A New Year

Yesterday marked the 3rd anniversary of my sister Ashley's death. The only thing I could think was that I can't believe it's been three years already; I haven't talked to her in over three years. Life is so precious and so easy to take for granted. I think about how fragile our existence really is. At the same time, I still fall prey to the daily grind. I still get annoyed by little things. Most of the time I am grateful for the little annoyances, though, because it means nothing big is wrong.

We got about 6 inches of snow yesterday. When it stopped, Zach and Luke and I walked down to the coffee shop and the local bookstore. It was all very cozy. Here are two pictures of Luke doing two of his favorite things-"eating" an apple and swinging.

It's Easter.

Me, my grandmother, and Ashley.
Photo taken December 31, 2004, about 2 weeks before Ashley died. 

Hurting

Zach and I are readjusting to each other after spending 6 days apart while he remained with his family on Cape Cod for a few more days after X-mas. I came home to work and, be there no uncertainty, to have a few days to myself. A few days to myself became more like solitary confinement. I am not proud to say that I have spent a few nights in a padded room with nothing but a mattress on the floor, but this was worse. It was worse because I still went to work every day to face 20 screaming kids and because I still had to function like a functioning adult in the world. What made this time to myself so destructive was that I felt isolated and anxious. Soon it will be the one-year anniversary of Ashley's death, and that makes me fearful, sad, and angry. All those emotions at once are just too much, so I make myself numb. Zach doesn't like my negativity, but neither do I, and that's part of the problem. I try to push it away, so I end up brooding on my negativity. Then Zach asks me why I don't talk about it, and then I want to either hit him really hard or curl up in my bed with my stuffed bear. Zach is notorious for contradicting himself. He wants me to talk about what I'm thinking and feeling, but not to him. He wants me to be open and honest with him, but only if it's positive. It's enough to drive me crazy.

My first memory of Ashley (in utero)

I was reading the website of my friend Jenni where she was recounting one of her first memories. It made me think of one of my first memories, and I wanted to share it. It was shortly before my third birthday, and I was at the doctor's office with my mom. I remember standing by her side surrounded by legs, both of people and tables. The room was dim. It seemed like a half dozen people were standing around the table on which my mom was lying. The doctor bent down toward me and put the cold, metal stethoscope on my ears. I was scared. He asked me if I could hear the baby's heartbeat. I shook my head up and down furiously, just wanting him to take the thing off my ears. I couldn't hear a damn thing. Later, as we were leaving, he shut the door on my hand, but I don't remember that part.

Dear Ashley,

When I finally sat down long enough today to let myself realize what it is that I've been feeling, I realized that it's been 9 months to the day since you died. I've been running away from my feelings all week, and I've felt frantic and stressed out, but I'm afraid if I stop that I'll never start back up again. I wrote you a long letter today and cried for over an hour. It's amazing to me to think that with so many people in the world, how is it that I could miss just one person so much? I do though. I miss you more than you will ever know. I have gotten closer to mom and my friends, but I will never stop missing you. Some days I'm amazed to think that with all the losses that occur each day in the world, how anyone can find life enjoyable or worth living. I know it is, though, because I saw through all of your pain and suffering how you lived each day. Through your pain, you still found strength to talk about things that were important to you, like your friends, our family, school, events happening in the world, the quality of care (or lack of) of the hospital staff, and you still managed to ask others how they were doing and to smile. I'm sure you really learned how to accept love and kindness from others. I know you did, because you were so generous in returning it. I know you are no longer suffering, but I bet if you'd have had a choice, you would have chosen to stay here among the living. I think you knew it was your time to go, but I'm not so sure you really wanted to go. I hope you felt comforted at your death by my presence. I'm so glad I was able to be with you when you died. It was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. I just wish you could be here with me now.
Love,
Angelique

Any sense does it make?

I started a weekly yoga class last Monday. I'm hopeful that it's going to help me relax and learn to sloooow down a bit. I've been so exhausted lately that I've been walking into things like an awkward teenager going through a growth spurt. I have a collection of bruises to show for it. I also say things that don't really make sense and then can't remember saying them. Thankfully Zach is there to inform me of and question the nonsensical things I say. More to come later.

