Dana's Valley (32 page)

How could this happen? To us? What had we done? Why? Why? We had prayed. We had fought. We had even sacrificed—so much—and Dana was still going to die. Die! My sister. My sister.

I felt myself going down and didn't even try to stop it. My body slumped forward. It was much later, after all my tears of anger and pain were spent, that I found myself squeezed into the small space between the tub and the toilet, my face buried in the soft plush of the pink seat cover.

Why haven't I known all along?
I chided myself when rational thoughts returned.
Everyone else did. Why have I refused to believe it? Dana. My sister, Dana, is going to die.

I suppose it was partly because this all had gone on for such a long, long time. We had learned to take one day at a time. Just living and making it through seemed to take all our energy and attention. It had begun to seem that this was life. This day-to-day caring for an ill family member. Now I was forced to realize that there would be an end. An end I didn't want, but couldn't prevent.

A fresh burst of tears bent my head again. I hardly noticed the dampness of the pink plush from my former tears. The pain was almost too intense to bear.

But for some reason I didn't lash out at God again. Maybe I had at last lost all hope that He really did exist.

I had never felt so all alone in my entire life.

A siren woke me in the middle of the night. It had become a familiar-enough sound that at first I just rolled over to go back to sleep. Then full consciousness jerked me upright. The siren was pulling into our driveway again. That meant Dana was in trouble.

I heard hurried movements and hushed, worried voices. I didn't hesitate longer but fumbled in the dark for my robe. I had retired on the family room couch so Mom could have my bed. Even before I had thrown the robe about my shoulders, I was through the arched doorway.

I was just in time to see Dad's back as he ran toward the front door. “What is it?” I called out after him, my voice husky with fear.

He half turned, but only for a minute, and called back over his shoulder, “Dana's stopped breathing.”

A chill passed through my body. I didn't know whether to follow Dad, hurry to where Dana was, or run back to the couch. Then I heard myself saying, “Oh, God. Please … help us.”

The words came very naturally from the anguish of my heart. They should have surprised me after what I had been feeling … and saying. But they didn't. And in that brief moment, I knew I meant the words. That I believed God
could
help us. And perhaps, even more importantly, I believed that He
would.
He'd been my mother's strength through all this pain. He could do something for me. For all of us.

Already two paramedics, equipment in hand, were dashing up our front walk. They knew the way to the room where Dana lay. They'd been there before.

I wanted to follow. And I wanted to flee. I did neither. I just stood rooted to the spot and continued to pray. Tears ran down my cheeks, and they were not all for Dana. My sorrow and my joy were all so intermingled. Even as my spirit felt the stirrings of renewed life, Dana might be fighting for her last breath. I knew that. But for the first time since her illness I was actually ready to let her go. “Lord … your will,” I managed to pray. At the same time, I hoped with all of my heart that God would still give us some time together. “I know you can heal her,” I whispered. “But if you don't, I know you love her a lot more even than we do. …”

By the time the stretcher was pushed rapidly out the doorway toward the waiting ambulance, Dana was breathing again. Raspy, catchy little breaths—but she was breathing. I stood and cried some more as I watched her go. Then I followed outside into the chill of the night, my robe inadequate against the sharp wind. Just before they pushed the stretcher inside, I managed to slip up beside Dana. I didn't know if she could hear me, but I took her cold hand. “Dana,” I said. “Dana … come back. Come home again … okay? And I'm praying for you. …”

And then I was being nudged aside by paramedics in a hurry to get her to emergency.

Mom and Dad were already climbing into the car to follow. I watched until the blinking red light turned the corner at the end of the block, and then I returned to the house. But I didn't go right to sleep. I couldn't. I had a lot more praying to do. I fell on my knees by Dana's now-empty bed and confessed to God all the anger and bitterness. I asked Him to forgive me and to cleanse my heart of all its selfishness and sin. By the time I was ready to try to reclaim sleep, I was feeling clean and free from the bondages of bitterness and anger. I was at peace.

Dana did come home again. After three days in the hospital, she begged to be allowed to return to her own room. I was waiting for her. Mom and I tucked her in and made her as comfortable as we could. She managed a weak smile. “It's good to be home,” she said. She looked at me. “I heard what you said before they put me in the ambulance,” she said. “Thank you, Erin. I'm so glad.”

I could only squeeze her hand in response.

“Would you like me to read to you?” I eventually offered. Dana had been asking for her Bible to be read to her because she no longer had the strength to hold it and turn the pages.

“Later. Right now I just want to rest.”

I saw Mom bite her lip as she started to leave the room. Dana called to her, and Mom turned back, coming over to sit on Dana's bed.

