This week will be a tough one for me. It's the same ever year around this time and mid May.
My mother and father had three boys and I am their middle child. When I was barely eighteen months old they divorced. Five years later my mother remarried and had a fourth child, a little girl.
We never thought of her as a half sister, us three boys always treated her as our little sister, doing what all big brothers should do. We looked out for her and protected her. Even when one or all brothers fell out, our sister was there for all of us. Although six years younger than me, she had a level head and was often far more mature than us lads.
When she reached her teens, us brothers vetted any prospective boyfriends. By this time my mother's second marriage had ended so we took her father's role upon ourselves. Having been raised a Catholic - her father was Italian - the boyfriends were few and far between. She did however find the love of her life and she married in her early twenties.
During her early marriage she gave birth to two beautiful girls and hers was a happy, hard working family. She and her husband ran several businesses, so worked hard to enjoy their holidays abroad.
In early 2005, they took a two week break in Portugal. At the time I was living and working with my older brother in the construction industry. Half way through the holiday we received a phone call to say our sister was in hospital, ill. My brother flew out almost immediately with our mother. He left me to keep tabs on the business.
Our sister was suffering from crippling headaches, and although she stayed in hospital for three weeks in Portugal, the general feeling was that it wasn't too serious and they gave the go ahead to fly her back to England, where she was admitted into our local hospital.
I visited her and she seemed her normal self. Her husband however was worried, naturally. He said the headaches were getting worse and all they were doing was prescribing pain medication, instead of searching and treating the cause. As a family we spoke with the doctors in charge and they assured us it was nothing serious.
Three days since returning to the UK, she was transferred to a high dependency unit at another hospital. Her condition had worsened and they put her into an induced coma. Our mother stayed with her twenty four hours a day, us brothers taking it in turns to visit - there was a policy of only 2 visitors per bed, strictly kept because of possible infection issues with such vulnerable patients.
On the 14th of May, 2005, my world came crashing down. I received a call from my mother to get to the hospital fast. I barely remember the half hour ride on my motorcycle, weaving in and out of rush hour traffic. She met me outside the hospital while making phone calls to other family members.
Tests had been made, scans taken. My sister's brain was damaged beyond repair. Even if she did come out of the coma, my adorable, ever-loving sister was gone. The decision had been made to take her off life support. I went into her room, watched the machines pumping life through her body. She convulsed at every machine-forced exhale. I held her hand, whispered a pathetic too-late goodbye. I composed myself and wiped away the tears before leaving, casting a final glance at my little sis. Gotta be strong for mum.
I returned to the waiting room. Waited for the inevitable. My mother and brother in-law left to say their goodbyes before giving their final consent for it to end. We knew it ended when my mom's wail filled the corridor. We all broke down then.
The days leading up to the funeral elude me. I walked through life like a lost soul. The dreaded day came and us brothers, with our brother in-law carried the coffin into a packed church. The same church she had married in just eight years earlier. The service was beautiful, the choices of music poignant. The hardest part for me was helping to lower her into the ground. Twelve years later, I still cannot bring myself to visit her grave.
Last month, my visit to Steemfest was also a pilgrimage of sorts - Portugal being where my sister fell ill. It sounds silly in hindsight, but I bought a bunch of flowers before finding a cemetery. I walked among the tombs, scanning each name and set of dates. I stumbled upon the grave of a girl called Elena. My sister's maiden name was Elena. They were born roughly the same time. I laid the flowers in front of the tomb and let my tears flow.
This week we celebrate my sister's birthday, like we do every year. It doesn't get any easier.