Suddenly, the song I couldn't bear to hear was playing - You'll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins from the movie Tarzan. In what felt like the worst kind of time travel, I felt myself transported back to my little sister's hospice room, a mere 7 or 8 hours before she died. Kim loved Phil Collins and had every CD he ever put out and that song was one of her absolute favorites. I had gotten the idea to download several of his songs onto my phone to play at her bedside, which I did. At that point in her journey she was pretty much comatose, though we were able to rouse her partially with a lot of effort, if necessary. My mom and I sat at her bedside, along with my daughter Amy and her husband, Tyler, trying our best to be present and uplifting for my sister but simultaneously feeling scared and trying to hold it together for Kim's sake.
I will never forget holding her hand as the song You'll Be In My Heart played from my phone. I sang/whispered the words into her ear as I squeezed her hand, hoping on some level she could feel the energy of how much I loved her right through my fingertips. Somehow, at that moment, that song became an anthem for us, for our sisterhood. For the nights spent together in our shared bedroom when she would beg me to tell her a story. For the countless Christmases and birthdays and every ordinary day in between that we played together; swam together; went to school together; navigated our parent's divorce together. She was only sixteen months younger than me and at 57, she was far too young to die. How incredibly impossible it is to be a supporting actor in this tragedy - to watch someone who knows you better than anyone else and who you love wholly and without reservation slip away inch by inch before your eyes. What kind of a world would it be without her in it? I couldn't begin to grasp the far reaching effects. Looking at her, vulnerable in her hospital bed, her body wracked with the damn cancer, I knew on an intellectual level that I wanted her suffering to end. I was being selfish, not wanting to give up one moment of my life that had her in it. But of course, it wasn't up to me.
My mother, in her eighties, was also barely keeping it together. The emotional toll was enormous and she had physical limitations to deal with as well. Her grief was raw and somehow I needed to do my best to shepherd her through this. I wanted to spend the night at the hospice center with Kim, as I sensed (and the nurses affirmed) that the end was probably near. Earlier in the day, my mom had agreed that it was a good idea, but after nightfall, she winced with discomfort trying to find a modicum of comfort in the recliner at Kim's bedside. "I don't think I can do this, Linda," she whispered to me, "can we go home? Let's come back early tomorrow morning."
Of course, I assured her, though inside I was devastated. She needed me to be near her and I couldn't bring myself to refuse her knowing how fragile she was.
Outside in the parking lot as I helped my mom into the car, I looked up at Kim's window and saw the glow of the lamp that sat on the table near her bed. "This is it," I thought. "I don't think I'll ever see her alive again," and my heart broke into a million pieces. There was something so both poignant and stark seeing that light burning in her window as we prepared to drive away. "Today is the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination," I said dully as I pulled the car out of the parking space. "It's a terrible day."
A little after midnight that night the call came through from the hospice center. Kim was gone. Time, over the last five years, has gradually lessened the glass shards of grief that stabbed at my heart those first days and months. One thing I was never able to do since then, though, was to listen to Phil Collins sing that song. I deleted it from my playlist and quickly changed the station if it ever came on the radio. Even hearing a few bars of the song took me back to that sad, sad day and filled me with emotions that I thought I needed to keep locked away forever.
Today, though, as the song I dreaded echoed through my kitchen, I forced myself to listen more closely to the words. I realized in a sudden burst of clarity that Kim would always be in my heart, now and forever. Instead of feeling filled with pain like an overflowing cup, I felt as if she were in the room - her arms wrapped around me, reminding me that she's always there, always with me, in a million ways. I'm sure there will still be times in the future when the song starts playing unexpectedly that I'll have to pause and force myself not to turn it off out of habit. In the end, though, I will learn to embrace it as a blessing and reminder that while she isn't here in the physical sense, she is with me every moment and the bond we share as sisters can never be broken.