A Slightly Uneasy Feeling

This morning as Zach an I were sitting in our apartment family room reading the paper, we heard the pattering of a [squirrel's/rat's] little feet coming from somewhere behind us. I could have said it was the cat if we had a cat, but since we don't, it couldn't have been the cat. We reasoned to ourselves that it must have been a squirrel on the roof, because a rat doesn't make pattering sounds, does it? At this point, I'm relying on the "if I can't see it, it must not exist" rationale.

The only news in the paper is that of Hurricane Katrina's aftermath. It's actually the first that I've sat down and read about it. I've managed to avoid most media coverage of the disaster for the past week. It's not because I'm a cold, callous, uncaring person, but it's just that everything is so sensationalized, and watching the coverage makes me feel helpless. The other factor is that right before she got sick, my sister Ashley spent a summer in Baton Rouge doing an internship with the Dept. of Transportation, and the strong connection between Ashley and Louisiana makes it difficult for me to watch and listen to the news about the hurricane. I can't even walk by the tobasco sauce in the grocery store without thinking about Ashley and of how she toured that factory. I started listening lately, because I know how interested and concerned she would have been in all of this. She was planning on studying urban development and transportation in graduate school. I've been trying to think of ways that she would have helped with the disaster. It's not really feasible to donate money, so I've thought about contacting all of Ashley's friends and acquaintances in Louisiana to see if they're okay. I think that's what she would have done.

"On Grief and Grieving"

I've been reading this book co-authored by David Kessler and Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, finished right before she died last year. There was one passage in particular that talked about how many people believe that we never die alone, and that all those we once knew will be there to greet us in death. At first the thought made me upset and angry, because who did Ashley know who had already died? But then I thought of my dad's father who died a few months before Ashley was born, and I could picture Ashley together with our grandfather. She would fill him in one what everyone has been up to for the past 26 years, and that image made me cry. I like to think that Ashley and my grandfather are together.
Another passage in the book talked about how we the living are constrained by time. It may be another 60 years before I see Ashley again, if I believe that everyone will be reunited in death, but the dead, who live in another realm, don't have time restrictions, so what may be 60 years for me may only feel like a matter of seconds to the deceased. Obviously nobody knows for sure what happens, and right now this is what feels good for me to believe.

The rain is humbling

It's a rainy day, and I'm back in State College by myself. Zach remained up on Cape Cod for a few more days visiting his family. I didn't want to come back. The day I left was perfectly sunny with just a few clouds in the sky, a perfect beach day. Mainly while I was there I sat on the beach and read the newest Harry Potter book, which was excellent. It's all the more difficult being back now because I've had a frustrating past few days and, on top of it all, I have a horrible cold. I'm trying to just stay in and give myself time to get better, but that's one of the most difficult things for me to do.
While I've been sitting inside listening to this awesome CD called Love Rocks*, I've been thinking about Ashley. I keep picturing her lying in the hospital bed the day she died, completely still. I remember shutting her eyelids the rest of the way. I sat by her bed and held her hands and talked to her for 2 hours before Zach arrived. She was still warm to the touch, but I could see her ears were turning slightly blue around the edges. I wanted to believe that she could hear what I was saying. I had to believe it. I still don't know what happens to a person's soul at death. Sometimes I think it becomes fragmented and is dispersed in the universe. It's hard to believe that anyone's soul could remain whole and be transferred to another being at birth. I would like to believe that the soul does survive in some way, though. I was thinking today how much I would like to talk to my mom about this image that I carry of Ashley and my thoughts about her spirit. I'm just afraid my mom is not ready to hear it, and I'm afraid that by making myself so vulnerable to her I'll only end up getting hurt. This is why I'm blogging it today. It's good to know that my thoughts are still being heard.

*Zach and I bought the CD in Provincetown, Cape Cod, a very lively, alternative town on the tip of Cape Cod surrounded by water and sand dunes. It came from a little shop that only sells items in support of the Human Rights Campaign.

