My sister who embraced every day.
My sister Barbara was five years older than me.
Long before I was born, she had already faced something most people never have to face.
When Barbara was two years old, doctors discovered that she had a hole in her heart and was missing one of her valves.
This was 1962.
Medicine was not what it is today. My parents lived in a smaller community, and the medical resources available were limited. The doctor caring for Barbara wanted to perform surgery, but the procedure would have likely taken her life.
My parents were faced with an impossible decision.
They had a young daughter who needed help, but the help available to them might have meant losing her.
Then they discovered that one of the best heart specialists in the field was only two hours away in a larger city.
My dad was able to transfer for work, and our family moved.
A few years later, I was born.
Although I knew my sister wasn't always well, my parents never treated her as fragile. She was included. She was loved. She was expected to participate in life just like the rest of us.
That was one of the greatest gifts my parents gave her.
They did not define her by her heart condition.
They defined her by who she was.
I remember her coming home from stress tests completely exhausted and needing to rest for the day.
I remember knowing she had limitations, but I never saw her as someone who couldn't do things.
She was simply my sister.
When Barbara was fifteen, it was finally time for her to have surgery.
Because her heart specialist was so respected in his field, he was able to arrange for her surgery to take place at the Mayo Clinic in the United States.
The surgery was successful.
And Barbara was given something she treasured for the rest of her life.
More time.
She didn't waste it.
Barbara married young and had two children by the time she was twenty-three.
She built a life.
She loved deeply.
She laughed often.
She approached life with a joy that I think came from knowing exactly how precious it was.
Someone who has faced death early has a different understanding of living.
Barbara wasn't interested in simply existing.
She wanted to experience life.
She wanted to love.
She wanted to laugh.
She wanted to make memories.
She wanted to squeeze every bit of joy out of the time she had been given.
And she did.
Over the years, my sister and I became very close.
We spent hours talking.
We talked about life.
We talked about death.
We talked about everything in between.
We philosophized about what happens when we leave this world.
We believed that when our physical bodies die, our spirit continues.
That death wasn't an ending.
It was simply a transition.
We also made a promise to each other.
We would leave nothing unsaid.
No regrets.
No words left behind.
No wondering if the other person knew how much they were loved.
That promise became one of the greatest gifts of my life.
Two months before she passed away, I had my sister over for a sleepover.
We talked for hours.
We laughed.
We shared our thoughts about life and what might come next.
Neither of us knew how important that night would become.
My sister had surgery in September.
She recovered well.
For many years, life carried on.
But eventually, she started slowing down.
Her heart condition had progressed, and she was experiencing congestive heart failure.
But surprisingly, it wasn't her heart that took her life.
A few weeks earlier, she had been visiting her husband in the hospital while he was recovering from surgery.
During that time, she was exposed to a virus.
She became very ill and was rushed to the hospital.
Eight days later, she was gone.
Even though losing her was heartbreaking, it was different from losing my parents.
With my parents, there were things left unsaid.
With Barbara, there weren't.
We had talked.
We had shared.
We had loved each other openly.
When Barbara knew the end was near, she made a decision.
She wanted her heart medication stopped.
She wasn't afraid of dying.
She was afraid of suffering.
She didn't want the process to become something frightening or painful.
The evening before she passed, I sat with her for several hours.
I held her hand.
I told her how much she was loved.
I told her that we would all be okay.
The next morning, I came back to be with her and with my brother-in-law.
Again, I held her hand.
Again, I told her she was loved.
But that morning was different.
We all knew the end was close.
And when she passed, it was peaceful.
She simply stopped breathing.
There was sadness.
Of course there was.
I cried.
I miss her.
I will always miss her.
But underneath the grief was something else.
Gratitude.
I was grateful that I was there.
I was grateful that she did not leave this world wondering if she was loved.
I was grateful that I was able to help her through her transition.
My sister wanted to live longer than our mother did.
And she did.
She lived her life fully.
She lived it on her own terms.
She loved fiercely.
She laughed often.
She embraced the gift of being alive.
And when the time came, she left peacefully.
I believe she was ready for her next great adventure.
And I believe that someday, when my own journey here is complete, I will see her again.
Until then, I carry her with me.
A thought to take with you
Is there someone in your life who has shown you, simply by the way they lived, what it means to make the most of the time we're given?
What part of the way they lived has stayed with you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.