It was fairly recent when I had the sudden realization, even though we were well into the beginning of the end. It’s one of those thoughts that pop up, in question form, and instantly changes your perception. At least it did for me, when I asked myself:

Wait, are we microdosing our grief?

Isn’t that what preemptive grief essentially is? That steady trickle of shocks seems, well, less shocking, since the impact hits differently, but it feels equally suffocating to me. I know it’s happening, I see it in front of me, and I’ve seen it on the horizon. Sister’s cancer had consumed the better part of my life for the last year, I can’t begin to imagine how it’s affected her. We’d been living from one moment to the next, and I’ve personally been wondering which complication would arise and if it would be the one. The waiting is torture in itself, as an outsider observer, so again, my brain and heart cannot connect with what it must feel like for her. The disconnect itself bears weight like nothing I’ve had to carry in my lifetime so far.

Maybe that’s it, we just have to accept that there are only two options: accept the shock, and subsequent pain, after an unexpected loss, or witness someone that you unconditionally love slowly detach from the essence of their being, with each inevitable setback.

It’s one or the other, right? The offset of the silver linings that we were told to always keep an eye out for, I suppose. In our case, we’ll definitely be spared of shock, given Sister’s insane health history, but aren’t we intrinsically microdosing our grief? The ups and downs have increased at a pace which none of us expected, even though we all knew. We knew it was stage three, we knew it was recurrent. We also witnessed her plow through four cycles of chemo, the first with an ostomy bag that she had to casually wear like a bandaid. She had a newborn daughter and was back to work during her second recurrence, and had started her firm by the third, where her treatments were meticulously scheduled around her client schedule. She loved her clients and the work that she did for them. It was actually in her office, where I was sitting across from her, as we decided from where to order lunch, when she heard the results of her latest scans. “My cancer is back.” Well, shit. A fourth time?

Spring 2024 —

The day we decided to leave Austin, and Texas as a whole, was when she called to confirm what I already knew: that her recurring stomach aches weren’t just cramps. I remember standing in my kitchen and focusing on the marbling on the countertop because the words hit a bit too hard. The thought of having to quickly catch a flight, and then find my way from JFK up through the Connecticut shoreline, made my stomach cramp, but I knew the likelihood for that was high. Though the journey was a trek, never an easy feat, she was always worth the effort. I wanted to stay within driving distance, but definitely not come back to Connecticut. It was never in my plans to return, let alone to the tiny town where I was born. Not wanting to leave a life that I worked hard to create and genuinely loved, in Austin, I agreed to move if I could have one solid final year there. The next recurrence happened in between the decision and the move.

That time it hit quickly, right after she returned from a week-long trip to Aruba with her husband and daughter. “I feel so good here, like no physical pain at all. I want to come back every year, Navi, we have to go together with the kids.” I printed and framed a photo for her, from that very trip, snuggling her daughter into her scarf on their last night on the island. Both smiles outwardly conveyed the warmth surrounding them. I noticed Sister’s eyes were closed and her skin was more pale than usual, but I wanted to believe it was just exhaustion from the trip. When she returned home, she was back in the hospital, with hemoglobin levels <5. This was the second time that year when she was traveling with such a low blood volume. A few months earlier, she and her daughter had met me in Florida for a quick trip to Sanibel for my birthday. I remember her being in so much pain throughout the trip, but she still showed up. She flew in for me, to celebrate a random birthday. She showed up for her daughter, who was just three years old, and also for her work, remotely, with an unchecked tumor growing inside of her pelvis.

I remember us getting into it, on the night of my birthday. Not an actual fight, with yelling, insults, or even declaring that we were mid-beef, but time from that trip was sacrificed because I wasn’t able to effectively communicate my frustration, or even pinpoint where it was originating from. We were driving back to Marco Island, after spending our day in Sanibel, which is a meaningful spot for the both of us. I guess that, in itself, explains the hyperactive emotions, but it doesn’t excuse it. I remember being such a bitch toward her, about her missing an exit and then having to go thirty miles until the next to turn around. A simple mistake was, apparently, reason enough to completely stonewall her and declare that I was done. My mind was caught in a loop, replaying every instance when she was late, which was often. Or when she missed a small detail and just chalked it up to, “Oops!”. I essentially began to judge her for every past annoyance, rather than be in the moment and appreciate all of the efforts that she did put in. Yes, she was chronically late, but she also showed up every single time. She missed details, but she always came through on making it right. I seemingly forgot about her ADHD, or that she was parenting a toddler alone on this trip, or that she was driving somewhere she’d never been, all of which are valid reasons to simply miss an exit. Or just, you know, shit happens? I ignored that she didn’t have to be there, she chose to because she loved me and wanted me to have a fun birthday in a place that I loved. Instead, I pouted and turned inward. I know it was my birthday, but this isn’t exactly what they mean by “make it about you.” My misguided anger deducted time that will never replenish. She was still so kind and receptive to love, that she was willing to make it up to me, something she didn’t have to do. Make up what, exactly, missing an exit and then dealing with a disproportionate response for doing so? The following day, I flew back to Texas, whereas her flight to the northeast was delayed by a day. I went home, while she was stuck in Fort Myers, with a toddler in tow, intense stomach pain, and hemoglobin levels at 4.5. I’ve apologized about my shitty treatment towards her, and explained that it was internal, but it’ll never change that, in the moment, I let her feel bad for something that she never should have been made to feel bad about. If anything, don’t ever do that shit, especially to people that you love.