Forming a Dent

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night. I went out into the family room and sat in the reclining chair that we all got my dad for father’s day several years ago when Ashley was still well. It’s the chair I sat in the week she and I spent together. She had herself and all of her stuff nestled into the corner of the big, white sofa where she said she felt a huge dent forming. There were two big pillows propped up behind her and several blankets on and around her. There was a small table in front of her with random pill bottles, gum wrappers, and empty cups piled on top. There was usually a plate of half-eaten chicken or french toast which she would end up feeding to Zoë from her fork. Zoë would gingerly take the morsel of food off the fork without scraping her teeth against it. Ashley was always teaching Zoe new tricks. The cats were never far away, either. Tyler would never miss an opportunity to jump up on a pile of blankets, especially if you didn’t want him there. Under the table was a paper bag with trash spilling out onto the floor. She was never a very neat person. The big oxygen machine was right behind the sofa making its steady whirring noise all day and night. I would miss it when it was gone. Her backpack with the TPN (total paraenteral nutrition), the “food” that was taken intravenously through the artery in her neck, was at her feet. That week Zach and I prepared those bags for her. The time Zach did she didn’t even hook it up to her pump to use. It just sat in the refrigerator only to be thrown away the next day. It was a tedious process to prepare those feedings. The bag, several of which were delivered weekly, had to be removed from the fridge hours before use. I had to use two different syringes to inject vitamin K and other B vitamins into the bag through a little plastic cover near the bottom. This had to be done hours before use so that they had enough time to be infused. Right before use the bag needed to be hooked up to the pump and primed for use. The fluid had about 6 feet of tubing to go through before it would enter Ashley’s body, and there couldn’t be any air bubbles in the tubing. I would stand on a chair and hold the tube above my head as the pump slowly pushed the fluid through, often times spilling over onto the floor before I could flick the air bubbles out and stop the pump. I tried hard not to let any of it spill onto the floor, because it was Ashley’s main source of nutrition. She was supposed to keep the pump on through the night for a total of 12-13 hours. She never did though. She would turn it off every time she got up to use the bathroom and then “forget” to turn it back on. It would make her feel sick, she said. After she died as I was cleaning out her room I found a dozen half-used TPN bags dating from August, September and October, and she died in January. This past Sunday after I sat in the chair for a while trying to remember what it was like 6 months ago with Ashley sitting across from me asking me to please stop rocking because it made her feel nauseous, I went into her room. Her urn sits on her dresser. A few months ago I tried to open it to see what her ashes look like, but I couldn’t figure out how to get the lid off. I figured it out last Sunday. Her ashes were inside in a clear, plastic bag twisted shut with a number attached to it. Here she was, my sister, a number. The ashes were nothing like what I expected. I thought they’d be fine and black, like soot, but instead they were gray and white and gravel-like. The whole back must have weighed about 8 pounds. This was my sister. After crying for a while I felt anger. I’m angry that she didn’t take care of herself the way she should have. I’m angry that she left me here to deal with this. Sometimes I wonder why her and not me, just as I wonder why Alyssa and not me.

Getaway

I got in late last night from a rejuvenating weekend getaway at Nancy's in Cincinnati. It was just what I needed. I love car rides, but only when I'm driving alone, because then I can listen to my music at full volume. In fact, I could have easily kept driving for another 7 hours. I listened to the Dar Williams CD Nancy burned for me for about 5 hours straight, specifically songs number 3 and 6. After about 3 hours I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, the ones I've been holding back for weeks now. Dar Williams and Nancy finally penetrated the thick skin that had been surrounding my soul. Thanks for a great weekend and for making me laugh! It's so important, seeing as how one day we're all going to dissipate* anyway.

* Since Nancy and I are both having trouble with the idea of god and religion lately, we decided that people don't really die, but rather dissipate. Their energy is just dispersed throughout the universe.

More about Ashley

I’ve been feeling anger toward my sisters lately. Neither one is around anymore. Ashley is gone and Alyssa hasn’t been in my life for ten years now. Why did they do this to me? Why did they abandon me? I know it sounds childish, but the child-like part of me asks myself these questions every now and then.

I try to remember back to when Ashley was well, and I have to reach way back in order to get there. My mind is jogged by letters I read and pictures I see. I remember her high standards and expectations from life, which, on one hand is very admirable and on the other is very frustrating to those she was close to. She was very determined and knew what she wanted and sometimes even what other people should want. Ashley spoke her mind, sometimes with words and other times with a sigh or gesture. She would impishly raise one eyebrow up to her hairline, and that was often accompanied by a barely-audible snicker. She could be very critical, just like my uncle. She took her time doing work, never rushing anything. She was very generous, and she loved dogs. Ashley and I got closer about three years ago, a little while after she had returned to school and after I had returned from Germany. She would call and email me, and most times I wouldn’t respond, or at least not initially. It took me a while to see the sisterly bond between us that had been there from the start, because it was often camouflaged by jealousy, animosity, or ambivalence. Once we started talking more, most of that faded into the background. It never completely disappeared, but it faded. I realized that we had a lot in common and how nice it was to talk to someone who understood me so well. We shared the same parents and a childhood; nobody else, except Alyssa, knows our past so intimately. It was reassuring knowing that somebody in the world was so much like me.

