When my sister died, she fought for her life. And I mean fought. I saw in my sister an anger that had never existed. All you wanted to get was out of her way. And who could blame her? She had a good life, the life she wanted - the life she not only dreamed about but was enjoying in full. No wonder she was livid.
They diagnosed her by surprise, on the day she picked out her wedding invitations. She went to the stationer’s in the morning, but called him back to cancel the order after she went to the doctor. Her fiancé had to pay extra, a few weeks later, having spent the interim begging her to marry him all over again, which she did, in the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever been to, up in Merion, just as the leaves were turning. A year later she was dead. This was the longest year of my life up until that time. For my sister, it was the shortest.
I was generally spared her anger - and we were like twins, which is what everybody thought, since we were joined at the hip. My mother, she got plenty. I got the best, along with my brother-in-law, who she never stopped loving for one minute. In fact, she died in his arms on my father’s birthday. I happened not to be there for the cake, as usual, which they were eating in the living room, my sister having been sent home, her last round of chemo a complete failure. She was in her robe, as beautiful as a woman could be, when she put her cake down on the coffee table. I don’t think I’ll be finishing this, she said.
She didn’t have to say it to me. I was never sorry not to be there, to sing Happy Birthday to my father, who wasn’t happy at all. I knew she wouldn’t be finishing something or other, and I had no intention of ever saying goodbye, because she didn’t either, which is how we left it.
You’re living right up until the moment you’re not, which means the same thing if you’re dying a slow and painful death or if you’re hit by a bus. The slow and painful part can get you pissed off. We know we’re dying and we’re not happy about it, despite the morphine. Or even despite the fact that we’re 90 years old. We should we be living, since living is all we know.
I heard somebody say that it’s important to suffer; otherwise you don’t know you want to die. I’m not sure that’s true, unless you’re talking suicide, which, as it involves suffering, usually comes in the form of not living very well. Basically, you never want to die. The only thing you can say about suffering is that it is proof of life, and being angry about it demonstrates the fact.
