What a difference one day can make.
On Friday, March 13, spring flowers pushed their beautiful colors to the tips of their slightly unfurling buds. The warmth of the bright sun felt alien on my face after all the unusual coldness of this never-ending winter. One day it’s cold enough to snow, and the next it’s spring.
But even the sun couldn’t chase away the sadness in my heart. Because one day my only sister was struggling to live, and the next she was struggling to die.
My 52-year-old sister, Sandy Collins, died yesterday morning of ovarian cancer. She bravely fought it for seven long years. At times we thought she was going to beat it, when her numbers came back good. However, after a yearlong downhill slide full of hospital stays and one horrendously invasive yet necessary operation last April, she passed in the comfort of her own bed, at home.
No more pain and no more needles. Her path was written in stone; the cancer was everywhere in her abdomen, where she also endured the throbbing constant ache of a g-tube that never worked quite right. As her incredible family watched her hurting escalate at Northwest Hospital two weeks ago, her doctor delivered the dreaded unbelievable news that she only had weeks to live. Providence Hospice of Seattle was immediately employed, and she went home to die.
Hospice is full of angels here on Earth who work their magic 24/7. It takes a special person to choose hospice as their job, which includes compassion, sincere caring, unending support and nonstop guidance. Anyone who has ever been involved with hospice knows that end-of-life issues would have been unbearable without that service.
We knew she was close to the end on Thursday, but I just thought I’d have one more day, one more conversation, one more I love you. I would have tearfully told her how much I always looked up to her, and that I would be there for her children. Arriving at her Shoreline home Friday morning, she was already gone. In the end, nothing matters except love. With the sun streaming into her bedroom window, and one of her cats asleep next to her feet, she was finally at peace.
Numbly, I contemplate the meaning of life. My tired brain warns me to not go there. The massive question of “why” invades my thoughts. Why my sister, and not me, or why anyone for that matter? But why my sister, a beloved wife and mother of four children, school volunteer extraordinaire, KCLL baseball supporter, talented QFC floral manager, incredibly creative animal lover. That’s just a partial list. She packed so much into her day; she gave the term “multitasking” new meaning. She made a difference in this world.
Is there a lesson she was supposed to learn, or a lesson for those she left behind? Can there be a shred of good to come from the extinguishing of such a glowing soul? That’s where my faith comes into play. There is a reason for all of this; it’s just not our privilege to understand why. She did believe that there’s a reason for it all, and she never complained about her illness. She accepted that she had cancer, but always chose to believe there’d be a cure someday — hopefully in her lifetime.
There is overwhelming grief felt, but bountiful joy too, as we wait now for Sandy’s first grandchild to be born in April. The circle is complete with the end of one beautiful being and the beginning of another.
One day it’s winter, and the next it’s spring. That’s life.
