Missing you hurts. At sunrise. At lunch. While sweeping the floor or scrolling through photos or planning dinner or watching the birds at the feeder.
The void is glaring. The pain, immense. Sometimes it seems I can put an entire fist through the hole in my heart.
So much has happened since that bitter cold afternoon last winter when you left us, years before your time.
The election, the Olympics, the Middle East, the Kansas City Chiefs, the solar eclipse, hurricanes, fires across Los Angeles, AI, Jimmy Carter’s passing, Taylor Swift, the Bears beating the Packers.
Life may go on. But since you died, nothing goes on as before.
There have been so many times I longed for our “news of the day” discussions. So many times, I needed to hear your voice, laugh with your laugh, tap your wisdom. So many times, I needed that special kind of compassion that close siblings share. You were my big sister, the person I knew the longest, my first confidante, my first friend.
And you were always my first call. Since you left, there have been so many reasons to call, beginning with the day you died last January.
I needed to tell someone that you were gone. I needed someone to hold my heart while it shattered. But that someone was you. Only you could truly appreciate how much I would miss you.
In February, a snowy morning transported me back to the winter of 1965, when we lived on the South Side of Chicago. You and I had ventured down the slippery steps of our two-flat, mittens on, cloth diapers tied around our faces, en route to the Catholic school a few blocks away. I was in kindergarten and you, a second-grader, were in charge of getting us both to our destination. But the snow was relentless and soon the skirts of our uniforms were frozen crisp. You made a decision reserved for grownups when you said, “We’re going home. I’ll tell Mom we’re staying home.” And we spent that morning enjoying our first, yet unofficial, snow day.
In April, at your memorial service, I read the poem you gave me days before you died. You hated to ask me to read it because you know how much I dislike public speaking. In high school, you once shared a tip: “Just find one listener in the audience who is nice and pretend you’re giving the speech to her.” But the listener I most needed to be there that day wasn’t.
In June, I resumed River Running with some friends. As we walked against the current at the community pool, I told them about the day you saved my life. We were at Rainbow Beach and had wandered out too far. I began to struggle and, somehow, you realized it. You dogpaddled over to me and helped me get my footing. To this day, some 60 years later, I can still taste the water, I can still smell the alewives, I can still feel the terror. And I am still in awe of your courage.
In July, I spent your birthday in bed with COVID. As my fever raged, I tried to imagine how much worse is cancer’s cruelty. For two years you suffered through surgeries and treatments, always assuring the rest of us that everything would be OK. But it isn’t.
A few weeks later, I finally went to Alaska. Remember how many times you and I tried to coordinate that trip? Something always came up — it was too costly, weddings, births, COVID, cancer. If I’ve learned anything from your passing, it’s to seize the moment, eat the dessert, go on the big adventure because in the time you spend waiting, people die. I carried some of your ashes with me and sprinkled them along the way. I hope you can enjoy the beauty for eternity.
In August, I had that disco party. We’d talked about it for years but, again, something always derailed my plans. Our brother deejayed and played many of the songs we used to dance to at Erik the Red’s. It ended about 10 p.m., the time, many decades ago, we used to begin our Saturday nights. Remember how we could close a place and then go in search of breakfast at some all-night diner? We were young and time was on our side.
October brought the anniversary of the day you got the bad news. I just happened to be visiting you in the hospital when the surgeon came in and explained that you had, possibly, months to live. Now, gorgeous autumn colors — red leaves against a bright blue sky — are forever muted by heartache.
November’s presidential election brought confirmation that America is becoming angrier and meaner by the day. How can we instill kindness in our circles when so many of our leaders promote hate? I remember what you said when I was struggling with similar dread in middle school: “Step away from it. Find something you like to do and give it your all.” Solid advice that stands the test of time.
In December, the grandkids’ candy cane hunt took me right back to Christmas 1966 when you used your allowance to buy me a peppermint stick as big as my arm. It took months to finish and I’m pretty sure I’ve never eaten one again. But every time I see the red-and-white striped sweet, I think of you and smile.
You tried hard to make every day count, to make the people you loved feel special, to make the most of this short journey called life.
It is because of your thoughtfulness and compassion that we now struggle to carry on without you. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.
It is better to hurt like hell because someone is gone than to never have known the joy that came from loving them.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
