Past Tense

Sometime recently - I'm hard-pressed to say when exactly.  I know it was after Vicki died and before... let's say before this week, because I'm pretty sure it was a few weeks ago.  But I honestly don't know.

Anyway.  Recently.

I was having a conversation with my mother about missing Vicki, and she was lamenting about Vicki's smile.

"I just keep thinking about it, Pahla," she cried.  "We're never going to see that smile again."

I nodded in agreement about how sad that was, even though I'm pretty sure this conversation took place on the phone.

Of course I was sad about missing Vicki's smile, but it's not the thing that I miss most, which is one of Vicki's hugs.

My sister and I are huggers.

We hug hello, we hug goodbye, we hug when we're happy, and we hug when we're sad.  We hug congratulations.  We hug condolences.  When the camera comes out, we wrap our arms around each other and smile.

Hugging is how we express ourselves.  And yes, I am aware of using present tense.  It's a Vicki-in-present-tense kind of day.  Parenthetically, do you know what I find to be completely infuriating about death?  There's no real sense of finality like you expect.

I saw my sister die.

I watched the hospice nurse check for a heartbeat and pronounce her dead.

I was there when they covered her body and carried it downstairs and out to the service van.

But somehow...  Vicki still seems very close by. 

When I was puttering around this morning, doing recognizably "Sunday morning" things, I had a quick flash of relief that tomorrow will be Monday, because I see Vicki on Mondays when I take her to get her blood drawn, and it feels like it's been too long since I've seen her.

Because it has.

Because she's dead.

But somehow it's still very easy to feel like she's on vacation and I'm going to see her when she gets back.  Or she's at work and she'll text me later.  Or she's busy and we'll catch up when we go for our normal 5 am walk.

There are dozens of scenarios that I can conjure up for why it's "been awhile" since I've seen her or talked to her, but none of them - not a single one - are that she's dead.

What the fuck is that all about?



Anyway (again).  She is dead and I miss hugging her.

1987 - when Vicki's hair was curlier than mine.

The last time Vicki hugged me was the Tuesday before she died.  It was either right before or right after she spoke her last words to me, and I wish I could remember which one it was.  Not that it matters, but more that I want to remember everything.

I had my arms around her to steady her on the bedside commode.  I was telling her how sorry I was for everything, and other than her brief two-word moment of clarity, she couldn't speak.  She was making noise, and I know she was trying to communicate something to me, but I didn't understand.

So she did what we always do when we're together and words just don't cover it:  she hugged me.

Vicki hadn't given me a real, chest-to-chest hug in months.  She'd been in so much pain from the cancer invading her liver, and after she'd had the port put into her left collarbone area she would reflexively put her hand up to protect it when anybody would come in close.  She would still lean close and touch my arm, but it wasn't the same.  At this point, though - the end of our time as sisters - pain didn't matter.

I was braced between her regular bed and her hospital bed with one leg thrown over hers and my arms around her waist.  We were cheek to cheek and I was kissing her temple, trying to offer comfort in the most uncomfortable of situations when I felt her hands on my back.  Both of her gentle hands pressing softly against my shoulder blades.  Unmistakably, a real hug.

I wanted to close my eyes and sink into that moment forever.  But I had a job to do, and that job did not include crying on her shoulders.  Instead, I held my breath.  I knew.  I knew it was the last time and I wanted to remember it.

Now, when I think of it, I do close my eyes.  When I'm having a Vicki-in-past-tense kind of day, I can bring her right back to me, feel her hands on my back, remember being there with her, and lean in close for one last hug.