He Only Takes the Best

>Last night I was going through some papers (looking for an old letter from an old friend, but that’s a story for another post. Maybe). As I was looking through my files, I found this:
I have been thinking about my sister Susan recently. I can remember the last few days of her life so clearly, it is almost like yesterday, yet it was six years ago. First, though, I want to remember her life.

Sue was three years younger than me, a true California girl (I’m just an imported one). She was adopted, just as I was, as was my sister Lisa five years later. This was just an extra detail of our lives, no big deal, just one more way that we were “special” according to our parents.

Sue was the middle sister, and she fit the role to a T. She was the peacemaker, the go-between, who got along with everyone. She was tall for her age, and boy, could she dance. When we were little, we both took ballet lessons. She was so good at it. I, on the other hand, switched to piano lessons.

We lived in Orange County until about 1973, when we moved to Fallbrook. It was like taking a step back in time. Back then, Fallbrook was a small, cloistered town where the schoolgirls still wore dresses and the boys’ hair had to be off their collars. Sue was too tall, too mature to fit in. She was in eighth grade at the time and stood a head taller than many of the other children. The powers that be decided that she should be put into high school, into ninth grade. That was the beginning of several years of tough times for my sister.

California street smarts aren’t the same as real maturity, so when Susan was suddenly thrown in with, not only strangers in a new school, but older kids, she had a hard time making smart choices. The new friends she made started experimenting with drugs and alcohol, the latter of which would become a problem for her throughout her life. We grew apart during this time, as I had problems of my own, a shy girl entering a new high school.

Sue did make it through high school, got married, had a baby, my lovely niece, Brynne, who was three months premature. Susan was amazing during that scary time. Brynne was tiny, spent long weeks in the hospital, had multiple surgeries. Sue was so young herself, yet she was so strong. I remember visiting her once after Brynne had come home. Sue was feeding her, when suddenly Brynne started to turn blue. Apnea. She just basically forgot to breathe. Sue calmly, gently, jostled her a little, said “Breathe Brynne.” And she did. I, in the meantime, was freaking out.

That was my sister. Mothering to all, always putting everyone before herself. We spent our last Thanksgiving together at her home, because she wanted her family around her even though she was too sick to join us.

Now to those last few days. We had hospice at Susie’s home, and Lisa and I were both fortunate to be able to be with her. It is hard to put into words how you feel when you help someone you love die peacefully. Sue’s husband, an alcoholic, was incapable of pulling himself together or to help in any way, so Lisa and I, along with Brynne, took care of her. We bathed her, administered her pain medication, talked to her, cried for her. When she finally passed, we were able to give her a last kiss and say a final goodbye.

She was 43 years old. I will finish with the poem that we used for her memorial service, six years ago: