*[Last year, I wrote a little story about my Sister and her fight with breast cancer. Today’s her birthday, and we have a lot to celebrate! But first, a little flash back to give you a glimpse of how special this woman is to me!]

*Three Years Ago

The news of my little sister’s breast cancer shadows our household and I am still shaken. My faith lies speckled with doubt.  I can’t help but ask “Why?” and ask more than once.  

God never promised that the rain would only fall on certain days. On certain folks. Or only so hard. When it rains, we all get wet. Couldn’t see the end of the rainfall in those early days.

One of the most painful moments happens while driving down to see my sister for my cousin’s wedding. This will be the first time I see Sandi after her diagnosis, and only a couple of days after her first round of chemo. I’m so anxious, I lose sleep that whole last week. 

One of the hardest parts about writing something down is that in order to remember the details, you have to go back there. I’m not gonna lie. It’s not easy to go back there. I’ll be right back.

***

Well, I took a day off from writing my sister’s story.  I peeled almost all the wallpaper off the kitchen walls. Started some laundry. Compiled a lot of sticks to clean up our yard. Wasted time on Facebook. And here we are again.  

In the grand scheme of things, this memory doesn’t compare to some of the hardships my family has had to go through. But for some reason, this is the moment during my sister’s battle with breast cancer that I hesitate to remember. Sigh. Take two.

My cousin decides to get married the day after Thanksgiving. So we start driving down to Alabama on the Tuesday before. My sister takes this week off to both recover from her first chemotherapy treatment and to finish packing for the wedding. She’s one of the bridesmaids. When I talked to her on the weekend, everything seemed fine. Her first chemo [which she received a day ago Friday] gave her minor cramps, but overall, she felt no serious discomfort.

Well, that’s what she told me, because that’s how it was at first.  I find out later, that about day three after the medicine, which made it a Monday, the physical side effects become unbearable!  She compares them to labor pains, but much worse. She’s beside herself in pain, as if her whole body’s falling apart and she has no control. Her hubby took their then eight-month old over to his parents place in Mississippi, so she was alone with her then nine-year old son, who will accompany her for the five hour drive down to the wedding, where her hubs will meet back up with her in time for the wedding. In actuality, she’s alone. No one is there by her side to hold her, to rub her joints, to reassure her that this won’t last forever, to just do and say nothing but be beside her. She’s alone.

You have to understand something about my sister. She is fiercely independent simply because she has survived so many years managing life alone, and she [in her mind] does just fine.  

I remind her earlier that week, “Hey, put yourself in your hubby’s shoes for a moment.” The tables are turned for once. She’s often the one giving me advice. “Sometimes your husband needs to be there for you so that he can be a part of what you’re going through, to connect with you, not necessarily because you ‘need’ him.”

She agrees and lets Tracy bring her lunch during that long first day of chemo. Still, she shooes him off after about an hour and drives herself home.  

So now it’s day four after Sandi’s first round of chemo, and we’re driving down in our RV to Alabama, a drive that will take a day and a half, and I’m finding out just how rough it’s been for her on the phone. I’m trying so hard to take it in, to listen, to limit my comments and just be there for her. But a part of me is furious at Sandi for sending her husband off and trying to “handle this” on her own. Now she still has to drive five hours on her own to Birmingham, so we’re trying to merge traveling agendas so that we can drive along side her with me driving her car and her son jumping in the RV with the girls. The plans are sketchy at best, because the timing might not work out with all the Thanksgiving traffic on the highways. She tells me she’ll call back after she returns from her check up. She has a lot of those these days. She’s working from home today.

An hour later, my phone buzzes, and the doctor gave Sandi new orders. He’s pretty upset that she’s going to a wedding. Her immune system is down right now [that’s what happens with chemo], and she cannot afford to get sick at all. 

Sandi relays the specifics: “He said, I shouldn’t be going, but with me being in the wedding party, he understands there’s no way I’m staying home. But he said I shouldn’t be in large crowds at all. What else? I shouldn’t be hugging anyone. I shouldn’t be shaking hands with…”

“Hold on,” I interrupt, “What did you just say? You shouldn’t be hugging anyone?”

“Yeah,” she continues as-a-matter-of-factly, “I have to avoid germs at all cost. I have to stick to open air places. I have to rest and not be running around. I have to make sure I don’t get a fever, and if I do, I have to go the E.R. immediately. Basically, I have to just act invisible and come home safely. Hopefully… Hold on, Tracy’s calling.  I’ll call you back.”

At this point, I’m relieved to be off the phone, because I’m speechless. You know when you’re holding your breath to keep yourself from crying out loud, and you don’t want to speak because you will give away the fact that you’re crying? Yes. That’s me right now. I look out my window, and Santhosh reaches over to cover my hand with his. “What’d she say?”

It takes time, because I’m trying to avoid my girls seeing and hearing me cry. They’ve seen a little too much of that lately. But I cannot get control of myself. Every time I try to say the words, I lose it.  

I just don’t get it. How could unfair grow thorns? I’ve been so naive to think all along, well, after this part of her battle, it will get easier. Or this part is the hardest part, and now it’s just a few more rounds of this or that, and we’ll be done. Like putting a time line on her pain will somehow fast forward it or diminish the intensity. I snag a few more tissues from the depleting box of Kleenex and try to repeat the details of the telephone call. When I get to the part that stabs my spirit, I barely choke out each word:

She.

Can’t.

Hug.

Anyone.

And the tears start flowing all over again. I have been waiting to see my sister in person since the day she first found out about her cancer, simply so I can hug her… for a very long time. To hold her. To squeeze her. To embrace her and tell her in that hold, that no matter what, I’m here for her. She’s not alone. She can cry on my shoulder. She can count on me. I want her in my arms so badly, because all along, the reality we discuss over the phone seems surreal until I see her face to face. And I want so desperately to catch her and be her strength and just hold her. I know I need this hug as much as I want to give it.

I missed her so much and I battle guilt for not coming sooner and now that I have a chance, I can’t. It’s not allowed? It’s not good for her? It’s the doctor’s orders. Damn that doctor! How does any of this make any sense? Don’t you need physical touch and hugs and arms to lift you up when you’re down in the dumps? How can this be?  

“Maybe I can hug her from behind?”  I try to bend the rules to make it work, but being married to a doctor doesn’t help in these moments. I know I’m being selfish. I have to let it go, but this one is not gonna be easy. My girls are pretty confused too. Especially my eldest who is just getting over a cold. She loves my sister so much and she feels so sad that she’s being warned to keep her distance. She can’t get my sister sick. It will make everything worse. We drive on in silence for awhile while each of us processes this new info and no one knows how to make it better. It’s just how it had to be. For now.  

“Your sister knows how much you love her babe.” My husband breaks the silence after some time. “Let’s just keep praying for her. She needs us to be strong for her at this time.”

Then hubby prays. Because I just can’t. Right now. “Dear Lord, please be with Sandi at this time. Please help her to stay healthy during this wedding time. Please help her to process all these directions from her doctor and give her the wisdom to follow them as best as she can. And please… please… please hold her right now when none of us are supposed to be hugging her. You can hold her tighter than any of us could because you made her heart and you can hold her heart in the palm of your hand. So please let her know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is in your arms, safe and secure and loved. Oh God, be her strength. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.”

Sigh. This is going to be a long four days. I need to pee. I walk to the back to the RV to use the restroom and spend a few minutes more crying and praying. I need to take my eyes off of me. My husband’s prayer reminds me of that. It also reminds me of who is in control. I slip back into codependent-mode so naturally that I forget who is the only one who can really see her through this madness. God.  

Thanks for reminding me Sun.

As I carefully walk back up to my seat, I stop to hug each of the girls and remind them that Sippy Massi knows how much she’s loved by them. All their daily prayers, letters, and sweet words on the phone all remind her.

“And when she’s better, we’ll give her some extra special long hugs to make up for this time.” I say all this for me to hear too. I need to know that there will be more time for more hugs when the time is right.  

By the time my sister calls back, I have pretty much pulled myself together, so I reassure her again, “Whatever you need, if there is anything at all I can do to make this wedding time easier for her, just say the word.”

“I know. We’ll see each other soon. I’ll be fine.”

That first night, my sister stays seated when people walk in, and since we all know what she’s going through, no one bugs her to get up for any reason. She’s conveniently sitting on a side couch in the dining room, away from the crowds but next to the table with all the alcohol. I think we could all use a drink tonight.

She leaves the party early that night, because there are still three more days of partying ahead, as most Indian weddings go, and she needs to pace herself. I tell her to give me a call when she returns back to her hotel. But I leave my purse by the couch so I never hear the phone ring.  

She had been calling, because she spiked a fever. The doctor’s predictions and her fears come true.  She’s calling, because she needs to potentially head to the E.R. She’s calling because she needs help.  

And…

I miss the call.

I’m not there for her.

I let her down.

I am so furious with myself.  

I’m finally near enough to be of some practical help, and I fail.  

Once again, I’m reminded that I am not my sister’s rescue… God is. I don’t know which is worse? Letting yourself down or letting down someone whom you promise to be there for?  

My sister tells me to stop beating myself up in the morning. My cousin and her husband who is a doctor were readily available for her that night, standing by in case the Tylenol didn’t kick in, and she needed a ride to the hospital. She’s fine now.  I just missed the call. Let it go.

She’s been teaching me a lot. Even through this time, she manages to shape and mold me. She’s like God’s chisel for my stubborn will and insecure spirit. She reminds me that the grace I give so readily is also available to me. She reminds me that I’m free. So live free.

The next morning, while we’re rehashing through the night’s events, she tells me she won’t be coming over the house (my cousin’s parents’ house where our RV is parked) to avoid the commotion and the ongoing flow of guests. 

I understood. It still stings. I won’t see her till the evening. And then comes an  unexpected gift:

“Dad picked up Nesean (her eldest son) already. I’m bored. Do you want to come and keep me company? We could go grab a coffee and lunch later, and then I’ll rest for a bit before the party. And you could help me with my sari. Unless you have things to do to help with the wedding. Whatever works for you…” She’s babbling now, so I stop her.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” My heart soars at this opportunity to love my sister, just by keeping her company. “I’ll just tell Santhosh, grab a few things and head over. See you soon. Oh yeah, which room are you in? Okay. See you in a minute.” Click.

Yes!

Hubby readily lets me go and enjoy some sister time, and there’s nothing I need to do for the wedding that someone else can’t do, so I hug my girls and head off to the hotel. It’s Thanksgiving, and I have so much to be thankful for.  

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