news that matters: my baby sister

Yesterday was a day of internet high drama in the yoga world I move in. I woke up this morning feeling like yeah, that's all well and good, but it's kind of like getting all twisted up about a child down a well in a far-away town: it's easy to get swept up into the emotions of it, to be fascinated by every development, but really, what in hell does it have to do with me?  In the case of the events I've been consumed by, they're not nearly so remote, not remote at all, but still, this morning, I looked in the mirror briefly, passing by on my way to make the coffee, and thought, Hmmm, yeah, I'm done with that.  

Instead today I think will be about issues much closer to home for me.  Perhaps today should instead be the day I tell the story of going to my niece's 5th birthday party weekend before last.

Wow, you're thinking, really?  A kid's birthday party?  This is what The Force Expansive has come to? 

Really.

Because remember, this is not just any kid's birthday party.  This is my sister's kid's birthday party, my baby sister the freaking bionic woman who has survived HIV for over 20 years and now a devastating brain cancer diagnosis for more than 3.  My sister who broke up with us completely more than 2 years ago, and after recent bad news from the doctors, invited us back in to her life in December 2011, for what's left of it, that is.  

So yeah, that kid's party.

Death has a way of re-calibrating our sense of what's a problem.  And when the doctors seemed to indicate in early December that it was time to put her affairs in order, we got the call.  Or was it a text?  I can't remember now, but either way, suddenly we're back in the fold.  They were going to try one more round of chemo, adding in a drug my sister's tried before to arrest the growth of the cancer.  This drug nearly killed her once, but they were going to give it one more shot.  As a result, we're back in.

And at the party.

The party was held at my sister's aunt-in-law's house in Santa Rosa.   The house was packed with people, relatives I probably met at the wedding but didn't remember at all.  The party girl was delightful as usual, adorable, the recipient of an enormous pile of gifts.  She's so the image of my sister at that age -- just precious.

I tried to be the best possible sister, to represent for Martine who couldn't be there.  I tried to be of service to Carla in any way possible, fetching her cigarettes, walking her to the tail-gate of her truck for a smoke, hanging around, bringing her more food and Coke when she wanted it.  I tried to make the best of being there, because really, honestly, who knows how much time left any of us have, let alone my bionic sister.  Perhaps she will outlive us all, with her combination of tenacity and drugs.

When people ask me how my sister's doing, they generally have on a sad, sad face.  It's a special expression we all reserve for when we're asking about someone who's ill or dying.  I think it's universal: the timber of the voice drops, the head tilts to the side, the eyes go soft.  Because I'm so happy to have been let back in, to be able to even see my sister, I keep getting confused by this expression, almost impatient.  I keep forgetting that the news is so bleak, since I'm still celebrating every interaction with her.  Apparently, my inner Pollyanna runs deep.  

But even that doesn't cloud my vision when I see her.  I can't and don't ignore her slurred speech, or that she needs an arm when making her way down the sidewalk, that she's wobbly and off balance, even as she regales, albeit slowly, with her usual wit.  Her voice, as I wrote elsewhere, sometimes seems to be coming from a long way off, long pauses and delays as if from long distance.

As if from the bottom of a well.  

So really, all this drama about other things, I am stepping away from that.  How can it possibly matter, when my sister's down a well of her own?  The latest news is that they stopped the Avastin and are staying with the other drug, the one that wipes out her immune system, in their last-ditch effort to halt the progression of the cancer.  It's touch and go, really.  The odds are not good, not in her favor.  Meanwhile, I'm trying to keep my eye on her, see her, as much as I can manage while there's still light in this day.  And celebrating the amount of light and wit that's left.  Even as she is now, my sister shines bright, brighter than most people who don't carry her burden could ever do -- lighting up that damn well with everything she's got.

XX