I realized just now that this place, the home which I’m renting, is one of the very last places where I saw my sister alive, in all of her gloriousness. I hadn’t put the pieces together, because of the tornado of other shit that comes with losing a sibling. Now that I have, I can’t unsee the impending deadline that’s looming over each day. I have to be out of here soon, and I won’t ever come back. That’s one more thread that has unraveled from my fiber, another disconnect between me and the life that I lived when my sister was still alive. I can’t count how often I look at that door, trying so hard to not forget my vision of her, turning that key and hearing the click. And then seeing my son run down the hall, straight towards her.
“Massi!”
That black door, with the big glass panels which allow the best lighting to filter in, would be the last door, of mine, that she’d enter. On it, was the last lock that she wiggled her key into (she had her own for every home I’ve lived in), unlocked, and walked through. The last time she did this was in March. She smiled as soon as she entered, all bundled up in a cozy hunter green sweatshirt, with matching pants, and her thick, dark gray glasses. As always, hair on point and skin in full glow. Oh you did a full highlight today, huh? She smelled, well, she smelled like you’d imagine light, or glitter, to smell like. She was excreting brightness, even though internally she wasn’t well. I could tell by her stance, that she was in pain. When she sat on my sofa, she became too exhausted to carry on with our plan to hang, before she went to see a movie with our cousin. She didn’t wake up until it was time to leave. After their movie, she called and told me that she slept through it all, an entire freaking Bollywood movie.
“I’m so damn tired, Navi. All the time, just, like, depleted.”
I can’t remember any time after then, when she was actually in my space, or even my world. It was probably early February? Definitely before we knew that the cancer was back. Though she hadn’t received confirmation by her birthday, I feel like she knew. I could tell by the way she moved. Clearly she was aware that she wasn’t well, but I wonder if, somewhere inside, she knew this birthday would be her last. Forty-six. It’s weird, and hard to put into words, but the way she physically and energetically moved was telling. It’s like I was able to peek below the surface of what we can all see, and witness her frantically wading underneath. It was only a quick glimpse into the water, but the signs were there if you actively paid attention. I guess, in the moment, I didn’t look closely at all. It sucks relying on memory, because you turn over every detail and wonder if it was real or just your now-foggy recollection. I worry about the gap becoming larger each day.
On Valentine’s weekend, we went on a “sister’s dinner” date with another pair of twins-but-not-really. They’d known her since kindergarten, so the energy that night felt insulated, comfortable, and safe. That night wasn’t only the last time I went out with her, in full glam, it was the last time I went to a restaurant at all. A week later, her results came in, and she calmly told me, while sitting across from me, in her office. “It’s back. It’s fucking back again. How many times can I do this?” We sat there in silence until she quietly asked, “How am I gonna tell S (her husband)? He’s at work. And, my God, my daughter? Again!? Don’t say anything to Mom either. I have to figure this out.”
“I’m not ready to die yet.”
March 6: and just like that, back in New Haven, in women’s gynecological oncology, on the fourteenth floor. There would be no more entering my world for her: no more hours-long talks about our futures, no more plans for our kids together, no more outfit checks, trips to Target, new songs to tell each other about, no more coming up to my room to peek through my makeup. In fact, there will be no more of her coming to my home. Ever. For the next four months, I was so preoccupied by her actively dying in front of us, that I didn’t have the capacity to consider any of this. Maybe it was for the best, because I have no choice but to get over it. Maybe I’d want to control the situation and try to create a perfect final bye, instead of being in the moment. It worked out as it was supposed to. I can’t pinpoint the exact time or date that she opened my door, that last time, but it happened quietly. “Hellooo? I’m here!”
She always was right there, until she wasn’t.
This week was busy, and filled with more life-giving moments than not. Grief has a funny way of stepping aside, as if it’s on a smoke break. I had a lot of fun, laughed, danced, and celebrated my son turning FIVE. I was too preoccupied to cry, is that weird? We celebrated at her family’s house, filled with her things. Her supplements were still on her counter, and the “fancy” espresso pods sat unused. We cut his cake on her dining table, where she’d cut her final birthday cake, and my last one as well. Another realization, that she would never sing Happy Birthday to my kid ever again.
“Happy Birthday Sageypageypuddinpie!”
There’s a part of me that wants to get all of the “oh shit” moments over with, you know, these fun little realizations that my sister is dead. But then, there would be no more of her threads left in the fibers of my being, and that just doesn’t work for me. There has to be a soft landing somewhere in the middle, where our fibers fuse, so my memories of her can live beside me, as I shlep around here. Because simultaneously rushing the process, and hoping to prolong it at the same time, feels, well, it feels stuck.