My sister died on the 10th December.
My birthday is on the 10th July. That means my birthday is the eight-month anniversary of her death. Kathy's birthday is the 10 month anniversary of her death.
Neko's sister has a birthday on the 10th as well. The irony kills me, for lack of a better phrase.
I am possibly not doing all that well. It doesn't hurt, most of the time. It feels unreal.
My sister is dead
My, the possessive. Sister, the relationship to me. Is, a statement of fact. Dead, a state of being.
My sister is dead.
Saying that leaves me numb. Typing it is difficult to do within conversations to other people, easy to do within journal entries. I never use her real name in my head. I never say "Ranila is dead". I never even say "Nangi is dead", Nangi being what I called her.
Nangi means little sister in Sinhala. The first time that week she went into cardiac arrest, the female doctor noticed everyone was calling her Nangi (everyone always called her Nangi, even though she was my little sister, everyone called her that or "Baby") and asked if that was my sister's name and how old she was. My mother said no, and explained what it meant, and said my sister was only 18. That was barely two years younger than the doctor.
The next time she went into cardiac arrest and the ambulance team arrived, the same female doctor was with them. My mother says that while she worked on my sister, she called her "Nangi" over and over again.
My sister was admitted to the hospital with her hair in messy braids. In the morning, when my parents were allowed into the room where she was, her braids were tidy again. The nurse on duty was my age, and had tidied up my sister's hair.
It's little moments of grace like that which make me tear up and try not to cry. Thinking 'my sister is dead' does nothing. Actually picturing her face, picturing her smile and the way she used to start to smile even before I finished singing a certain song because she knew I'd always kiss her at the end -- that makes me hold my breath without knowing it. I always hold my breath when I know something is going to hurt; it's a reflex by now.
I can't look at photos of her. Seeing all her possessions packed up to give to the orphans made me run up the stairs and into my temporary room and slam the door shut.
Nangi. Nangi Nangi Nangi Nangi.
There's a running joke in Discworld that people always think that the heart is more to the left than it really is. Thinking of her makes my heart hurt so badly that I know exactly where to stab.
Nangi.
I breathe, I live, I continue. On Thursday, it will be the one month anniversary of her death.
Breathing hurts.
My birthday is on the 10th July. That means my birthday is the eight-month anniversary of her death. Kathy's birthday is the 10 month anniversary of her death.
Neko's sister has a birthday on the 10th as well. The irony kills me, for lack of a better phrase.
I am possibly not doing all that well. It doesn't hurt, most of the time. It feels unreal.
My sister is dead
My, the possessive. Sister, the relationship to me. Is, a statement of fact. Dead, a state of being.
My sister is dead.
Saying that leaves me numb. Typing it is difficult to do within conversations to other people, easy to do within journal entries. I never use her real name in my head. I never say "Ranila is dead". I never even say "Nangi is dead", Nangi being what I called her.
Nangi means little sister in Sinhala. The first time that week she went into cardiac arrest, the female doctor noticed everyone was calling her Nangi (everyone always called her Nangi, even though she was my little sister, everyone called her that or "Baby") and asked if that was my sister's name and how old she was. My mother said no, and explained what it meant, and said my sister was only 18. That was barely two years younger than the doctor.
The next time she went into cardiac arrest and the ambulance team arrived, the same female doctor was with them. My mother says that while she worked on my sister, she called her "Nangi" over and over again.
My sister was admitted to the hospital with her hair in messy braids. In the morning, when my parents were allowed into the room where she was, her braids were tidy again. The nurse on duty was my age, and had tidied up my sister's hair.
It's little moments of grace like that which make me tear up and try not to cry. Thinking 'my sister is dead' does nothing. Actually picturing her face, picturing her smile and the way she used to start to smile even before I finished singing a certain song because she knew I'd always kiss her at the end -- that makes me hold my breath without knowing it. I always hold my breath when I know something is going to hurt; it's a reflex by now.
I can't look at photos of her. Seeing all her possessions packed up to give to the orphans made me run up the stairs and into my temporary room and slam the door shut.
Nangi. Nangi Nangi Nangi Nangi.
There's a running joke in Discworld that people always think that the heart is more to the left than it really is. Thinking of her makes my heart hurt so badly that I know exactly where to stab.
Nangi.
I breathe, I live, I continue. On Thursday, it will be the one month anniversary of her death.
Breathing hurts.