Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(31)

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she says without batting an eye. “I don’t want to live like this. It takes every ounce of energy I have just to breathe enough air to survive.”

I move across the room and kneel beside her chair. I search for the right words but find none.

“My lungs have gotten progressively worse. Every test—”

Although I know this is a time when I should do nothing more than listen, I blurt out, “That’s because you’re smoking.”

“No, it isn’t,” she answers patiently. “It’s been this way for the past two years. Each scan shows more deterioration than the time before.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Yes, it does.” She nods. “I’m going to die soon, and there are things I need to say and do before it happens.”

I have no more words, so I sit and let tears fall while I listen.

Donna tells me she wants time to say goodbye to her family and let Mama know how much she’s appreciated. “Mama’s like a little kid who needs to be praised.”

Despite the weight of this conversation I snicker, because what she says is true. When we play cards or board games we all let Mama win. Not all the time but often enough that she feels happy with herself.

“I understand why you’d want the tracheostomy closed,” I say, “but why smoking and drinking?”

She laughs. It’s a hollow sound, but in a strange way it is Donna. “Because I enjoy it.”

I start to sob. “Maybe if—”

Donna wraps her bony arm around my shoulder. “Don’t cry. We’re running out of time, so let’s not spend it being sad.”

For a long while we sit without speaking. She is resigned to what lies ahead; I am still struggling with it.

Although the original plan was for me to return home the next morning, I stay with Donna and we cling to these moments that are still ours. We reminisce about the things we have done together and express sadness over things we will never get to do. I try not to cry, but at times it’s impossible.

“Promise me,” she says, “that you’ll watch over the kids.”

“Promise,” I answer. The word is like shredded glass coming from my throat, thick with the reality of what is to come. Although I have walked beside her through these years of struggle, it is still unbelievable that I will one day turn and Donna will no longer be there.

For the first time in all our years, we talk of life and death.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” Donna says, “but I’m afraid of leaving a hole where I once was.”

“A hole?”

She nods. “An empty spot in everybody’s life.” She wheezes for air then continues. “Debi and Charlie won’t have a mom to turn to. Mama won’t have somebody to watch after her. And you—” Donna’s voice cracks, and she goes back to breathing through the oxygen mask.



By the third day we are both weary of the sadness, so Donna suggests we get out of the house and have some fun. She spreads liquid makeup across her face and adds a pink glow to her cheeks. With a bulky winter coat covering her body, she looks less frail.

“Better,” I say and smile as though I mean it.

At the mall I rent a wheelchair, and we stroll the aisle browsing the window displays. Afterwards we go to lunch. At five-thirty we leave the mall and head for home.

It has been a long and tiring day, but Donna wants to say hello to her old friends.

“Let’s stop at the Crab House,” she says.

“Okay.” I smile.

As we climb the three steps, she leans on my arm. Inside the bar is still dimly lit and the music loud, but everything else has changed. A pool table now sits in the center of what used to be the dance floor, and a female bartender in a black silk vest and red bow tie has replaced Harry. Most of the stools are empty, and to those who are at the bar Donna is a stranger.

“What’s your pleasure?” the bartender asks.

Donna waves the girl off. “I was just looking for a friend,” she says. Then she turns back to the door, and we leave.

As we drive away, I can see how the disappointment stoops her shoulders.



On Friday I drive home with the hard truth of reality pressing against my chest. I want to be strong like Donna but I’m not, and so I cry all the way up the New Jersey turnpike.





A Sad Goodbye




For what will be the last time Mama and I take Donna to Johns Hopkins Hospital. We go directly to the emergency entrance, and she is admitted within the hour. We stay with her and follow along as they wheel her upstairs to a private room. Donna is pale, and her eyes have faded from hazel to the color of cold dishwater.

The nurses seem to know what is ahead, and long after the last visitor chime has sounded they pass us and say nothing about leaving. We have already called Geri and Donna’s children. Tomorrow they will all be here. It is after ten when we start to leave. I lean over the bed to kiss my sister goodnight and I whisper, “Hang on, Donna.”

She flickers her eyelids and gives a weak smile.



It is close to midnight when Geri arrives at Mama’s house. Debi and Charlie come in fifteen minutes later. This time there are no spouses; it is just the five of us. Floyd has already gone to bed, and the others will come tomorrow. We talk and stay together long into the night.