The gift of choice
I knew when the face of my oldest sister appeared on my phone that death was coming, that it was looking at me through her beautiful brown eyes, that a choice point was being reached. She had been battling cancer for years, but within a short amount of time it had flared up and claimed her body. And her mind. I hadn’t fully realised how far down the track she already was until that phone call. Her face. The sombre look. The matter of factness about how parts of her body were shutting down. I will never forget it, those moments forever seared into my heart.
We all die. We all begin to walk towards death the day we’re born and yet, it doesn’t hit us, really hit us, until someone around us is only hours, days, or months away from it. Or has already gone, expected or unexpected. No matter how and when, it is always hard. And rips the heart apart.
My sister’s journey was awful. For her. For us. That video call wasn’t the last. When I spoke to her again, I saw a glimmer of hope, a spark, that maybe all wasn’t lost and that life still had a miracle in store for her. We tapped together. On her fears. Her hopes. The wish to live, buried deep, deep down inside. As the tears rolled down our cheeks we clung to that wish, trying to unearth it with all our might. And for one moment it did, sparkling like the morning sun touching the ocean. And then it fizzled and died. The choice point had been reached. This life was ending. Fast.
Being oceans apart – she in Austria, I in New Zealand, my chosen home - the video calls were becoming less. She was too tired to hold the phone, her fingers too slow, her brain too muddled. With all the family living far away, getting hold of her was challenging. But I did through my older two sisters. They each held the phone for one last conversation, one last look. I wasn’t there to say goodbye in person, but I was there on the phone and through my thoughts and heart, and the energies of Reiki, guiding her home. One week my brother said goodbye, the next my two sisters. I knew then that the cycle was almost complete, that I was the missing piece. But I couldn’t get through to her, the phone ringing in vain. Anger and desperation drowned me. Grief pulled me under. I hadn’t cried with her, hadn’t said my final goodbye. In the end it was she who called me, out of the blue, on a Wednesday evening, at a work function in the middle of nowhere. While a storm was brewing, ready to break loose, I became still.
My heart keeps breaking every time I revisit that call. The pain, the sorrow, the clinging on to life, when there was nothing left but a thread. When I put down the phone that evening, I knew the circle was complete. And it was. Less than four days later my sister slipped away, quietly. Before the night had finished her embrace.
Days pass. The grief comes in waves. The sadness stays. And yet, I’m realising there is a gift in all of this. The gift of choice. Of how I respond, of how I deal with what life gives me. I choose how much I scream and vent, how much I blame, how much I cry, how much I share. I create choice points every single day, every single moment. Do I take time to breathe consciously? Do I shut my feelings out? Do I give in and find I’m so much stronger than I think? Do I believe that somewhere out there my sister watches over me, that she is at peace and wishes nothing but the best for me – for me to move on and make the most of my life, to cherish the small things, the glimmers all around me, just as much as the big things. Because they all create this beautiful tapestry we call life. If we so choose. The gift of choice. Indeed.
