My sister

"Unnee, can I hug you?" a small voice asks. Catherine looks up at her older sister hopefully.

Elizabeth groans. Her little sister is always such a pest. She looks down at Catherine, and relents. But just a bit. 'Okay, you can hug my pinky."

Catherine looks slightly disappointed, but still happy to get something. "Okay," she says. She grabs Elizabeth's pinky with a fierceness and intensity that is unusual for a 5 year old. "I love you, love you, love you, Unnee!" she squeals with glee as she hugs her sister's finger.

*     *     *     *     *     *

My sister and I have always been close. She is affectionate; I am not. She is sweet; I am...not so sweet. But one thing I know is that I have always been is her big sister. But now that I am sick, I find that, more and more, she is taking care of me. It's disconcerting, to say the least. I would protect her from everyone and everything, but now I seem unable to.

It was a complete shock when I first learned of my cancer. I had a growth on the side of my jawline. Although I had a history of tumors coming and going for the past 4 years, it was never cancer, and they always went away after a few months. This was no different. The doctor had, however, insisted on getting me into the operating room for an incisional biopsy. I was reluctant to have a long ugly scar along my neck, but the doctor persisted with a quiet patience that eventually overcame my opposition. So a scar was made along my neck, my sister had flew in, and we awaited the results of the biopsy.

My sister had flown in the night before on the late night flight from Washington, D.C. She knew that the results were due to come out any day now and wanted to be around as much as possible, just in case. This is the same sister who cleared her busy schedule two weeks prior to my due date with Evan, just in case. And she was right -- he was born two weeks early. She is forever prepared.

My mother was over at the house as well. She has been a constant figure since the tumor on the side of my neck appeared. I must admit, the swelling was bad, and just getting worse. She had been concerned about the tumors from the beginning and was not handling this latest appearance very well. She would look at me with sad eyes, and then try to get me to eat something. Quite frankly, I could hardly move my neck at this point, and with two additional lumps appearing on my legs, she probably had reason for concern. But it was never cancer before, and I waited for the results with surprisingly little worry.

My phone beeps. An email notification. I look at who it is from, and it is an email from my doctor. I open up my laptop at the kitchen counter. My sister is playing with Evan and my mom is at my stove, perpetually making me food. I click on the email, and I see the first few lines, which customarily state the diagnosis. The pathology report reads, "Final Pathologic Diagnosis: 1) Subcutaneous Panniculitis-like T-Cell Lyphoma."

I was in shock. Lymphoma is cancer. My mother was watching me closely, and I had nowhere to go. I did not want to shock my mother. 

"Is everything okay? Is that the report?" My mother asked quietly, her eyes boring into mine. 

"Yeah, everything is okay," I say, still in shock. I knew my mother realized something was wrong, but I needed to get away.

I grabbed my phone, and went upstairs. I called Joe, but he did not answer. I realized that he was probably in surgery, but I hung up and dialed again. Voicemail.

I went downstairs, because I did not know what to do with myself. I finally saw my sister, who was also watching me. She had heard the entire exchange between my mother and I.

I look at her. At last, relief. I needed to tell somebody. I went to her and told her quietly. "It's cancer. I haven't told Mom." I couldn't look at my sister's face. "I have to call Joe." I went outside and dialed again. Joe picked up.

"Joe, Joe, Joe. It's cancer. They say it is cancer," I whisper, my voice shaking, and my breath heaving. Tears silently run down my face, but I refuse to give in to sobbing. "They said it wasn't likely to be cancer, but it is cancer. It's lymphoma."

"Oh," Joe says. I know he is in shock. "I knew something was wrong. The doctor called me, and then you called me a couple of times, and I knew that it would be bad news." 

"What are we going to do? It is cancer." I say again, barely even whispering.

"We are going to make it. We have each other, and we will get through this just like we get through everything. This isn't the first time life has presented us with challenges. Trust me, we'll be fine."

"Okay. Okay," I say, gathering myself. "I have to go back inside the house. I just dropped the news to my sister, and left without talking to her."

I go back inside the house, and I see my sister. Her eyes look a bit shiny, and I find I can't look at her for very long because it makes me so sad to cause my baby sister pain. "I'm sorry, Catherine. You must be in shock."

"Yeah, but I knew something was really wrong when I heard you talking to Umma. Did you talk to Joe?" she asks. Her resolve burns through the unshed tears. She is my sister, after all. 

"Yeah, but I think we have to tell Umma. She knows something is wrong, and I just left." I say. We approach my mother in the kitchen. She has lost all pretense of cooking, and is just standing still in front of the stove, staring down at the pan. Worry creases her face as she turns to watch us walk in. 

"What happened? Did the biopsy results come out?" There's a slight tremor in her voice.

"Umma," I say quietly. I walk over to her and hold her arms. "They say it is cancer." I move my arms around to hug her, but she just stands there, unresponsive. I lean back. "Umma?"

She is silent, her face immobile for a few long seconds. And then her face crumples. "You said it wasn't going to be cancer. You said it wasn't cancer, and that it was like last time. You said it wasn't cancer. How could this be? Is this really happening right now?" she starts sobbing, a loud guttural cry that hits me through the heart. My sister and I start to cry as she lifts her head back and wails to the ceiling. It's hard seeing your mother in so much pain, especially when you are the cause of it.

"We will be okay, Umma. I am so strong. I can make it through this, don't worry." I try to respond as firmly as I can, as if I could dilute her pain with confidence. I always gain strength when I feel like I'm needed, particularly when it involves the people I love. But even as I embrace her, I can feel my own fear and my own pain riding just below the surface, amplified because I know I'm the cause of my mother's tears. My sister joins us as we hold each other, grieving, knowing that things will never be the same.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Since my diagnosis, my sister has been here with me through it all. She has been with me just as much as, if not more than Joe. She took a leave of absence from work, and has been here since my first round of chemo. She watches me like a hawk. She knows I'm in pain before I even utter a moan. She literally caught me when I collapsed from the pain of the neupogen expanding the marrow of my bones, and then ran to get Joe so he could take me to the emergency room. Before I was thirsty, she would have a glass of water at the ready, within reach. If my phone dinged with an email of text message, she went to get my phone for me before I even had a chance to look for it. She was always there, watching, observing, and taking care of me.

I don't know what I would have done without her. She's leaving to go back to work, and I am sad she is leaving. I will miss her companionship, her constant and tireless love, and her devotion to me. I am not used to being on the receiving end of help. I generally do not ask for help, nor do I accept it very well. I am the older sister, the eldest cousin, and usually the eldest friend in my groups. I am comfortable carrying the mantle of responsibility and feel exposed without it. But this time, my sister did not give me a choice, and she gave me the best gift a sister ever could.

I thought I knew my sister inside and out, but she revealed a depth and caring that I never fully realized until now. It feels odd to be on the receiving end of it. Perhaps this is what the irrepressible desire to love and show love that characterized her as a child evolved into as she became an adult. For the first time, I leaned upon my baby sister and discovered that she was strong enough to hold me up. I am so proud of the person that she is. Thank you, Catherine. From the bottom of my heart. You are the best sister and best friend anyone could ever have. 

My baby sister