April 2025 —

I hadn’t spoken to Mom in two months, when I received a call from her, while I was standing in a line to board a flight. Ugh, do I want to do this right now? I went for it, decided to take the bait. “Have you spoken to your sister?” Mom wasn’t actually interested in my response, because, before I could reply and say that yes, I actually have, she continued, “She’s back in the hospital. She’s really sick this time.” I already knew. Sister called me earlier that morning, as my Uber drove me to the airport. As I was off on a solo adventure for five days, to celebrate a five-year milestone, she was back in a hospital bed. My trip was amazing and beyond what I could’ve imagined to be ideal, but for every nook and cranny that I discovered, I wished she could be there to experience it with me. I felt like I was somehow leaving her behind on what life had to offer. I felt this when I called her from Zion, to try to put into words the outer-worldly beauty that surrounded me. She was back in another hospital bed, in more pain. A similar scenario played out when I called her from Utah, and Sedona, and then Miami, and also New Mexico.

These were separate trips, spread out over the course of a few years, but the template remained the same: as I explored and viewed the world at an expansive, macro level, she quietly suffered at the most micro level for a living being. For every view, the same thought: “We’re gonna do a trip here together, she will love this!”

May 2026 —

I don’t even know what day today is, honestly, but February doesn’t feel that far from now. It was when we had the conversation, in her office, which feels distant, but not far. Certainly not far enough to go from that day to where we are today. I sat in her hospital room yesterday with her best friend, who drove in from Long Island in the morning, and we tried to make sense of things. Sister hasn’t had food, like a legit meal, since March. Nutrients are met via TPN, but what absolute torture to deny a meal, a bite, a taste, to a woman who loved flavor, a woman who tried everything once, a woman who is still very much alive? We leave each day and head back home, knowing that we will or can be eating soon. Anything we want, whenever we want. She can’t even have a paratha. Or a milkshake. I hadn’t stopped to think about this much, because it feels like there’s not enough time to. Her husband and I are in constant motion, trying to balance this rickety new normal. For him, her partner, as a soon-to-be single dad, and me, as someone who’s about to lose half of my soul, my best friend. It’s impossible to watch this in real time, and see what the world sees, because, to us, it’s a slow trickle of grief that we feel stuck in. We certainly aren’t alone: our parents, her in-laws, her friends, colleagues, clients, neighbors (she was that person), and all of the acquaintances we know, whom she has worked with and helped, without any mention to anyone. I learn each day of a new person who was touched by her spirit, in one way or another, and it truly fills my heart and even stirs a bit of pride, because I’ve been there for the last forty-three years, watching this spirit form into what it is today. I am awestruck by her resilience, her patience, and her ability to relinquish control, even during life’s scariest moments.

Her strength goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: Sister is an absolute powerhouse.

In 2019, she awoke from a ten-day coma, to learn that she had gone into septic shock, her entire abdomen had been reconfigured, and she now had an ostomy bag in tow. There wasn’t any choice, other than hoping her body could heal itself, potentially removing the need for it. Can you imagine? Can you fucking imagine the shock, to go from having a routine hysterectomy, in order to be able to finally live normally, to wake up and learn that you’ll need rehab, just to walk? Or will have an ostomy for the unforeseeable future and to just wish for the best? I’d lose my shit, like legitimately revolt. I truly cannot comprehend how she walked through that fire, but holy shit, she did it. She continued to work, full-time, for someone else’s firm, owned by a man, at that. It was the same firm which treated the experience as if it were an inconvenience, rather than, you know, a coma. This experience highlights exactly what I mean when I speak of her resilience, or strength, or even her grace. I know those who know her are laughing at the word “grace” (as is she), but I’m referring to her response to situations, both within and out of her control. She catches the strays that life gives her, while also taking steps to find a way to live with it. The way in which she casually accepted one insane plot twist, after another, should be studied. Sepsis, then a coma, casually sandwiched between pulling the plug on your newborn and terminal cancer is, it’s fucking jarring. It feels unreal, and wholly unfair to witness; imagine living it.

February 22, 2026 —

I assumed the pic was taken in February, before I even clicked the little “i” to confirm. February 22, I knew it. I could tell from the expression on Sister’s face, as she stared at her daughter, who was dressed up as a makeshift unicorn. This picture looked different than others; her expression, her energy, her body language all felt different. She was afraid, so afraid. That specific photo, to me, represents the beginning of the end. I had taken it, without realizing, in the moment, the severity of what she and her daughter were about to enter. I’m not sure if I believed we would have another February, but I did not think that we wouldn’t.

June 24, 2026 —

I’ve been here all day, with the goal of having a solid moment with her today. Y’all, mission accomplished! I had a few moments actually, like when she smiled as I played Guns N’ Roses, real quick, and reminded her of that infamous night in DC, when we were taken down to Paradise City. She also briefly joined us when her close friend from law school stopped by and whispered her favorite memories in her ear. Whatever it was, must’ve been another colorful tale, because her eyes flickered open and she immediately smiled at Karolina’s magic words. She also briefly woke up to have a sip of ginger ale, her treat of the day. She didn’t wake often, or for long, though; so leaving feels a bit too unpredictable than I’m comfortable with. This is my sister, my sister. I can’t just walk out of here and go home, knowing that she may never wake up again? I mean, are you fucking kidding me?