From the moment I got the call on August 11th... that moment when we were planning her trip to the Netherlands and looking for flights when it got so abruptly interrupted by shitty news. News that she likely had lymphoma. News that she had cancer. News that she would enter a medical rollercoaster. News that life would never ever be the same.
From the moment I got the call on August 11th, and called my parents to tell them the news. That their daughter was sick, real sick. That my sister had a disease that started with the c and ended in an r. That our little sister was about to fight a monster, a evil dark and stupid thing.
Just weeks later I sat in a plane and was on my way to see my sister. That was September. She'd already heard she had NUT Midline Carcinoma. Had already heard that it was serious. Had already heard that she had a lung tumour. And then a tumour in her abdomen, 13 cm... She'd already been hospitalized. Because it was so serious, because she was so ill.
Two weeks we sat beside her hospital bed in Calgary. Two weeks of caring for her and just being in her presence. Two weeks of fighting with her, and then she went home. Home because the hospital couldn't do anything for her. Home because that's where she wanted to be. Home because there she could get palliative care and rest. Home because that's where a person ought to be.
I spent almost three weeks in the Netherlands after she got home. Three long weeks of calling back to Canada. Three long weeks of lying awake at night and being shocked by every phone that rings. Three long weeks of sharing with the world how she was doing. Three long weeks of living in uncertainty, because we knew she was dying.
And then Fall break came. I booked a flight just days before, because I wasn't expecting she would actually be living that long. But Fall break came and I got to visit her in Canada again. I slept in her room almost every night. I rubbed her legs and massaged her feet, poured oils over her and combed her hair. I ran for vomit buckets and wiped it from her mouth. I filled her water cups and held her hand. I got up in the middle of the night to help her go pee and got icepacks at 3 am when she bumped her toe and it bruised all the way up her shin in an instant. We got tattoos and facials and cannolis from Sweet Capones and wraps at Tims. We drank tea with friends and cried endless tears. We read cards and books and laughed at stupid memes. We talked boys and dreams and plans and knew the whole time that this was the last time we would be together.
We lived it up, those 10 days even though she was hardly living. We did all kinds of things even though she was hardly able to do them. She was so strong, so courageous... She said: my sister is only here once and I am not gonna be here the next time!
I remember leaving the house at four in the morning that last Sunday. I remember telling her to be steadfast and strong in the Lord. And I wept the whole way to the airport. I wrote a blog post for her blog Detour to the Unknown with tears streaming down my cheeks. It helped to write and translate. Helped me process what was going on, helped me figure out how to tell others or something. It helped me help her maybe? I don't even know why it helped to write but it did.
I left Canada at the end of October knowing I'd never see my sister alive again. Knowing I couldn't go again and leave her again almost broken down completely. Knowing that if she lived much longer her suffering would also be much more terrible. Knowing that if she lived much longer her life would be so much more difficult. Knowing that I couldn't let that happen, didn't want it to happen, couldn't bear the thought of it or the weight and guilt of living life while she lay there dying.
The two weeks that I was in the Netherlands took forever and flew by. I struggled through a long and prolonged jetlag knowing it was because of the fear of losing her. I struggled through stupid lessons at school and had to give my five year plan and honestly couldn't care less. I struggled when my student was upset and told me he didn't do his homework and I told him I don't care... I struggled when people asked me how Lianne was doing because they never once asked me how I was doing... So many never asked how we were coping, how we were bearing that cross.
And then she died. Her pain gone. The cancer no longer having a grip on her. Her at peace. Her in those golden gates and we with 'the golden picture' and all our memories of her. Her with Jesus and we down her with a big huge ravine in front of us.
November 13th.
She was 25.
Far too young. Far to precious. Far too loved. And yet she's gone. No longer here. No longer with us. And thats such a stupid, terrible, rude, awful, and sickening reality. I messaged a friend today how this weekend I have almost called her a couple of times, but she will never answer again...
In three months she was gone.
And our lives go on.
How? I've no clue. I cling to the gift of grace and know that even through the storm He is with us. Though I walk through death's dark vale, I don't fear because His rod and staff comfort me. And what if blessings come through raindrops and healing comes through tears? What if this it what it takes to bring me nearer, still nearer, close to Thy heart - draw me, my Saviour so precious Thou art...
I don't know or have the ability to comprehend right now.
But the LORD is by my side, and His strength is perfected in my weakness.
To God be the glory.
