A sister-friend from our extended network, baker and blogger Marilyn Pollack Naron, sent us the following piece about losing her sister to cancer when Marilyn was 30 and Iris was 26.
By Marilyn Pollack Naron
I HADN’T PLANNED to bring Josie to the hospice that morning, as I did every morning, but right before I dropped her with friends, Iris called from her bedside phone. My sister sounded impatient, herself. “You’re bringing Josie, right?”
“Well, no. She was going to Barbara’s this morning.”
“Well, no. I want you to bring her.”
“But. Well…”
“What? Just do it.”
Morphine, I think. Humor her. “Fine.”
“Okay. Bye.”
She would then call our father at his office, and wait for his secretary to put her through. She told him she loved him, just because, then hung up, leafed a few catalogs, watched some TV, possibly thought about cancer, and waited for us to show up.
An hour later we we sat on her hospital bed, making paper chains and watching The View. Eighteen months old, Josie sat on the floor waving red construction paper, giggling. Iris and I were chatting, silly nothings, and just as we began to mock the show she caught her breath, fish-gasping, her eyes double-wide. Liquid panic. What. Today? I jumped off the bed.
“Should I get the nurse?” She looked at me, no. Back on the mattress, my knees in her side, I grabbed her left hand in my two hands, and in less than a minute she was gone. I crouched over her on the pillow, stroking her knuckles, 26-year-old skin, still smooth. We’d always feared Grandma’s paper skin and ropey lines, gawked in her cabinets at mysterious jars and creams. I stroked her hand, stared at her eyes, looking up, down, talking. Now you will never have Porcelana in the bathroom. You will never have Grandma’s hands.
I meant to run down the hall for our mother, sitting in the lounge, out for just a few minutes. But I kept stroking her hand, breathing after she’d stopped, reminding her that it was okay, it was okay, I think it’s okay. Josie ran around the bed laughing, tearing paper, looping chains round my leg. I should have gone for my mother, my sister’s mother, but I kept those seconds, and took a few more. Daughter at my ankle, I pressed my nose to my sister’s wrist, rubbed my forehead up her arm. That arm had sampled a thousand perfumes, been kissed by our dogs, had itched in my sweaters. I took another breath, and hit the call button.
A moment later the first hospice nurse stepped in, the pretty one; we’d envied her highlights, her nails. She moved calmly, took Iris’s pulse, noted the clock. A second nurse came in, ample and brown-eyed, the one I saw on the floor desk every day at 9. Smoothing Iris’s wavy hair, still warm, she turned and burst out in tears, arms open.
“Oh honey,” she grabbed me. “Oh, honey,” crushing, and I closed my eyes. “I will be your sister now.”
__________
We are honored that Marilyn Pollack Naron shared her story with The Sister Project, as other sisters and sister friends have begun to do as our online family here grows.
We’ve long been fans of Marilyn’s food blog, Simmer Till Done, where Marilyn describes herself as, “a pastry chef–but I don’t work in restaurants anymore, so you can just call me giver of dessert happiness.” She lives in Lawrence, Kansas, “the coolest college town in America,” she says, where she also admits to Ebay binges, snacking on butter, kissing her dog and making true deep-dish pizza. Thanks to you, Marilyn, for your generosity.
If you have a story you’d like to share on any aspect of sisterhood, send it to thesisterproject [at] gmail [dot] com.
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As the suffix of its name suggests, 
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{ 34 comments… read them below or add one }
Beautifully written and heartbreaking.
Oh, Marilyn, this is as beautiful a story as I’ve read, but even more astonishing, it is perfectly written. How you honored your sister, and sisterhood itself, both with your story, and with the excellent writing, is a remarkable achievement. Thank you for bringing this to us. We are honored.
We are collecting stories of the loss of sisters, and are damn proud of our contributors. See them here. http://thesisterproject.com/roach/the-list-that-helps-with-loss/
Blinking back tears. No fiction was ever this astonishing. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Thank you for sharing such a beautiful, precious memory with us.
Your sister was lucky to have you, just as you are lucky to have her, even now. I suspect that no one misses you quite like a sister does.
Oh my god. This is amazing and heartbreaking.
Marilyn,
That was indeed a very sad moment and you wrote it so beautifully. I can’t assume what losing a sister would be like but I think it would be like cutting away a piece of my heart.
Wow.
I feel as if I was there.
I lost my best friend and soul sister to cancer when she was only 25, me a whopping 26. Marilyn’s story is taking me back, giving me not only that lump in my throat and tears on my cheeks from my memories but also from her experience.
