My sister's death caught me completely unaware. She had been in the hospital over Christmas with pneumonia. I spoke with her the day she was released, and I was utterly amazed that she had been sent home. The congestion I could hear in her lungs made ME want to cough, and she clearly didn't have enough strength to cough all that crap out. A month later, her best friend called my brother to say Stacy was gone. Her death was so sudden that Dad requested an autopsy.
The report stated that nothing unusual could be found, merely the expected physical changes consistent with her disability and a slightly enlarged heart. Folks in the family started freaking out -- enlarged hearts run in the family, what about Dawn's and Paul's hearts? We were checked; we were fine.
Years later, I found a report in Stacy's university paper that stated she had called campus police in the wee hours of the morning (around 2:00am) complaining of an asthma attack. She was taken by ambulance to the hospital, she was treated and released, and she was taken home by the ambulance crew around 6:00am. According to Stacy's attendant, when she arrived a couple of hours later to get her up, Stacy stated that she was exhausted. Could she please sleep a little longer? The attendant said no problem. When she returned a couple of hours later, Stacy was breathing but unresponsive. She died at the hospital a short time later.
My sister and I were the best of friends as kids, but as adults it became clear that we were two very different people. Actually, I'm not even sure how true that last statement is. I think we were still a lot alike, but we just took different paths when we moved out on our own. I was studious, trying to make the most out of the scholarships I'd earned and trying to keep my college debt to a minimum. The extent of my "partying" was a group of dorm friends sitting around getting hilariously plastered. I was the obligatory babysitter since I didn't drink. I rarely skipped classes. Stacy, on the other hand, was not too concerned about school. She didn't party, but she was a huge flirt. When the Internet got big, she'd spend all day and half the night in chat rooms. Once, she announced to the family she was engaged to a half Native American man from New Mexico -- she neglected to mention she had never actually MET the dude in person. In her first year of WSU she had more "canceled" classes than I'd had in five years of undergrad and one year of grad school. We fought like crazy. I called her irresponsible. She called me a prude. When she moved to Illinois, we weren't on speaking terms. I'm fairly certain the only reason she came over and said goodbye was because Paul and I were living together; she definitely had more to say to him than me.
Looking back, I know she was going through the same "FREEDOM!" phase that many young adults do. I was thinking then that if she wanted a break from school to stretch her social wings, then she should just stop racking up debt for classes she never attended. I was stuck in the mentality that I was the big sister and I knew better. What a joke.
After Stacy died, our parents and our aunt and uncle went up to IL to clear out her campus apartment. Mom and Aunt Chrys told me later that though our relationship was only in the beginning stages of rebuilding, we were still more alike than we were different. Similar decorating styles, similar leisure reading choices -- we even had the same damn perfume in our bedrooms.
I now regret those last few years of wasted time, that both of us were so stupid and just had to be RIGHT. Sometimes it still hurts, but Stacy has let me know that for her, it's all water under the bridge. She's forgiven me, so it's time I forgive myself.
If my sister's death caught me off-guard and sent me into a tailspin, then my brother's death hit me like a Mack truck. It didn't help that I had been sick with a stomach bug for a week and had just admitted myself to the hospital for dehydration. Most people who know me well know that I'm a pretty cool head in a crisis. It took me ten hours to allow myself to cry when Stacy had gone. With Paul, I lost it. Bad. I even yelled at my father when he tried to calm me down. I was going to pieces, and at that moment I didn't care. The nurse came in with my pain meds, and I went to sleep. I didn't want to wake up. Ever.
Paul had spent 31 days in the hospital to get rid of pneumonia (sensing a theme?). During this time, the chronic pain he'd been suffering for twelve years had gotten so much worse. Dad told me he would be given Percocet, then two hours later Dilotid, then two hours later Percocet, then two hours later Dilotid, and so on, ad infinitum. I know big guys who couldn't handle that regime, but it barely touched the pain experienced by my 41-pound brother. A few days before he died, he told our mutual friend, "I'm so tired. I don't want to do this anymore."
Paul and I were the opposite of Stacy and me -- we drove each other crazy as kids, but as adults we were as close as a brother and sister could be. When he started university, everyone thought he was a biology major because he spent so much of his free time in the lab with me. My fellow grad students made him part of the fold. He knew more about my thesis project than my lab-mates. Together we took a Shakespeare class, an anthropology class, and a fiction writing workshop. I was the one he turned to when he needed help selecting poems to submit to contests. His two favorite nicknames for me were "tree-hugger" and "bunny-lover". He rolled his eyes at my tirades against styrofoam, but he'd use real plates -- at least when I was around. The only difference was political views. He was a staunch Republican, and I was . . . well . . . not.
It hurt me that I wasn't in Kansas when he passed -- one week after getting released from that 31 day stretch in the hospital. He endured more pain and illness than any one person should ever have to. Every night I prayed for his pain to be taken away. The first time I thought of that after he died, I screamed at the Higher, "That wasn't what I meant!" I spent months in a strangely functional form of depression -- I went through the motions of research and interaction with others, but I had absolutely NO emotional investment in anything.
I think the biggest hurt is that he never told me goodbye or gave me any indication that he was OK the way Stacy did. I dream about him, but only rarely. I know my sister keeps an eye on me, but I feel as though my brother just went on without looking back -- which is so much his practical nature. Gah, I sound like such a selfish bitch.
So, this turned out to be longer than I intended, so if you made it this far, let me know and I'll send you some cookies as a reward.
For my sister and brother: I couldn't have asked for better siblings. I have to be honest -- I hate that you left me alone. You gave me strength, and you forced me to see my insecurities. Everything I accomplish in my life is due in large part to you (and our parents). I love you and miss you every single day.
