I don’t know if I’ve ever written down what I was feeling during my sister’s death. H and I were just talking about it yesterday. I was feeling a lot of things for sure. When I got the call from my BIL that she wasn’t doing well. I think maybe I knew that she was going to leave us this time. That there was no coming back this time. Maybe I knew that. I felt much sadder than I did the previous times – when I refused to feel anything but positive. I rushed to catch a train but missed it and I cried uncontrollably about it. Maybe I felt a sense of urgency that didn’t exist before. I felt relief when I finally saw her. She was weak – speaking just above a whisper – but she was still here. My hope was restored that she was coming back from this. The next day she was again weak. Weaker than before. She opened her eyes and her lower lids were orange. Her body was shutting down. Yet as dire as it looked, I did not give up hope. She would come back – I knew she would. I felt anger. How could this possibly be fair? When she was no longer fully conscious I asked her not to go if it was her choice, but if it wasn’t and she had to go, that it was ok. It was ok. There was a sense of peace. When she breathed her last breath I felt grief – for all of us she had to leave behind. I felt relief for her. I took a lock of her hair that had fallen out on her pillow. Something of her to hold on to. I felt some joy in seeing the hundreds of people who came to pay their respects. Joy in knowing how loved she is.