After My Sister’s Unexpected Death, I Healed Myself Through Writing

Years ago, my sister Debra taught me a game she called “Let’s Complain.” Taking turns, each person expresses their current complaints with as much detail as needed. The listener only listens; no response is allowed. In fact, the listener is not permitted to speak at all. Furthermore — and most importantly — the topics are never to be revisited. Ever. Not in future conversations, not anywhere, not to anyone.

Our last round of “Let’s Complain” started in the usual way.

“I’m not speaking to my husband.” Her voice was grim as gravel. She was preparing dinner for her neighbors when her husband decided to take to his bed. There were five people sharing the ramshackle house next door; one was an arms dealer covered in tattoos. She didn’t see superficial things. She was hoping they’d all become friends.

Hosting parties was her favorite thing to do. She loved to cook and set the table. She’d invite veritable strangers, people she’d met at the farmers’ market and in the mall. She had no preconceived judgments about people. I suppose that’s how she wanted people to behave toward her. As an overweight child and a chubby adult, she sustained more than her share of harsh judgments.

“He says he’s too tired to entertain, even though he hasn’t done anything all day, and he doesn’t do anything when people come over,” she said of her husband. “At the last dinner party, he went to bed before the dessert was out!”

She’d married late, at age 47, to a man who was addicted to pain medication. “Can you believe I found my soulmate at this age?” She was positively gleeful. “Every morning, he says, ‘Hello, wife,’ and I say, ‘Hello, husband.’ How great is that?!” Her voice danced across the miles between us. “You should write our story!” she said.

I didn’t know then that writing her story would save me.

They’d met online. Neither had ever been married nor had they ever had a healthy relationship. She was going to help him conquer his addiction. That was the plan, anyway.

I listened to her complain while stretched out on the couch. Her voice washed over me like Mozart's music. His infraction was detailed in piercing staccatos, little spikes of fury that made me laugh, which made her laugh. Most of our games ended in laughter. When she hung up, I enjoyed a last moment of bliss. My head, my stomach, and even my feet were happy. We’d have plenty of time to play, I thought. But I was wrong.

Ten years later, at the age of 57, she was gone. Was it a heart attack? We will never know. Heart disease is the leading cause of death for women in the United States, and it becomes more prevalent after menopause. Our father had heart disease, as did our grandfather. It’s a safe assumption.

I spent that year in the murky fog of grief. I spoke infrequently; I moved as if tethered. I heard sounds as if through water. The only solace I found was in the last voicemail she left me.

“Should I buy the Crenshaw or the cantaloupe?” she’d shouted over the din of the grocery store. “I’m making that recipe that you told me about, the one with the melon and toasted walnuts. I have thirteen people coming for dinner later. Hurry up and call me back.”

I remember chuckling at the request. I had no idea what recipe she was talking about, but I knew that our next conversation was going to be lively and fun. I never got the chance to tell her: Crenshaw.

“How does it feel to lose a sister?” an old friend asked during the holidays that winter.