My sister and I used to laugh
when we imagined ourselves as two little old ladies, putting the world to
rights. It seems impossible to think that will never be.
In July my lovely sister died
of cancer. She was 55-years-old, and an amazing, funny, strong and beautiful
person. She was my best friend.
It was
terminal cancer, so we’d known for over three years that the day would come
when we would have to say goodbye. For me, most of that time was spent in denial.
I would tell her I knew what the future held; she would insist I hadn’t really
accepted it. She was right. But then I was hoping for a miracle.
Reality hit
with an enormous thud earlier this year. Miracles melted away. A painful
headache and a seizure found us in A & E. A scan followed, and after
several torturous hours we were told the cancer had spread to her brain.
There was a
50% chance that radiation would shrink the tumours and give her longer. But while
she was having the radiation, she also had her regular scan on her liver.
The results
from that scan revealed there was nothing more they could do.
What followed
was an ‘end of life’ talk. That’s when my sister finally crumbled. She’d been
so, so brave throughout – but being told what to expect just before death was understandably
too much for both of us. My heart seemed to tighten when the news came. I felt
hopeless, helpless, angry, sad, desperate – there aren’t enough words to
describe the emotions I felt.
But I still
thought we had time. More time. Precious time.
We had no idea
how soon it would be. We weren’t told. But the doctor was concerned that her
skin had started to yellow. My sister began to feel so tired, but the medical
staff thought it could be the radiation causing that. So we stayed ever hopeful
that we had longer.
But it wasn’t
the radiation causing her exhaustion. Her liver was failing.
She moved in
with us, and we thought we would have months together, but everything happened
so quickly. Six days later she passed away.
I try to tell
myself that we shared three happy years after diagnosis. That we were lucky to
have had so many happy times together where she did all the things she loved doing.
And, of course, I have memories stretching back to when we were children.
But I felt far
from lucky. I felt numb, my body ached, I didn’t know what to do with the
feelings that made me feel so helpless. I’d
never felt pain like it.
Before she
died, she promised she would find a way of telling me she was OK. She told me
exactly where she would leave a white feather. The day after she died there was
a feather in the exact spot she said there would be one. I go from believing
she put it there, to thinking I’m being silly, crazy, daft.
Because when
someone you love dies, you do question your own sanity. The whole make up of
who you are seems to shift on its axis.
Lately I see
white feathers absolutely everywhere. Maybe my sister is getting a bit miffed
with me for not believing, and throwing feathers in my path. I can hear her
playful voice saying ‘Here you go, have lots, if you don’t believe me.’ But it’s
more likely white feathers have always littered the grass verges, and clung to
trees, and I’m only noticing them now. But I know what I want to believe.
Grief is
numbing, crippling, it made me feel ill, sick, knotted with pain. I didn’t
feel like myself at all. Nothing I have ever felt comes close to the agony
that consumed me after the loss of my sister, and life will
never be the same because there’s a huge hole where she had been by
my side for the whole of my life.
I
keep hearing her upbeat voice in my head – telling me to carry on, but I have
to tell her I’m so, so sorry, but it’s far too hard right now. ‘You’ll get
there,’ she tells me. ‘You have to.’
And as the
days became weeks, and now the weeks are turning into months, I try to be strong. I
do as much as I can to keep busy, as I find it helps. But it’s the triggers that
catch me and make me cry when I least expect it, like when I was in Tesco I
spotted a jacket with a soft collar I knew she would have loved. I go days
sometimes, where thoughts of her give me comfort, and then other times I can’t
stop crying. I’m not sure if I will ever get over losing my sister, but I hope,
in time, I will learn to live with it.
I debated for
a while whether to put up this blog post. It’s very personal, and was written to help me process my thoughts. But I decided to post it today, because through
the worst of the pain, I found similar posts from others comforting. My blog doesn’t get
many visitors anymore, but if just one person stumbles upon my words, and it helps them a
little, it was worth posting.
My second novel TELL THE TRUTH is out in December 2018, and one of
the settings is County Sligo in Ireland. I chose there for two reasons.
One is because my Grandfather was Irish, and was born in Cliffony, County
Sligo, and two, because when I visited the area, it fascinated me so much. However, the area within County Sligo I've written about is fictional.
I was thrilled and truly grateful to Karen Byrom for mentioning 'Her Last Lie' in My Weekly. I was chuffed too to appear in the local paper, and to chat on BBC
Three Counties Radio. 
Another upside of being published was receiving my very first month’s royalties for my ebooks. I’ve whizzed the money straight over to my Just Giving Page
HERE which I set up when my sister became ill, and I will continue to put my royalties there each month. It will be such a thrill to see
the amount grow. Thanks SO much to everyone who has downloaded a copy - you are all brilliant. And if you enjoyed it, and would like to pop
on a review that would be absolutely FANTASTIC! You can do so HERE. In fact, you can have my last Rolo if you do. 😃If you didn’t enjoy it, let's pretend I never
said anything.
When she reappeared, I was taken to a small studio. Inside was a mic, and I popped on headphones, and listened to Nick Coffer on air for a while, amusing his audience with funny anecdotes, before he played some music.
