My sister Ann passed away recently, February 18, 2023. Her death was wonderful and, in many ways, perfect for her (See the post about it here.) I realized last week that I harbored a romanticized vision of what her death would be like. In fact, I tried to manufacture it several times during her life.
In my mind's version of things, Ann would pass away at a quiet beach somewhere - just like Beth in Little Women or the woman who was friends with Bette Midler in Beaches. She would place her head in my lap, and we would whisper sisterly secrets all of which told each other how greatly we loved and cherished one another. There would be a perfect sunset. A gentle breeze would blow the wisps of our dark hair lightly. I would look down at her, and she would be gone. A quiet, beautiful death.
While she was living and getting consistently sicker, I made grand gestures to move us toward this ending. How about if I flew us both to Sicily and we lived like the citizens there? That was her vision of Sicily. Find a cottage and stay for a full month. Visit the fish markets and the food markets every morning. Cook up something wonderful from our purchases in the evening. And watch the sunset together while drinking some delicious Sicilian wine. Her answer to my offer was "no", decisively. "How could you imagine I can make a trip like that?" she said. She had been ill since we were kids. Her mobility became worse every year as she struggled with additional medical diagnoses. She believed traveling would be impossible.
A few years later, I tried again. What if we got a hotel room in a nearby city and hung out together every day, watching the sunrise in the morning and the sunset at night? We could read to each other - something we used to enjoy doing throughout our lives. Her answer was "no", irritably.
She had a wonderful death. It's true. But was not quiet and peaceful. She was hooked to bleeping machines. It was hard to get near her because of all of the tubes connected to her. Nothing romantic about it.
In those novels and movies I loved so much, the heroine got to run off somewhere serene and wonderful to grieve. A rich aunt's house in the French countryside would be offered to her. The reality is, my family is dealing with reality. It must have been some other character in Little Women, Marmee, maybe, who took care of the messes left behind when Beth died and the father became ill. For me, I am running my household and my business while working with my sisters to tie up the loose ends Ann left behind, taking my son out to practice driving, and offering emotional support wherever I can. Yes, I have two other sisters. I think we all agree that Chris is Meg (if we are sticking with the Little Women analogy, and, we are), but Sue and I are still argue over which of us is Jo. No one wants to be selfish Amy. Can there be two Joes? Anyway, no French countryside oasis for us.
I feel cheated. When is there time to grieve?
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