Sue died on Monday

Sue is, or rather was, my baby sister and only sibling. Statistically expected to survive me by a good dozen years, the fates decreed that she got her turn first.

Ever since she was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer in May last year the outcome has been inevitable, but what a fight she put up. I know now what a battle with cancer looks like. More like a full scale war really with major battles on the way, some of which she won. Medical science (chemo and radiation), an iron will (“I’m living with cancer, not dying from it”) and a constitution any ox would be proud of contributed to her post-diagnosis stay in this world being about double what we had a right to expect.

During what turned out to be our last conversation, Sue asked me if I’d deliver the eulogy at her funeral (a one-time banker, she didn’t like leaving things to chance). When that’s done, I’ll post it or a précis at least, this is much more about my personal reaction.

Even though some pre-grieving had been done, nothing prepares you for the moment. The ‘phone rang just after eight in the morning. No-one in Beirut calls that early, especially on the house ‘phone. The hairs on the back of my neck began to stand out before I picked up the receiver; Sue’s husband’s tone told the story before the words tumbled madly out, no more than confirming what was already known.

I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about dealing with grief. Part of mine is to communicate, so I phoned steadily for about three hours. Then I began to organise myself to go across to England and I realised that something odd had happened to my memory. I would start purposefully across a room, only to realise half-way across that I’d completely forgotten what I’d set off to do. Of course my memory was fully occupied with playing memories of Sue, not worrying about keys, clothes or even credit cards.

I got here yesterday morning. My brother-in-law rang. My mobile announced “Sue calling”. He wanted to explain the funeral arrangements, which were stated and absorbed in a matter-of-fact way but I can’t bring myself to delete her name from my mobile yet, that’s far too final. The same thing with Skype.

During the last few difficult weeks, we’ve spoken most days. Fairly early on we came to an agreement. She didn’t want my last memories of her to be as she was at the end; “it’s grim” she said. And, as someone (she not I) with a strong belief in the next world, she didn’t want her last earthly memories of me to be of me looking at her physically diminished self. I had much the same opinion. Fortunately we’d spent a late summer weekend revisiting places of long ago family holidays with our parents in the South of England. That was an implicit goodbye.

What is truly important is to remember that she has been part of my life for over sixty years and a good part at that. Not only are there those shared childhood memories that only siblings can have but all the family events, the triumphs and disasters, the happy and sad, the commonplace and unusual as well as the births, marriages and deaths.

I know we should all “celebrate the life” “head for the future born on the strong wings of the past” and other fancy sound-bites, but I can’t help feeling that the world is now a lonelier, emptier place.