My older sister died recently from complications from dementia, which developed as a result of a severe concussion from a bike accident 25 years ago. I expect if she could talk to me now, she’d say that she’s grateful to have died when she did since her health over the past eight years had slowly deteriorated to a state that would have greatly distressed her at another time in her life. Unlike so many other people who go years with Alzheimer-like symptoms, she fell ill suddenly and died in six days’ time. It was as if she decided to tiptoe out of life as quickly and quietly as possible.

My sister was eleven years older than I am and she carried me around on her hip from my baby days until I was too old to carry anymore. I was only seven when she left to go to college in far away Colorado; I was nine when I was the flower girl at her wedding, and I remember sobbing when she left with her new husband on her honeymoon. I didn’t want her to leave me again. One of the best trips of my life happened at fifteen when I went with Leslie, her husband, and her two small children on a grand tour of the national parks of the West. I still vividly remember the clear waters of Jenny Lake and the bubbling mud at Yellowstone. Leslie and I remained close until her dementia made sharing too difficult, but even though she struggled with short-term memory, she never forgot who I was. She would look at me and say, “Oh, you’re so pretty,” or “I love the joy in your face.” I was her baby sister until the end.

I was able to spend five days with my sister as she was dying, and am thankful for my time with her. I am deeply aware that I have never spent a day of my life without her constant love. Not everyone is lucky enough to experience such intimacy. My sister’s love remains steadfast. I am grateful, indeed.