Ashley’s graduation ceremony from Bryn Mawr College was held last Sunday. My mom and I walked across the stage to accept her diploma. When it was announced that her degree was awarded posthumously, the crowd gasped a little, but then applauded until after my mom and I returned to our seats. It was spectacular, heartfelt, and highly charged. I couldn’t have imagined it going any better. I kept picturing what it would have been like had Ashley actually been there. She would have been irritated with my family, annoyed that none of us knew why some of the capes were fur-lined and others weren’t, what language was printed on the cover of the yearbook (I think it’s Greek), and other silly questions. But she also would have been really happy and excited about her future endeavors. She was going to go on to graduate school. Maybe she would have studied urban development or law. I miss having Ashley around. Even if we weren’t in close contact, I regret no longer having that as an option. It’s hard for me to be angry with her, despite what I stated in the beginning. It’s especially hard because she was so sick for so long. When I think back, though, I get angry at her for “letting” herself get so sick.

There will be a plaque and a book collection dedicated in Ashley’s honor at the Bryn Mawr library. Please let me know if you can think of any books that should be dedicated in her honor. They do not need to have anything to do with her studies (Economics/Urban Development and German).

More of my story

I want to thank Nancy for posting a link to my blog. I really appreciate everyone's comments and even just knowing that other people are reading my blog even if they don't comment. It gives me courage and the incentive to keep on writing. Here's some more.

April 24, 2005

Another week gone by in my life without Ashley, and somehow I’m managing fairly well. I feel guilty about that. I am resilient, and I view that as being negative somehow. It makes me feel like I am cold and heartless. I think about her often, though. Friday night I saw a Mahler concert with Zach and Sarah Melissa. Ashley played the violin for over ten years, and so I kept imagining seeing her up on stage in the orchestra. Then I started thinking about her upcoming college graduation and how difficult it is going to be walking up on stage to accept her diploma for her without her there. It’s really going to reinforce the fact that she’s not here anymore; that she’s not ANYwhere. I suppose someone could argue that she’s all around us all the time, but I just don’t see it that way, at least not right now I don’t. Her death hasn’t made me turn toward God or any kind of organized religion. Right now thinking about her death is too cold and stark a reality. I don’t see any way of glossing it over or trying to explain it, nor do I want to. Whenever I try to make sense of it, I end up back where I started from, and that is with no good explanation. What good is our ability to reason if we can’t come up with acceptable explanations? The problem there is that I rely on reason in life. Ashley is dead, but those words are meaningless. “Ashley is gone” resonates more deeply with me, but it makes it sound like a temporary situation. Maybe it is for all I know. The worst expression I heard in regard to her death was “Patient expired” spoken by a receptionist at UPenn Hospital where she had been seeing a specialist for a while. Milk expires, not people. Expire means something has gone bad that has been around for too long. People don’t expire. A lump rose in my throat, and I wondered if the woman on the other end of the line had ever experienced the loss of a loved one. She was so cool and detached, and while it pissed me off at the time, I can also appreciate her demeanor, because I can easily detach myself from just about any situation or feeling. I think that that is what has helped me get through some of the difficult times in life.

