confession

I can tell you what it felt like to lose my brother -- like my heart was broken into a million little pieces.  So many tiny pieces that even if I tried to put it back together like a puzzle, it will never be the same.  There will always be slivers that didn't make it back in; the contours no longer what they once were.  Things feel different. Words have different meaning. Colors a slightly different hue.

The first issue I had to confront was that losing my brother meant losing the person who believed in me most.  Over the last year, I have had to convince myself that I could take up the slack, that I could believe in myself as much as he believed in me.

Sometimes, I do. 

I have been impressed with my ability to stand up for myself, to congratulate myself for work well done, and even for work just done. 

These are small victories, but, in a way, they are also monumental.

When my heart shattered that morning, I didn't have hope that a reconstructed heart could be of any use to me. 

Turns out I was wrong about that.

Losing my brother forced me to realize that over these years, I have been building the ability to believe in myself -- though I may have been relying all this time on his belief in me to forge my own.

But, if you ask me what it feels like to lose my sister, I couldn't tell you.

I don't have words for it. 

My heart was not even back in my body when she was ripped from us.  Shock.  I think sometimes I am still in shock.

Most days, I just refuse to believe that she is gone.  I still pray that she is coming back -- somehow.

It's not logical. 

I know she is dead. I know she was cremated. I know that she has been gone for five months. 

And yet, I allow myself to imagine that she will wake up, like sleeping beauty, if we could just find the right antidote.

In some ways, it is just the constant replaying of those awful days in the hospital. 

But, it is also different.

When I was there in the hospital, I had to force myself to believe miracles were possible.  And that we deserved one ... if that is how miracles happen.

I prayed ... for the first time in such a long time, really praying in that asking for something unrealistic way -- you know because it is the only way that you can ask for something unrealistic.

And I believed.

When my nephew asked me, "Auntie Anna, you think my mom can get better?"  I didn't hesitate. I said, "YES."  Because I did think that. I did believe that.

I remember saying to my little sister on the phone, when she called me to tell me to get on the plane, "this can't be happening, this can't be happening." 

It was as if I said those words, I could make it not happen.  I could turn back the clock. I could make that stupid ER doctor admit her. I could force there to be some brilliant, out-of-the-box thinking doctor there to save her.

Only if I believed was there any hope.

So, I did. I believed.

But she didn't wake up.

And here we are five months later, and I am still thinking/hoping/believing that I can get my sister back. 

That I don't have to be the oldest.  That I don't have to worry about how to hold my family together.  That I can go back to safely being the in case person.  That my nephew doesn't have to go to sleep every night knowing that his mom won't be there.  That my sister can celebrate her 30th wedding anniversary next week.

I don't know how to do this ... so, I breathe in and out. I get up every day and do the work I am supposed to do. And I pretend that this is not happening... until I can't.

But I drop right back into that denial just as quickly as I can because reality hurts so much.

Denial.  That is my coping strategy.