Remembering October 3, 2009

    I know what I was doing the first Saturday in October last year:  attending my sister’s death
.
    By noon she was unconscious.  I held her hand, quietly sang some hymns, prayed, and cried.  I took a hurried lunch break while the nurse stayed with her and then resumed my watch until her boyfriend, Michael, got there around 3 p.m.  I left for another break to give him time alone with her.

    My need for caffeine drove me to the Starbucks in the Barnes & Noble bookstore.  I was writing an email to friends, having just finished a cup of coffee and slice of pumpkin cheesecake, when my cell phone rang.  “She’s gone,”  Michael said.  “Don’t let them take her away,” I replied.  “I’m on my way.”

    I remember the hollow grief, the frantic desire to be at her bedside as I headed for the hospital.  I forgot to put on the gown and gloves at the door to her room and rushed in.  I saw her newly jaundiced skin (the yellow cast of a failed liver) and her head in her usual sleeping position, turned slightly to the right.  Weeping, I took her hand, still warm, still limp.  A nurse slid in to give me the forgotten gown, but I never got around to the gloves.  I wanted to feel Anne’s hand in mine without the barrier of vinyl.

    I couldn’t seem to let go of her hand as I drank in the last view of my sister.  I kept expecting her to take a breath or flutter open her eyes.  Finally, following Michael’s lead, I kissed her forehead, turned, and left.

    Immediately, an unexpected, horrible decision had to be made.  The horror was not being able to carry out her desire to donate her body for medical research despite her old donor card:  besides being too heavy for the state guidelines, she was disqualified because of having had hepatitis back in the early 1970s.  I felt so guilty that I could not honor her wishes, but I was sure her second choice would have been direct cremation. 

    And so Michael and I muddled through the details of contacting a funeral home, and I signed various
forms, crying all the while, and we left:  he to return to Anne’s home in Saxapahaw, me to the Marilyn House in Greensboro.  In the morning I would meet with the funeral home director before the dismal drive back to Anne’s house.  Thank God my brother Bob would get there Sunday evening.

    I spent Saturday night alone, making the necessary phone calls to family and friends and crying endless tears, wailing when I was off the phone.  In a determined haze, I packed my suitcases and cleaned up the house.  The next morning, I headed out for the funeral home and on down the highway.  Within hours of my arrival at Anne’s house, Michael suddenly announced his departure, saying he was leaving for the week to pull himself together.  When my brother arrived, it was time to stop wailing and start the sad business of all the practical details.  Mercifully, for me, Bob was there to take charge.