Thirteen Weeks

April 15, 2005

Today marks 13 weeks since your (Ashley’s) death. Every Friday I think about it, but it becomes less clear with each passing week. Most times I don’t even want to think about it. I have trouble remembering the details of that day, of your moaning, of your breathing become less and less regular, of calling an ambulance, knowing that you never wanted to be in a hospital again, of administering CPR and then watching the paramedics take over while a flat line registered across the screen. I had to carry your dog Zoë down the wooden steps and then, with her head pressed up underneath my chin in my arms and her back rigid against my chest, because you know how much she hates to be picked up and carried, I let the police officers in and directed them where to go. The police were called in as soon as I alerted the dispatcher that you had stopped breathing. Apparently that’s the protocol. Zoë didn’t want me to put her out. She wanted to be near you and all of the action. Your dog was loyal to you to the end. She sat outside on her leash with her back facing the house and her head facing into the wind, visibly upset and annoyed that she was relegated to the yard. I rushed around the house grabbing things I thought I might need. I grabbed mom and dad’s contact information for where they were staying in London. I grabbed my backpack and my water bottle. I went back upstairs and called Zach at the library to tell him that you had stopped breathing and that I had called an ambulance and would be at Lancaster General with you. I told him Zoë was outback, Tyler was outside, and Noelle was in the basement, because I assumed he would get back to the house before me. I hung up and forgot where I put down the phone. I turned off the TV. The Ellen Show was still on. Lastly I turned off your oxygen machine, because you didn’t need it anymore. I stopped and watched you lie there on the floor so still as the paramedics intubated you and injected things into your pick line. You were perfectly still. I turned away, not wanting to see them handling your body like that. My vision became hazy as my eyes filled with the tears I wouldn’t let fall. I wanted to scream out “NO!”, but I couldn’t, and I thought that you wouldn’t like it if I had. I realized later that the heartbeat I felt and thought had been yours was really my own; it was my own heart racing and pulsating through the fingers that held your wrist. I rode to the hospital with a police officer who asked me to write down our names and our relationship to each other. He also wanted to know what had happened. He asked about the scars on your stomach and if you had a terminal illness. He wanted to know if you had taken an overdose as an act of mercy. I told him no, that whatever it was you had was in no way terminal, and that that wasn’t the case at all.

The ride to the hospital was long. I was silent and so was he. There was country music playing, which was periodically interrupted by his radio alerting us of robberies and other unlawful things taking place. The tears filled my eyes again, but I didn’t want to think about why. I wanted to remain strong. I didn’t ask any questions, because I didn’t want to hear anything that I wasn’t prepared for. Thirteen weeks ago at this time you were still alive. It’s 12:30 in the afternoon now. That day, January 14th, in three more hours you would take some of your last breaths. They pronounced you dead at 4:47 p.m. at the hospital. They say you stopped breathing and that they couldn’t re-start your heart in the ambulance. I know it was before you left the house that afternoon. You never wanted to be in a hospital again and you never were. The last words you said to me were “Thank you”, after I took off your socks, which you had asked me to do. I don’t know if you knew what was happening or not. It happened so quickly. I’m not sure I really knew, but even if I did, I didn’t admit it to myself. This kind of thing doesn’t just happen to anyone, so why would it happen to us? I have so many mixed-up feelings about it.

Last night I was reading through some of an old notebook I found in your room, and I was simultaneously touched and angered by what I read. There were several letters in it written about four years ago to some friends and to me. They were written in German. In the two letters to your friends you talked about how much you missed having me around for the summer. I had been on the Cape with Zach all summer and had only spent a few days at home. You talked with pride about me going to graduate school at Penn State and me teaching there and then you talked about how much you couldn’t stand Zach and his ill manners. I remember those times. They were really stressful for me, because I was trying to balance school, my family and being in a long-distance relationship with Zach that no one, except Alyssa, seemed to approve of. I remember not really wanting to talk to you much then, because I could sense your disapproval. I know mom and dad had similar feelings. Reading those letters brought back those stressful, hurtful times. I felt like I had to choose between Zach and my family. Somehow over the next few years things quieted down. I’ll never know how much you thought about me and Zach and if or when your thoughts ever really changed. I guess it doesn’t really matter, but, believe it or not, your opinion mattered to me. There will always be answers to questions that I will never know. I can only try to fill-in-the-blanks myself. I’m sure Zach really did irritate you, as a matter of fact, I know he did, but I also wonder if part of your dislike for Zach was feeling like I was being taken away from you. I resent your disapproval toward my relationship with Zach, even though I think you genuinely warmed up to him over the past two years, but I would much rather have you here, knowing that you disapproved of my marriage than not have you here at all. I could learn to accept that and all the other things in my life you didn’t agree with, but accepting your never-ending absence from my life is so painful that it’s beyond comprehension, beyond words, and beyond feeling. The physical pain your death left me with is pretty much gone, but now there’s some invisible, abstract scar left behind that I can’t see or pinpoint. It makes my head spin, and nothing makes sense. I know I’ll die one day, too, but somehow I also fear that I will never die. I wish we could all die together and I wish that I could be in control of when and how I die. It’s the uncertainty, the elusiveness of death that scares me.

