Birdsong in the Backyard

TW: Suicide

The weight of the world settles on my shoulders as I fumble with the shoestrings on my Reeboks. Gravity somehow pulls more aggressively today, and the passage of time feels like I'm operating in dog years suddenly — every minute seems like it passes seven times faster somehow.

And it all feels profoundly unfair.

Looping the laces on my tennis shoes, I can’t help but think it’s time for a new pair. These shoes have seen more steps than they were made for, and probably need to sent to The Great Shoe Retirement Community in the Sky. I notice my hands are trembling slightly, and I realize my nervous system is recognizing something my heart refuses to acknowledge — that I’m in denial about how huge today is. Cinching the laces together tight, I spring upward and muster up all the strength I've left in my soul to face this moment. I'm not even sure I need to have shoes on; perhaps this is a stall tactic.

"You can do this, Clare," I mutter to myself like the world's least convincing bold-faced liar. I mean, I can. But who would want to?

Gently holding onto Jean's frail hand, I help her to her feet. She's so light it shouldn't be difficult, but her strength is kaput. She's a skeleton in skin and has become so gaunt that catching glimpses of her throughout the day provides horror movie jump-scare effects. I finally have her on two feet and her hands are gripping her walker. She's 53 years old, using a walker, and living a waking nightmare. Suffering with constant pain, all thanks to the cancer that's riddled her body after being introduced via her lungs. She's already breathless from being on her feet and I know she's probably incredibly lightheaded too.

"Just a few feet to the patio, Love," I encourage her. "You've got this. I’m right here."

Unable to speak, she begins to shuffle her feet enough to move forward toward the open door that awaits us. I’ve propped it wide open with a heavy old clothes iron I purchased from our favorite antique store. Her movements are excruciatingly slow, but time is still passing far too quickly for me. I fight back a deluge of tears as I inch her closer to the door. Her head wrap is starting to slip, and as I position it back onto her bald head, I think about her once-gorgeous head of blonde hair and gulp back a potential sloppy sob. Biting my lip a bit might distract me from a potential breakdown. So I bite down hard.

My sister deserves none of the indignities she's faced over the past few years. The divorce. The cheating narcissist who abused her soul. And now this goddam cancer.

I think this thought to myself, and the tears finally just pour from my eyes. We continue to make our way out to the patio, and boy, what a slog. We’re finally at our destination and she looks beat. I get her carefully positioned in front of the outdoor sofa enough that she can lean back and plop onto the cushions.

She's here.

Right in the spot where we discussed the other day.

I grab ahold of the walker and move it out of our way, and suddenly realize that I, too, am breathless and quite a bit dizzy. To be expected in a moment of this magnitude, I suppose. As gingerly as humanly possible, I take my seat next to her on the sofa. I don’t really know what to do next, so I gently grab her hand and put her fingers through mine, like the way kids grip a parent’s hand. I truly do not want to be here, but I also don't want to be anywhere else either — a paradox I’ll surely feel for the rest of my life. I feel like my soul is floating in air above my body. The weather is perfect, the sun is warm but behind clouds so it’s not too bright. The birdsong in the yard is so loud it borders on obnoxious. Either that or my senses are just far too keen right now.

Looking around at her back yard garden, I wish we had time to sit and marvel at her work. Years of sweat equity have made this an oasis for her and was instrumental in her healing process. It’s gorgeous, like something out of Better Homes & Gardens magazine, and I wish more than anything I could go on one of her extra-boring yard tours where she tells me in unsolicited detail about every single plant — what it’s called, when it blooms, where she acquired it, how much it cost. I’d literally kill for another of those tours (which I always obliged but secretly hated).

We agreed there would be no discussion, but I can't help myself. "I love you so much, Jean," I somehow blurt out in a very controlled yet hysterical manner. Tears are now cascading down my cheeks, which blurs my vision and somehow makes the birds seem louder. She squeezes my hand twice rather quickly, which I take to mean, "We had agreed we wouldn't speak."

She pulls the pill out of the pocket on her gown and, without any sort of pause, puts it in her mouth and swallows it dry. I'm not even sure how it's possible; I've never been able to swallow a pill without a full glass of water. I’m shocked by her nonchalance in the matter.

I attempt to focus my attention on her breath, but the birds are so aggressively loud. I lean my head on her shoulder so I can feel her breath. "I have to say it again, Jean," I blubber. "I love you so much."

She squeezes my hand.

And then she lets go.

I can feel her breathing start to slow and then completely stop altogether. It’s as though the birds have noticed because they've now gone completely silent.

My sister is now at peace and gone from this realm.

And the birds are suddenly chirping and singing again.