When God's plan isn't obvious

I’m having surgery next week. It just so happens to be the day following the anniversary of the death of my sister. Since I won’t be able to use my right hand for a few months, I went today to get a pedicure. You inquire as to the connection?

Leukemia was discovered in my sister when she was just 4 years old. Not all of today’s cutting-edge technologies existed in the late 1970s. Back then, brain radiation was the sole treatment for cancer.

Unbeknownst to us, the radiation caused a brain tumor that slowly grew. If they had simply performed an MRI, we might have discovered this brain tumor years into the therapy and medicines for problematic behaviors.

On the evening of November 5, I received a call from my sister’s closest friend informing me that my sister, Kristie, had fainted in the bathroom and had been unconscious for some time. Both Kris and this friend did not possess a vehicle.

I headed out to get her and drive her to the hospital. The streets were empty because it was getting close to midnight. I hurried to take her straight to hospital. Funny how your mind works, but circumstances leading up to this day had me thinking narcotics or other medications, not the cancer diagnosis from decades earlier.

Kristie could not recall her name after reciting her social security number at the front desk. When the nurse inquired about the social, I replied that the first five numbers were accurate because they were mine. We waited only minutes to receive a room within the ER. Another few minutes passed and the doctor entered and requested a stat MRI.

Kristie must have been comfortable and exhausted because she slept soundly through what would turn out to be the second worst day of my life. The doctor returned and inquired about my relationship to the patient in room 6 with no regard for patient care. :You mean Kristie”, I said maybe too harshly.  “The patient in room 6 is my sister.”

The doctor gave my sister a week to live as if she were placing an order for fast food, without explanation, without checking to see if I was alone, and seemingly without a care in the world. The doctor then started walking to the next patient down the corridor and seemed completely unfazed by the news.

With all that I had in me, I screamed at her. “What? Why do you ask? Is anyone available to pick up your broken pieces from the ground? Is there someone here to comfort you when you hear this horrifying news? Can I make a call on your behalf? What, are you kidding me?”

She made no attempt to look back. No nurse sprang to my aid. There was only me there; I was all alone and knew I had to make the dreaded call to my parent.  What child should have to inform their parents that their only other child is dying?

Fast-forward to a few weeks later, when a wonderful team of doctors—save for the ER doctor, thank God—walked us through the impending surgery. Reconstruction, removal, resection—the mind, in my opinion, protects you against memories you shouldn’t have as most of the conversation was a blur.

The next week and a half, Kristie was allowed to come home pending the surgery.  The week preceding the surgery was hands down the most memorable time shared between me and my sister.  Although her short term memory was non-existent, I knew this was the person my sister always was.  She was just buried underneath a short life riddled with an unknown brain tumor and constant mental health medications (as that thought that was the cause of the behavioral and mental issues plaguing Kristie).

On November 20, 2004, my sister underwent a 15-hour brain surgery.  The Dr. expected a positive outcome after the surgery however he was uncertain if she would regain full speech or movement as he had to remove the better part of her frontal lobe.  Without insurance, Kristie was only allowed a our day stay at the hospital before she was transferred to a rehab facility, around Thanksgiving, so she could heal. 

Kristie first talked after her operation on December 1. Thumbs up or down, depending on how she was feeling, served as our primary means of communication. When we entered her room that evening, she said to our mother, “Your hair looks like shit!” “Gee thanks, it’s windy as heck outside,” said mom in response. I was so amused by it that I nearly peed my pants.

On December 3rd, when I returned for my daily visit, Kristie wanted me to shave her legs, paint her fingers and toes, and take her for a wheelchair tour of the grounds. This gave me hope that great things were on the horizon. Amazingly, she cares about both her appearance and leaving this place.

I participated in a weekend military exercise on December 4. An EMS driver informed me over the phone that he was taking Kris to the hospital. They would arrive at Bayfront in 15 minutes, he promised. He contacted me back a short while later and advised Kristie had to go to Northside, the closest cardiac hospital, because something was wrong with her heart.  The EMS  driver informed me that it was serious at this point, so he reminded me to take my time and get there safely.  I called my folks once more, something I was not anticipating doing again so soon.  I passed along the information to my mother and my father and told them to be safe because they were both coming from far away.

My dad and I arrived at the hospital around the same time.  We were shown to the ER room where my sister lay, the imagine forever imprinted in my mind. Kristie was struggling to breathe. She was lying on a stretcher and it sounded like she was drowning every time she struggled to take a breath. As she strained for air, her body rose and fell, and she felt ice cold to the touch. At that very moment, I believe I realized it was over.

A blood clot in her lungs was suspected, so they hurried her to undergo another MRI. There was a call for a code blue not long after they had taken her away. My mood fell. I started struggling for air. Although I was hoping it wasn’t her, I had a gut feeling it was. The expression in my father’s eyes reaffirmed my suspicion despite the fact that he claimed we couldn’t be certain.

Immediately after, a doctor asked for Kristie’s family. My heart started to beat so loudly in my ears that I started to experience tunnel vision and lost all other sounds. I frantically looked around for mom but she wasn’t there.  I wondered why I told her to take her time.  I prayed that she would get there and this would all be a dream.

“I’m sorry, but we tried, but there was nothing we could do.”  As I waited in silence, hoping the Dr. had asked for the incorrect family, mom entered.  As I heard the Dr. Say, “I’m sorry again”, I looked at my mom.  I will never forget the look on her face and the words, “You mean I’m too late?”  Why did I tell her it was ok and that she didn’t have to rush? I’m so sorry mom.  I don’t remember anything else that was said.

Nearly 18 years later, these memories flood my mind as I sit with shaven legs getting a pedicure.  Not a day goes by without a thought of you my dearest sister.  So much has happened that I am glad you have missed, yet so much other has happened that I can’t help but wish you could have been a part of.  As Thanksgiving has come and gone as it did 18 years ago, I am thankful for having 29 years with you; good and not so good!  I love you Kristie!