My Sister is Dead and I Don't Know What to Do with My Hands

Vicki died last Friday, December 15th at 12:12 pm, nearly seven months after her diagnosis of metastasized breast cancer.

In her last week, pretty much everyone and everything was in constant motion.  The nurses, her kids, the meds, coming and going, visitors, people bringing meals, rushing home to attend to my own family.

I barely slept, I barely ate, I barely had time to think.

And now, now that she's gone, I have nothing but time.  I have the rest of my life to think.

So, I'm starting this blog.  Mostly so I'll have something to do with my hands, but maybe so I can work through some of those thoughts.

Grief is funny.  Like, not funny ha-ha, but funny odd.  It changes from hour to hour, minute to minute.  It's changing as I type this sentence.

I want something to do.  I want a LOT of somethings to do.  But today, just sitting on the couch and watching Season 3 (yes, nearly the whole thing) of The Office felt like a lot of work, a serious effort.

My mind is manic, but my body is sluggish.

I guess I'll figure this out as I go.

Pre-diagnosis, early morning workout with a friend

Soon after Vicki's diagnosis, we were sitting in her front room, just talking.  I had left for vacation, scouting out colleges in southern California with my youngest son, just a few days after she received her life-changing news.  I had missed her first chemo treatment and we were all trying to understand and accommodate this "new normal."

We talked about inconsequential things.  Celebrity gossip, if I had to guess, and maybe neighborhood gossip or something about our kids and families.  I asked about her treatment, of course, and she asked about the campuses we had visited.  It was awkward, almost like small talk with a stranger.

Over the next not-quite seven months, things would change dramatically between us, but on this particular day, she was still my big sister.  The protector, the one in charge, the one who could always make things happen.

We didn't really talk about the cancer, or at least about the fact that her diagnosis was terminal.  We talked about wigs, and how we would continue our weekly Thursday morning walks.  We danced around the subject, but didn't address it directly.

As I got up to leave, I hugged her, and looking back now I think that was the last really good strong hug I got from her, because very soon afterward was when the port ("Natalie Portman," as we not-so affectionately referred to it) was put in and she started putting her left hand up to protect it.

Hugs changed, too.

I held her tightly and could feel myself starting to cry.  She felt it, too, and she said quietly, "We'll figure it out."

I've thought about those words a lot since then, and repeated them dozens of times in the last few weeks, as our world is again rocked by change and I'm struggling to adjust to another "new normal."

I guess I'll figure it out.