The Beginning of the End

My sister’s words echoed in my ears as I drove to work: “I’m no longer responding to chemo.”

    I had gotten ready for work and got a text from Jolene: On our way home.  Don’t leave yet.  I knew she had some information for me from the doctors.  Jolene and Mom had left early that November morning for an appointment in Pittsburgh with the oncology team and then chemotherapy.  The half-hour trip always seemed to be longer on the way back. Especially with a nauseous passenger beside you. It was far too early for them to be on their way home.  Chemo takes a few hours. I tried to calm myself by assuming that Jolene wasn’t able to have therapy because her blood count numbers were low. That scenario had played out before a time or two.  I was sure that was the reason for their early return home.

    I was all ready to leave for my strange 12:00 pm to 8:00 pm shift when the dogs started whining.  Mom and Jolene were home. I sat on the loveseat waiting for them to come in. it had always been an unwritten rule that you let others come in the house, take off their shoes, and sit down to breathe for a minute before you barraged them with questions.  In those moments, I tried to read their body language. Jolene looked well, or, as well as someone with cancer can look. Mom was stoic too. No signs there foreshadowing the news.

    “Is it ok if you are a few minutes late for work?” Jo asked.  I told her it was no problem. I could tell she was stalling. She looked at the clock, and then she looked at me.  Jolene took a deep breath. Out came those words: “I’m no longer responding to chemo.”

    I had a million questions, but I already knew the answers.  This is what I had been preparing my heart for. Jolene continued talking, but I only caught a few words.  Experimental drugs. Metastasized. No more chemo. Three months to a year.

    My heart sank.  Maybe they misheard?  Maybe the doctor said that they could try chemo again in three months or a year?  I couldn’t speak to even ask the questions I had. There is no possible “right thing” to say or do with that news.  I listened. She repeated herself. I remember how hopeful she was: The experimental drugs may work! They had some funky side effects, and she couldn’t start taking them for 3 months. 

“In the meantime, I just have to take good care of myself, try not to get sick, and enjoy not having the side effects from chemo.”  

Jolene said she wanted to continue to work, and she was planning on making a trip to Florida between Christmas and New Years with her best friend Jeaneen.  Determined to keep living a good life, Jolene even said that if her employer had a problem with her taking time off, well, “They could shove it up their ass.”  I said that was ironic because she worked for a Gastrointestinal doctor.

    I didn’t say much.  I couldn’t say much.  After all, I was the comic relief and cheerleader; Mom was the caretaker and nurse.  I was just trying to process. Three months to a year. Three months. That’s February.  I knew that Mom and I would make sure that whatever time Jo had left was as special as possible.  

I looked at the clock and Jo noticed.  

Then she actually apologized to me for her prognosis and for laying all this on me before work.  I could only shake my head in disagreement.  

I got my bag and my purse and headed for my car.  Halfway down the sidewalk, I turned around to go back inside.  I said, “I want you to know that the reason I didn’t say much is because I care so much.  I’m like Daddy was—it takes me a long time to process information. But I know that we’ll get through this like we have so many other times.  You just can’t give up, Jo. You have to keep fighting. Don’t give up on yourself, and Mom and I won’t give up either.”  

I was crying as I finished those words.  Jolene was crying too. I hated to leave, but I had to get out of there.  I longed for the silence of my car. Jolene thanked me, I gave her a kiss on the head, and headed back out the door. 

I was on autopilot as I drove to work that day.  I really don’t know how I made it safely. Did I stop at that stop sign? Who really cares?  If I get pulled over, I’ll simply tell the cop that I just found out that my sister only has months to live. 

I didn’t want to think about it:  a life without Jolene.  

And I didn't know what would happen when I lost her, and then, just one year later I was having lunch with a friend and an acquaintance of hers.

“Are you an only child?”

I paused, not knowing how to answer. I hadn’t thought about it like that in the year since I lost my sister.

I am an only child, I guess. I am a sister without her sister. A friend without my friend. One of two. A hand without an arm. Lost. Empty. Forever missing my other half.

I still see her every time I look in the mirror. Or I’ll catch a glimpse of her walking by a window. No, wait. That’s me.

I’ll see her next to me at a red light. Short red hair nearly glowing in the sun. No, wait. That’s a stranger.

I see her pass me at Giant Eagle. A tall woman with a great smile, wearing a coat just like hers. But, wait. That’s not her either.

She’s everywhere and nowhere. She’s here, but she’s gone. Leaving me left forever in limbo. Time becoming measured by before and after.

I finally answer, “I lost my sister a few years ago.” And I know the look that follows. Embarrassment. Sadness. Sympathy. A million questions about how someone so young is gone.

I have the same questions. Questions without answers. A sister without her sister. A friend without her friend. One of two.

Not that she isn’t constantly on my mind—she is. She’s everywhere.

She’s the low whimper from her dog that craves attention only she could give.

She’s there when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I see her face for a second.

She’s the silence after mom and I share a chuckle over something silly without a laugh from her.

She’s the empty place on the birthday card after I sign my name alone.

She’s the vacant chair at 9 p.m. when the house is quiet.

She’s the missing member when mom and I go out to dinner as a party of two, not three.

She’s the rainbow in the sky on a hot summer night.

She’s the snowflake on my cheek as I walk into work.

She’s a constant. An anchor. A lifeline. A sparkling soul that is gone too soon.

And she’s the tear that runs down my face when I think too much about all the things we never said and all the things we never did.

It’s not that she isn’t constantly on my mind—because she is. I’ve just learned to plow through the sadness, grief, regret, emptiness, guilt, and physical pain that her absence has left. And my words fall short of the never-ending love I have for my sweet sister. Love that has, in fact, grown in the two years since she’s been gone.

It’s not that she isn’t constantly on my mind—because she is. But today is a little harder, remembering all we had, all we lost, all the love she gave unselfishly to everyone in her meaningful, short life.