Being there in the hospital, holding hands, telling someone it’s ok to go…it’s almost too much to relive. But I’m so thankful and appreciate the sharing of this beautiful story.
Wow wow wow.
Thank you Marilyn for having the courage to write and share such an incredibly moving story.
Beautifully written. I’ve read this more than once now and each time it makes me cry.
Oh my dear, what beauty and what heartbreak. Thank you for sharing. I’m going to be carrying your words for days.
Oh Marilyn, I cannot describe how this moves me.
There’s so much love in this story, so moving and yet so uplifting. Thank you for sharing it
Oh my dear, the courage and vulnerability it took to write this piece. Thank you. This is so desperately moving. This will stay with me.
Even when she is writing about a death, Marilyn is writing about living. Reading her blog, you really see her talent for catching mundane details, the nanosecond thoughts we have before we act (or not)-and then fashioning them into a universal experience. Keep writing Marilyn-and writing, and writing, and writing!!!
Agreeing with shauna – this brilliant account has consumed me today, and I’m sure I won’t forget it.
I keep coming back over and over. I’m deeply touched by this intimate, rending story that glows with love.
I can’t forget this imagery: “I pressed my nose to my sister’s wrist, rubbed my forehead up her arm. That arm had sampled a thousand perfumes, been kissed by our dogs, had itched in my sweaters. I took another breath, and hit the call button.” Breathtaking.
Everything Marilyn writes is incredible, but the beauty of this just takes my breath away. Marilyn, we are all privileged to hear your voice.
I am here to say a proper thanks to Marilyn, of course, and also offer up welcomes to new front-page TSP commenters: Alice and Jane, Jenni and Jennifer, Tea and Matt and April and Shauna. Thank you all for celebrating Marilyn’s talent, and Iris’s life, with your words.
To be invited to the death of a loved one is the most intimate of life’s experiences, and also a great privilege, a jumble of loss and closeness all rushing by in an instant that changes everything thereafter. As one who was allowed to share it oh so many years ago, I am relieved that we are finally talking about such things out loud (not saying hush, that’s too sad to mention, hush).
Thanks to you all.
No, Margaret, thank you – also Paige, Marion, Anastasia, and the TSP community for generously taking in another sister’s story. There is so much loss out there, so many people carrying the mixed blessing of memory and sadness; sharing it might be read as brave, but really, it’s just a necessary part of still living. I’m overwhelmed by the friendly ears here, and thank you all for your kind words.
This rings so true to me. The most agonizing and meaningful of life’s experiences set against the everyday details of a child playing and, of all things, Porcelana. Beautiful. Thank you Marilyn for sharing.
I am so glad for your sister that you were there, holding her when she most needed a friend and sister. You’re aces – always.
written with beauty and grace.
Hello to Sandy and to Renovation Therapy, familiar faces. Welcome, Giff, and yes, beauty and grace indeed. See you soon again.
I love you and your words. I am so sorry for your loss.
What a painful and yet beautiful experience. Marilyn, thank you so much for putting it into words to share with us.
That was a really wonderful piece, Marilyn. Thanks for sharing it.
Welcome to Monica and Marisa (and Millie, how are you?). The circle of support widens. See you all soon again, we hope.
Thanks for sharing this wonderful story. My sisters lost a sister to cancer, too, and the understanding runs deep.
Arms open wide.
(Also, Lawrence is the coolest college town, and rock chalk jayhawlk!)
Marilyn has a wondrous talent for writing. She turns a raw, heart wrenching and “untouchable” subject into something approachable, sharing her experience with familiarity, potency, and grace. You don’t just read Marilyn’s writing, you breathe it in and savor it.
Marilyn. I don’t have a sister, and always longed for that bond. Thank you for sharing your sister with us.
Welcome, Michelle and Joanne; thanks to both of you for joining the conversation.
So nice to see you again, Becky (IronNeedles) and yes, “arms open wide.” Thanks.
Thanks to both old & new friends for such kind words. Is TSP not a wondrous place? The only thing better than telling family tales is hearing other family tales, and the darling geniuses here have created such a lovely place to talk. Have one to share? Please do.
Another TSP spot that rivets me with moving tales of love & loss: http://thesisterproject.com/roach/the-list-that-helps-with-loss/
There are tears rolling down my cheeks.
Thank you for sharing.
I too feel like Im right in the room where you were. Your heart beats on the page and your grip can be felt.
My condolences.
Patricia
Welcome, Patricia. Isn’t she amazing to share such a story so beautifully? Thanks for your visit, and see you again soon, we hope.