Chapter 2: My Sister, She Left Me.

I’d only been away from home 3 days shy of a month when my dear sister passed away.

My mother and a few other family members drove up to tell me the news. It was by far the worst and yet most love-filled moment of my life.

So, yeah, I was devastated, hurt, angry, confused. All the emotions that come with loss and grief.

Days after her death, I was commemorating a birthday. I tried to organize a “happy” occasion where we could all celebrate my sister as well as my 28 years. Sadly, no amount of chicken wings (I’m now only an occasional vegetarian, by the way), beer or birthday cake could make it better. Saddest birthday ever, for sure.

I spent a week at home with my family to reflect on my sister’s life (I don’t like to say “mourn the loss” -- it’s just so...depressing) before returning to school. After discussing things with my mother, it was determined that, though very soon, going back to my new place in DC may actually help with the healing process. I was restless that first night back; my friends let me stay at their place for a night so I wouldn't feel alone. For a while I was able to distract myself with work and class (minus the frequent crying spells in bed, on the metro, in the bathroom at work/school), but soon life got really difficult and depression was painfully evident.

I was sad and irritable ALL. THE. TIME. I was mad at people for not understanding; for asking stupid questions like “how are you?” or “what’s wrong?”; for talking fondly about their siblings in front of me (a childish reaction, I know. I’m over that now). Whenever I could find the motivation to attend class or show up for work, it was rare that I could actually focus or care about tasks assigned to me. I dropped one of my courses and performed poorly on a mid-term exam. Sleep never came and I was having some wicked headaches.

Worst of all, I was a panicky, anxious mess. Sometimes it got so bad, that I lost the ability to speak. Imagine me, the chattiest Cathy there is, unable to say anything. My mother once thought I was having a stroke when, over the phone, I began to stutter mid-sentence. That event landed me in the hospital. It’s scary when your mind and body are so out of synch. The attack happened somewhere in Maryland. I took what seemed the longest bus and metro rides ever to the hospital near campus. Once my feet were back on land (er, pavement), I practically ran to the emergency room.

I couldn't figure out which window/desk to go to for registration after walking into the waiting area. The room was small and dim. It did not help my nerves whatsoever. When I went back through the sliding doors to ask a couple of security guards for assistance. I opened my mouth and again the stammer took over. They leaned in and squinted (as if to better read my lips???), but still nothing intelligible came out. I touched my throat and shook my head “no” to inform them of my speechlessness. A security guard escorted me back into the waiting area, instructed me to take a seat and handed me a clipboard. All I could do was write on an intake form:

“panic attack? can’t talk. sister dead. call mom.”

He dialed the number I gave him and waited. Ashamed of my behavior and unsure of what to do, I looked down at the floor. A man next to me (the waiting room was too packed for me to have any privacy) said, “It’s alright to cry, sweetie. Just write it down, they’ll help you.” And they really did. Shout out to those amazing hospital employees (nurses, docs, security, etc.) for excellent care.

I was moved from the ER waiting area to a triage unit. No more stares of confusion and pity like before (imagine, all you wanted was some antibiotics or an x-ray when a teary-eyed girl comes into the ER all distraught and speaking gibberish). This time there were patients, staff, EMTs and policemen tending to some kind of business. Thankfully no one was really paying me any attention and I was able to sit, catch my breath, gather my thoughts.

A lady with an oxygen tank and house shoes touched my arm before asking, “you OK sugar?” (Actually, it was more like, “sugah.”) I shook my head yes and waited for a nurse to take me to a small, depressingly yellow room box where I spent hours on a plasticky lazy boy (I was exhausted and in need of sleep -- a bed would’ve been nice). A PA, nurse and psychiatrist asked their questions and ran their tests. I felt exposed though I knew they were just trying to help.

It was determined by these professionals that the transition to a new place and the shock of my sister’s death had possibly led to post traumatic stress disorder. Well, I already knew that. I wanted them to tell me how to fix it. I said no thanks to an overnight stay in the mental health center. I also said no thanks to prescription drugs. I did, however, take their advice on a simple and rather cheap sleeping aid: Benadryl.

The sleep issue was kind of worked out and I began to meet regularly with a counselor and psychiatrist.

I was still sad.

"Your body may be gone, I'm gonna carry you in.
In my head, in my heart, in my soul.
And maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both live again.
Well I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Don't think so. " 

- Modest Mouse