My Sister

My sister is dying. By the time I finish writing this she may be gone.

My sister came into our family late. She was a tiny baby, Native American, and beautiful. I was 14 when we adopted her. Like the average 14 year old I had trouble understanding why it wasn't all about me. There is a family picture of us at the courthouse with my sister, barely walking, my mother beaming, my father looking pleased, my brother looking introspective, and me, looking annoyed. I spent many years being annoyed.

Within a few short years I came to adore her. I remember a time when she was in the car with my friends and me as we were driving over a huge bridge. I had a revelation in the few minutes it took to reach the other side. If something happened on the bridge and we ended up in the water I knew without a doubt that I would risk my life to save my little sister. It was the first time I began to understand the meaning and depth of sacrificial love.

I loved taking her places. We went to parks and movies and spent a lot of time together. With the 14 year difference in our ages often when we went out people thought she was my daughter. As a full Native American she was very dark, with beautiful black hair and black eyes. "Is she Chinese?" some people asked. "Is she Black?" This was just a few years after the Civil Rights movement; even in the large international city of Miami, Florida, racists abounded. She and I had a game we played when people stared at her and then at me, and then at her again. I taught her to look right back at people who were staring at her. I told her to be proud of who she was; those people should be ashamed for being rude. I told her that if she stared back at them it would make them realize how rude they were being. Afterward we would laugh about it. I would try to downplay the actual seriousness of racism; if we pretended it was merely rudeness I hoped she would never feel ashamed of her race.

We remained close even after I moved 300 miles away. I remember buying a kit to make a fabric doll for her. Of course, it was Caucasian pink, so I dyed the fabric in some strong tea to reach a more Native American hue. I hand-sewed the doll and dress (no sewing machine) and gave it to her on my next trip home.

An unusual incident of lying about some money we discovered she had lifted from our mother's purse should have tipped us off to what came later, but of course, it never does. You never want to look at such things as part of a bigger picture, and so we didn't. But upon reaching puberty my sister changed from being a sweet and thoughtful girl into a conniving, lying, drug-taking, alcohol-drinking teenager. It all became very ugly for many years, and it broke our mother's heart. A few years later our mother discovered she had cancer, and for quite a long time I blamed the stress from all the sorrow and worry she suffered from my sister's problems as having caused the cancer and her untimely death.

My sister and I were never close again. Sometimes she would call me out of the blue, telling tales and saying things she thought I wanted to hear. I really didn't want to talk to her or listen to her. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I saw it was her calling and didn't answer. If she left a number to call her back, by the time I did the number was disconnected.

One time she was very ill. Her drinking had begun to destroy her liver. She was given 6 months to live. I sent her flowers from her big sister. It was time to put aside everything. She sent me a picture frame she made with purple lace. The next time I tried to call her, the phone was disconnected.

That was four years ago. Today our father called to tell me that after having been sober for several years my sister had begun drinking again. Her liver has failed, she is in a coma, and is being kept alive by blood transfusions. He is responsible for her end-of-life decisions. When we talked today he said he hoped she would just go. I don't think he wants to be the one to say it's time.

My sister is dying. You might say she died long ago. But memories...memories never die.

I love you, Julie.