The walk to York Avenue from the subway is a long one, so it gives me lots of thinking time. Often during this walk in particular, a young girl comes to mind. She dances and sings in front of a video camera. The strands of her hair twirl and weave gracefully through the wind, her eyes coyly smile along with her lips, dancing charismatically.
I've watched this in my mind so many times. The video is grainy, and the audio mediocre at best. Sometimes, the sound falls out of sync and her lips mouth to nonexistent music. The tousled windblown hair is stimulated with a rusty old house fan. The video is shot on a Sony Handycam from the 90’s, and the girl in the video is my five-year-old sister, Amy.
Fast forward three springs later. Amy is eight. The hair that once moved so gloriously in the wind is gone. She is bedridden, the music replaced by monotonous beeps emitted by IV monitors demanding attention. The setting is Minneapolis, Minnesota, the only place that they would administer the experimental chemotherapy treatment after all other options at Memorial Sloan Kettering had been exhausted. But this time it's different. This is not a video. This is my life, and everything is a just a little too real.
The next memories that flooded into my mind were the darkest ones I've ever known. They were memories that pierced through the mind like a deep, visceral pain. I remembered the night Mom, Dad and I left the hospital close to midnight, numb, quiet, carrying suitcases full of clothing, toys and books that had once been Amy's. Amy did not leave with us tonight. She had fought valiantly for almost four years, but she had lost and she was gone. So we drove home together in silence with tears streaming down each of our faces in warm rivulets, illuminated by the linear street lamps on the highway. Yes, I remember the night of July 22nd; I remember the funeral, the elaborate casket, adorned with richly ornate and oddly resplendent flowers. Amy loved life to its fullest and bright colors, so when the florist told us to opt for white roses symbolizing childhood innocence, we chose not to. It was a beautiful July day when a row of cars somberly followed the hearse through the gates of Flushing Cemetery.
Now I am taken back to the present. I put on an ID badge as I near my destination on York Avenue. It indicates my position as a child-life volunteer at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.
The journey I made with my sister during her life defines my life today. How could it not? There Amy was in her hospital room, propped up against pillows with a ridiculously heavy bucket full of candies she had just obtained from the Friday night hospital candy cart. She'd grinned deviously at me whispering, "Aren't we lucky?" I smiled weakly, trying to hide my disagreement. Of course, we weren't lucky. We were different. Where other siblings had discord, we had love. What other people took for granted, we treasured. We had learned to value time like we never had before, living, celebrating the simple fact of being alive—together.
There Amy was again, a few days after her bone marrow transplant assuring me that she was not in pain when she saw my face contort in concern. Throughout her treatment, Amy only exuded strength, never self-pity. The spirit that Amy embodied during her life was alive in me, and now I would share it with many others. Her willpower remains beautifully contagious. And finally, there she was again nearing the end of her battle, with a breathing mask that could only be removed for brief moments. It took a few moments before I could make out what she was saying between her quick shallow breaths. "I love my sister."
The familiar elevator ride to the ninth floor sets my mind racing again with memories. There she was again in that silly homemade music video. The video is grainy, and the audio mediocre at best, but it is a beautiful moment.