“Momma. One of these times the paramedics aren't going to be able to help me.” It was a forthright statement made with no emotion. Mom just nodded.

“Please, Momma … let me go. I'm ready to go Home. I'm really … really tired of all this fighting for life … all the pain. Please … next time, don't call them.”

I couldn't tell if the intensity in Dana's eyes was stronger than the sorrow in Mom's. I saw her lip tremble. She reached out and took Dana's hand. “Oh, honey,” she said, and she was crying now. “You don't know what you're asking of me.”

But Dana was persistent. “Momma … you know it's going to happen. There's nothing you can do to stop it. The oxygen … the medicines … they just prolong the pain. I … I'd much rather just go to see Jesus.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper. Yet we both heard her clearly. For a long moment Mom could not respond. She just sat there holding Dana's limp little hand in her own, rubbing it gently with the tips of her fingers. At last she spoke. “I'll try.”

I could see how much the two words cost her. I put my arm around her shoulders and cried along with her. Then Dana looked up at us with the most beautiful smile. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I'd like to be Home for Christmas. That will be your gift to me.”

Mom and Dad talked about it. They concluded that if Dana was to be allowed to die at home, they wanted a medical person on hand to make sure she didn't suffer needlessly. It was going to be another expense, but now we were not thinking of money. A little lady by the name of Miss Williams was found. She was used to in-home care and had sat at the bedside of many terminally ill patients. I liked her immediately. She was so kind and gentle with Dana, seeming to understand exactly what to do to ease her pain.

We were not required to employ her for long. Dana slipped away peacefully just as a full moon was casting its last shadows over the little evergreen Corey had planted outside Dana's window. Miss Williams, who had been sitting by her side, had barely enough time to summon the family. I was always thankful that Brett had decided to stay with us that night. He was there too, his muscled arm tight about Corey's shoulders. And there would not have been time for the ambulance to arrive before Miss Williams whispered, “She's gone.”

I looked at her … my sister. It seemed that she had been dying forever. At times it had even felt like a bad dream that would just go on and on … and now it had actually happened. So quietly. So gently. She was gone. She had made it to heaven … Home, in time for Christmas … and with days to spare.

I heard muffled sobs around me, but my eyes were so blurred with tears I couldn't see clearly. I pressed up against Dana's bed and took her hand. It was still soft and warm to my touch. “I'll miss you so,” I was able to whisper, and I knew it was true. In my heart I knew that in years to come when I thought of Dana, it would not be of the wasted, pain-wracked Dana. No, it would be the vivacious, caring sister with whom I had shared a room. A room where we often snuggled together, telling secrets and stifling giggles under a faded Barbie quilt.

The days before the funeral are only a collection of fragmented memories. I was there … yet I wasn't. I was still functioning, but my brain didn't seem to be connecting with what was taking place around me. It was an eerie feeling. Or it would have been, had I not had this new understanding of a Presence with me. This wonderful sense of deep peace underlying the sense of loss.

I was in the kitchen making sandwiches for a simple noon meal on the day before the service was to take place at our church. Brett came in and flipped a kitchen chair around to straddle it. “Hi,” I said, continuing to spread butter on thick slices of wheat bread.

He just nodded.

I didn't say any more, and he just sat and watched me. Finally he shifted slightly, and the look in his eyes intensified. “How you doin'?”

I knew by the tone of his voice and the look on his face that it was much more than social chitchat. I took a deep breath at the same time I felt the tears pushing behind my eyes. I did manage to say, “Okay.”

He nodded. “Good.”

We were silent for several minutes again. I guess we were both too emotional to speak. “And you?” I asked at last.

He nodded. But it wasn't an indication that he was also okay. It was just an acknowledgment that he'd heard my question. “I've been better.”

My hands slowed in their activity. I stole a peek at Brett. He looked as if he'd “been better.”

“Anything I can do?”

He shook his head. “I don't suppose. Guess I'm the only one who can do it. But I think it's too late.”

His tone was so full of anguish that I stopped spreading the butter altogether. “What … what do you mean?”

“She's gone now,” he said, his lip trembling. “I wasn't much of a big brother. I wasn't there for her like I shoulda been.”

“You were,” I quickly defended him. “You came—”

“That's just it.
I came
—now an' then. I came. I should have been here, Erin.”

“
I was here
—at least most of the time—and I couldn't do anything for her.”

“You did. Maybe more than you'll ever know. She told me so herself. She said she didn't know what she'd ever have done without you over the last tough years. She said you were the only part of a sane world she could still hold on to. She said that, through you, she at least got to live some of the experiences of being a teenager. All the things she missed.”