke at least twice, but often three or four times a day, especially in the last decade. There was always something to say to each other. And in the midst of some of the worst sorrows of failed relationships, lost jobs, divorces, disappointments, we always found something funny to laugh about. We argued sometimes, violently so. We disagreed often. We were each so different from the other. No matter our differences, we always, always loved each other and made sure the other knew so.

Sharon's last years were spent in a nursing home. She had multiple sclerosis.

When her first symptoms appeared in 1984, she and I were living in Washington, D.C., our sister Bonnie was in New Jersey. After a few scary weeks and months, the symptoms disappeared and for the next few years, Sharon seemed fine. She left D.C. and moved to New Jersey to join Bonnie, but by 1987, the MS came back. I too had moved to New Jersey by then.  Sharon stopped working.  Eventually, I bought an apartment in her building. She was becoming more disabled with each passing month, but she and I were both in denial. It was easier to cope, especially for me.

Then after September 11th, it seemed I was calling 911 for ambulances and spending hours in the emergency room with Sharon every few weeks for one thing or another.  

I was the last one to accept the fact that she could no longer manage on her own.  I was still working. Bonnie and I fought bitterly. I kept hoping there was a solution. Bonnie faced reality. Neither Sharon or I could.  

When Sharon entered the nursing home, age 61, amidst 70-, 80- and 90- year olds, I sank into a deeper depression than Sharon did herself. She kept alive a delusion that she would recover and come home again. I no longer could pretend.  

Yet, over the next years our unit achieved a new kind of normalcy.  Sharon began to make friends.  We three were still able to find things to laugh about.  Except for the setting, things among us were much as they had always been. One or both of us would be at the nursing home six days a week, certainly after I retired.  Bonnie became a volunteer there.  There were long months of relative quiet. 

Saturday was always Sharon's and my day together watching television or doing crosswords, or just talking.  When it was just the two of us alone, I'd often turn to her and say tearfully, “I ache for you.” She'd agree, “I know, and I ache for you too,” and then we'd reminisce about a vacation we took, or a meal we ate, or a book we read, "Remember the time...".  

Typically, I would bring a CD of  Bill Maher's program or a movie and we'd sit arm-in-arm, holding hands, eating junk food, and watch it on her computer. She invariably fell asleep in the middle of the program, she said because she never felt calmer than when we were together.  

Sharon was my best friend. 

Gradually, bacterial infections, kidney failure, illnesses, and hospitalizations shortened the periods of calm until finally, her paralysis and spasticity worsened, sores began appearing on her body; sores that would not heal. She bled internally and lost half her blood supply and it weakened her so that when an aide foolishly left her unattended on her bed, she fell and broke her leg. Thus began the time of her dying.

It might have been months; it could have been weeks or days even.  I no longer know or care about its duration. While it was happening, it felt like an eternity. Now that it's over, it feels like it happened much too quickly.  I wish we had more time. But then I don't, because she suffered so in those final moments. Ambivalent?  You bet I am.

When she stopped eating, Bonnie and I brought her anything and everything we knew she liked hoping she would regain her appetite and then strength enough to recover.  I got into a car accident in August because I was rushing to her with a roast beef sandwich.  One night, I fed her dinner, and she actually ate.  I was elated. "I'm so hungry, give me more."   I went home that night and slept for the first time in months, believing maybe the tide had turned and she actually might recover. Wrong.   

Once death was in the room with us, Bonnie and I let her know we wouldn't be upset if she felt the need to talk, but she refused, insisting that she was going to get better.  We three had talked about death and dying with each other since we were children. We had a pact about how the first one to die would let the other two know if there were an afterlife.  Years of discussing it was the reason we had no qualms about what to do.  She absolutely, unequivocally did not want to be fed through a tube or be given fluids to keep her alive, of that we were sure.  It was our job to carry out her wishes. 

Lots of relatives and friends that had been meaning to come to visit, actually did come to see her in those last weeks. She was always to thrilled to see everyone.  The dogs came. Buster our black pug would not leave until he was lifted to her face to kiss her.  

When my father died, that first night the thing that bothered me the most was that I'd never hear his voice again. I couldn't remember what he called me. I was determined that I wouldn't be without Sharon's voice too. When she stopped talking, I made sure to make an mp3 of every single telephone message from her still on my answering machine. There were months and years worth of cheery, sweet messages from my sister wondering where I was, telling me to not to forget this and that. Then, on the same answering machine were two or three disoriented ramblings from someone using my sister's voice expressing fear and confusion.  Sharon had began to sundown and when she was most anxious, she called me to rescue her. If only I could.  Despite my urgency about  preserving my sister's voice, I have never been able to listen to that recording and don't think I ever will.

The stress of watching and waiting for the death of someone you love so much had gotten to me and Bonnie. We were spitting razor blades at each other with our words.  Sharon hated when Bonnie and I were fighting. Sharon had always been the buffer between us.  She would listen to each of us complain about the other one and then broker a peace.  Now she had lost the ability to speak and probably knew she was dying.  She wanted us to stop fighting. Staring at us intently, out of her throat came -- “hug.” Bonnie and I spent the rest of the afternoon dutifully hugging in front of Sharon and assuring her that we' loved each other and would get along.   

The three of us used to speculate that Bonnie would always be able to get over the death of the other and that it would take me and Sharon a lot longer.  That's pretty much what's happened.  Bonnie and I are as close as ever, but it's different.  She's ready to move on, and rightfully so.  

For me, nothing feels right anymore.  It's like being an amputee who has an itch she can't scratch on her severed limb.   I want my sister back.