the 22nd
Sunday, September 22, 2013 at 01:45PM 
Sitting down at my desk today, all I can think about, like a pulse in the background of everything, is this:
Five months ago today -- April 22, 2013 -- my youngest sister breathed her last. After years of surviving and suffering, she, finally, slipped beyond.
There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of her. There's not one single day that I don't marvel at only having one sister now, after so much life containing two.
And every time the 22nd rolls around, I feel full of her, bearing again the weight of this loss.
It's weird, though. I have so much to say, still, about her dying. Especially about that terrible day of her funeral, but not yet.
I have a lot to say about her living, too -- about what it's like to be estranged during the worst of times, as someone you love but with whom you have this difficult, uneasy relationship, is actively, progressively, continuously dying.
About how painful it is, of course, but also how enraging and frustrating, to be on this uncomfortable see-saw of wanting to help and letting go, of loving her and wanting to yell at her.
Exactly like what it was like to be her sister.
Honestly, in the grief there's a big dose of relief, too. Gone is this nagging everyday wondering at what the hell I should do. Should I insist on a rapprochement that she clearly didn't want? Should I suck it up through her husband's idiotic religious prattle, just to have some kind of access? Should I beat down the door or respect her wishes? This was a limbo, a pre-grief that was years-long and, in some ways, more painful than what we all went through when finally, finally, mercifully, after months of wasting away, eyes stuck open and staring, she was gone.
My worst fear had always been that she would die, and that I wouldn't even know until afterward. That I'd stumble across the news in my ritual reading of the obituaries. That I'd be too late. And filled with regret.
In the end, I made whatever peace I could with her, had one afternoon before she lost her ability to stay conscious, when she could still form sentences and be manifestly alive, when I told her I loved her and held her hand.
I regret nothing.
I think of her today, and every day, with the same mix of admiration and irritation as always, a feeling that's probably common to big sisters everywhere. She was remarkable and deeply flawed, my sister. As perhaps we all are.
It's gorgeous out and I'm sitting at my desk surrounded by books and things that make me happy. And thinking about you, Carla. I wish you weren't gone, but I'm also glad. I'm sad and I'm happy. I hope you're at peace.
I am.
XX
Reader Comments (1)
I love this column, as I have loved so many in the past. I just adore your writing. But my favorite line is "I regret nothing". What a feat, what a gift that is. So lovely.