The end of February

The end of February, well, the 27th to be exact, marks the anniversary of my sister April's death. Some years the date comes and goes without too much thought about it one way or another but this year, for some reason, it feels hard. Some details about the day she died I try hard to keep locked away and not visit them too often. This year, they seem to want to air themselves out a bit whether I am in the mood for it or not.

Sometimes I look back on that period of time surrounding her being sick and then her death and I think what a bizarre childhood I had. While my friends were worrying about prom, boys, makeup, the latest concert, etc., I was being educated on things like phantom pains, malignancies, which chemo drugs give you mouth sores, and then there was the ever present possibility of death hanging about the house. Like a dinner guest you can't get rid of. I was telling Kevin the other night that after she died a lot of the time I felt like I was pretending at being a teenager. All my friends were into all this stuff that I just thought was meaningless and frivolous. For me the world had lost its innocence and was a place where people die for no good reason. I guess I grew up quick.

My parents and I were talking about her the other day and remembering her zany sense of humor. I used to love when we were out in public and she would do something crazy with her artificial leg. Once sitting in an airport lounge, she was cross stitching and kept sticking her needles she wasn't using in her artificial leg. That got some interesting looks from people! Also, when her shoe on the artificial leg would come untied, she would yank the leg up so that it was literally touching her nose, parallel to her body to retie it. That also got some interesting looks. Then there were also the prank calls to her oncologist. Her and her friend, who also had cancer, used to make me prank Dr. Nachman, their oncologist. They were convinced he was a pervert so I had to call and breath heavy into the phone. They made me do it because they said he may recognize their breathing. Looking back now I am appalled that I was waking a hard working pediatric oncologist up in the middle of the night.

Even though it has been 21 years, I am still feeling the weight of her absence. I wish she was here. I hope she knows that I am trying really hard to keep the promise I made her before she died and do this living thing up right.

I am taking notes April, I promise.