I spent the majority of my life worrying about my sister. I realized early on she had an addiction problem. She was 16 and I was 13.
As typical siblings, we shared a bedroom and fought up until our teen years. I was fearful of her growing up. I secretly played with her Barbies when she was at school. She stole a Christmas gift from me when I was about 6…and returned it 40 years later (guilt). She and her best friend once chased this overweight pre-teen around the kitchen with a hot spatula and claimed they were “going to pop me” with “hot, spoiling grease,” so I don’t think my fears were unfounded. She could be mean. Back then, bullying wasn’t a thing, and we kept quiet and sucked up sibling rivalry. I believe she inspired the fortitude and tenacity I now have.
That fear changed when I was in 9th grade. I didn’t know then what had happened to make her suddenly be nice to me, but she was (many years later, she told me why). I was skeptical that it was another cruel trick, but from our first mall visit together, we were inseparable. We lived together, traveled together, partied together, wrote goofy songs together, worked together, and shopped together. We memorialized our vacations with fun times and photos. We developed inside jokes, secret words, and a Christmas game of who could give the “cheesiest” gift. Many would think it was her, with her unbelievably wacky sense of humor, but I won my fair share…although her fruitcake idea was brilliant.
When she got married, I was her maid of honor. I remember when she came back from her Tennessee honeymoon, they pulled up in our driveway and she got out and cried, realizing she couldn’t live with me, mom and our stepfather anymore. The four of us were THAT close for years.
Is it any wonder then that I needed to rescue her. She defined so much of my life from an early age ⏤ good and bad ⏤ I couldn’t imagine not helping her. Ever. It wasn’t possible to sit back and watch her suffer.
My mother and I tried everything to intervene and help her for decades. It was usually met with denial. We saw the day coming. We feared it ⏤ the night she passed: March 25, 2019.
This all brings me to end of life rituals and a sanctity of care most don’t know ⏤ home body care and home funerals. Some are squeamish of death; some are not. I can’t think of anything that would have been more sacred than the ability to love and care for my sister through the end. We didn’t know we could care for her in such a loving way.
We would have embraced this sacred act of tending to Laura ⏤ preparing and washing her body with the utmost love and attention.
This is the type of information not readily handed out by funeral homes and funeral directors. I don’t understand why. I am fortunate to have discovered the death positive movement and can now advocate for others.