Chapter 1

Okay, so it's been way too long since I've posted anything. I get out of the habit of writing and then it's hard to get back into it. The thing is I find that I usually feel better when I write regularly. Go figure. Why do I avoid doing the things that are good for me? Sure I do plenty of things that are healthy, but often times they are forced and it becomes something that I think I should do rather than what I want to do or what might feel good. It's been so long since I've written anything that I feel like I'm rambling and I can't stay focused. I think I need to break this down into chapters or something.

March 5, 2005

Today would have been Ashley's 25th birthday. I keep trying to think of something commemorative, exciting or crazy to do, but I don't like any ideas I come up with. Instead I'll probably just remember it is her birthday and go have a drink with Zach, Liz and Jay tonight. According to Buddhist belief, the spirit wanders the earth for 49 days after death. Sometime between last night and this morning would have marked 49 days since Ashley's death.

Hitting a Nerve

So it's Saturday again. The weeks have been sliding by in a blur. The past few days have been good, though. On Thursday I realized that I don't need to "feel" sad all of the time. I can be angry, happy, depressed, joyous, tired, withdrawn, hyper, or fearful. Instead of forcing myself to feel sad, and wondering why I can't seem to cry, I can let myself be, and then cry when it comes naturally. This is a BIG relief.
Yesterday marked one month of the date of Ashley's death. It seems like it's been twice that long already. I feel like I'm swimming, or just trying to stay afloat, in the midst of chaos, and I'm waiting for that moment of clarity when it hits me again that Ashley is gone. I know that one day soon I am going to inadvertently pick up the phone to call her, and then will remember that I can't. The whole concept of death is beyond comprehension.
Last night Zach and I were discussing whether or not her spirit was around. Whenever I think of that possibility, it makes me nervous. If the spirit lingers, then is it aware of what is going on in the living world, and, if so, would it have any regrets or would it be lonely? I don't like to think about those possibilities. Whenever I think of Ashley's spirit, I can only think of an evil one. For me it's simpler to just believe that she's just gone, and that there's nothing more. Maybe that will change one day, but for now it keeps the harsh, cold reality of her death in my mind, and I don't want to forget it.

**Nancy, I started the Anne Lamott novel. I showed Janet, and she said she loves Anne Lamott and that she thought she had read all of her books (she hasn't read this one). My friend Liz is also a big Anne Lamott fan. There must be something in her writings that hits a nerve with all of us. Thanks again for the books.

Thinking that I should feel a certain way and that I'm a FREAK if I don't.

I don't have to teach anymore. They found a replacement for me. I'm happy about it, yet also saddened. I have to keep reminding myself that I did the responsible thing by resigning, even though it feels the exact opposite.
I'm feeling kind of numb to everything right now. I keep thinking that I should feel sad or angry or any certain way, and if I don't, then I'm a freak. I'm so afraid that I won't feel the sadness around Ashley's death anymore and that life will go on as normal. What kind of person am I if the death of my own sister doesn't make me sad? I know I'm overreacting, and that I'm such a perfectionist.
The books are great, Nancy. I'm almost finished with "Landscape without Gravity".
Thanks.

Grief hurts

Nancy, I'm writing this for you. Thank you so much for listening to me Saturday and for giving me great advice. I've written my letter of resignation and will be done teaching by Feb. 9th, or sooner if they find a replacement. I've been feeling sick about the whole thing and the fact that I even have to make such a decision. I knew I didn't want to continue teaching, but I felt horribly guilty about quitting. That guilt, or shame or whatever it is, is outweighed by my sorrow and the feelings of relief at not having to teach anymore when I really think about it. I miss Ashley. There's a knot in my throat and a tightness in my chest that just won't go away. I think there's also a hole in my heart, because it hurts when I think that there are supposed to be three of us, not two.

Hurting

Today I really miss my sisters. I miss the way things used to be a long time ago. I miss the times we spent conspiring against each other or my parents, I miss our old ways of fighting and arguing about crossing that imaginary line in the backseat of the car, I miss watching tv together on a Friday night, but most of all I miss their health and their presence in my life. I would give my right arm if it meant they could both be healthy again. This is the most I've ever felt the loss of my sisters, and it hurts. I know that they are still here, but they are both struggling with their health. I am struggling with knowing that things will never be as they once were or as I once thought they would be. There is nothing that could ever replace my sisters.