“Your sister needs you.”
The nurse wakes me from my makeshift bed beside her in room 3901. I rush to the bathroom to help. I get her things and wait outside the door for her. I walk her back to bed and brush her hair. You’re not gentle enough, let me do it. I don’t know how to be gentle with myself, she says. I know. I fill her water and adjust her pillows. Get a bucket and some mints, because the nausea is hitting hard. We get her tucked in but she can’t get comfortable. Too many things hurt. It feels like there’s never enough medicine in these moments.
These are sacred days. I have not left her side. In between endless doctors and nurses, we doze and put on face cream and watch bad TV. We talk: Growing up. Our dog. Our parents. All the times we moved. Playing and building forts. Bugs bunny. We share secrets.
We go for walks. She takes my arm, now, without me having to suggest. My chest swells with emotion every time. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
We try to process this terrible terrible tragedy as it unfolds in real time. We’ve seen the devastating scans, held the reports with big scary words in them. We have conversations about last wishes and a full life.
I try to protect her, but it is like pushing against a waterfall. This cancer is crashing down on us.
I kiss her head, her hand. Her skin is so soft. I savour how she smells. I love you, I love you, I love you, big sister, whispering in her ear as she dozes off as the morphine starts to work.
We have agreed to stop thinking so much and just get through a moment at a time. This one has crested and she’s about to rest. I will, too. We lay in the dark, holding hands, hoping for just a little more sleep before the 7 am hustle and bustle.
These are hard days, and sweet with love. I know that I will soon long for them.
