Two obituaries -- this one, this one -- that tell two very different stories. Interesting.

Also interesting that my family's last name is misspelled twice in the one submitted by my sister's in-laws.

My older sister wrote something really beautiful that we printed out for friends to take with them at the reception we organized at my parents' house. It’s here if you want to read it.

Thanks for your kind words, everyone.

My younger sister passed away early this morning. We are flying out to the West Coast tomorrow, super early, for her services and to help out my parents who are devastated.

I saw my younger sister on Thursday. It is one of the most difficult and brutal things I’ve ever done in my life.

When we got to her apartment, she was super drugged up, eyes partly closed, breathing ragged and labored. Her face was thin, her skin gray, and her hands curled up on her chest, like a cat’s paws. I was, I admit, a bit horrified to see her in that darkened, shabby bedroom, so utterly zombified and tiny under the comforter. My younger sister has always been bigger than me in size -- when we were children, I wore her hand-me-downs -- and it was so strange to find her so swallowed up by that big bed, like a small bird in an ocean of a nest.

Her husband wanted to talk about her, in the bedroom, while she was sleeping in her morphine haze, and I had no idea how to tell him to stop referring to her in the third person, to stop talking about the picayune details of her care, to stop acting as though she were not in the room with us. It upset me, and I wanted him to stop, but as he continued talking, I felt I had to give him space to express himself. It somehow felt cruel, in the moment, to ask him to refrain from sharing everything.

I sat next to her, afraid to touch her, but eventually the need to make physical contact just overtook me and I stroked her hair and rested my hand on her bony shoulder. I tried matching my inhalations and exhalations to hers, to see, quite illogically, if my heartbeat could bring hers back. I’d brought a book of Jacques Prévert poetry with me, and read her some poems. I wanted his language and images to bring her comfort and remind her of life’s beauty and marvels. Maybe I read the poems for me. I don't know.

A few hours in, she woke from her sleep and I was able to spend an hour with her before she got confused and tired. I walked into the bedroom just as her husband was telling her that TA and I were there, and she turned her head and smiled at me. As I walked around to her, she reached out to hold my hand, keeping her eyes fixed on mine, and the recognition and connection was the most amazing and the most cruel I’ve ever experienced. When she whispered “hug,” I practically collapsed from sadness. I don't know how many kisses I gave her, or how many times I told her I loved her. It was as much as I had time for, and it was probably not enough.

École des Beaux-Arts

Dans une boîte de paille tressée
Le père choisit une petite boule de papier
Et il la jette
Dans la cuvette
Devant ses enfants intrigués
Surgit alors
Multicolore
La grande fleur japonaise
Le nénuphar instantané
Et les enfants se taisent
Émerveillés
Jamais plus tard dans leur souvenir
Cette fleur ne pourra se faner
Cette fleur subite
Faite pour eux
À la minute
Devant eux.

—Jacques Prévert

Monday's travel plans were so botched, we're trying again, this time with a different airline (the one we usually use, actually), and direct flights. Fingers crossed it works this time, and we can see my younger sister who is heavily sedated to prevent more seizures :(

Of course, there's always the possibility that my sister won't be around on Thursday (her husband apparently called in a priest on Monday night to issue last rites) and the travel will have to change again. But I'm just dealing with what's in front of my nose. That's all I can do, anyway.

I've emailed clients to let them know I'm not really available, which made me kind of sad. One, I hate not following through (regardless of circumstances), and two, I was really excited about two of the four projects. Oh well. In the end, it won't matter whether I designed a new cover or a new logo. 2013 will be the year my younger sister died.

I haven't really cried this time around. Is that weird? Most of me just wants my sister (her husband, her daughter, my parents) released from this endless suffering. I'm told she's not in pain -- with that much morphine, who would be? -- but I really can't bear the thought of my younger sister witnessing her own deterioration. I'm sure the tears will come, but right now I am sitting with this: the massive seizure that brought about this sudden drop in my sister’s function? A cigarette that she insisted her husband give her. A decision she made, fully aware of the consequences. Her choice.

Her choice.

Thanks to US Airways, I woke up at 4am today to make it as far as Philly; I then had to take 2 trains back to NYC because US Airways is the most incompetent airline on the face of the earth.

Ok, we are going to SF tomorrow. Land at 11:01am, leave at 10:20pm.

I may be heading out West sooner than Wednesday. My younger sister's had a series of massive seizures, and her cancer doctors are talking about inducing a coma.

My idiot brother-in-law wants to know if we can come sooner.

Shit.