My Sister, Pam

Posted by Heather Cariou in HandPrints Stories & Videos | 7 comments

© Heather Summerhayes Cariou

Her hands were larger than mine; her heart too, for that matter. She was twenty-two months younger than I, but her life was shorter.

She was my sister, Pam. Her long, bony fingers were clubbed at the tips, with splayed, purple-tinged nails that suggested the lack of oxygen in her blood. Her palms were salty. She had “Sixty-five Roses,” as she called it, when she was little. Cystic Fibrosis: the most common life-threatening genetic disease of children and young adults.

I had once promised to die with her. Pam was diagnosed when she was four, and I had just turned six. I descended into a cauldron of resentment, sorrow and anger, but she set about living the life she was given as fully and joyfully as possible. In so doing, she taught me how to live.

Those hands could deftly thread a needle, and stitch a quilt. They made

the best butter tarts; stewed rhubarb; macaroni and cheese. We held hands playing childhood games, and comforting each other as she lay in the hospital. Those fingers brushed away tears and she assured me that the searing pain of our losing each other was simply the deep measure of our love.

One indelible memory reminds me of when Pam was ten years old, and I was twelve. We had gathered at our grandmother’s on Labor Day weekend, after attending our hometown parade. Pam had come through a terrifying and near-fatal bout with pneumonia just a few months earlier, and though our daily rhythm had resumed, the threat of her possible death from C.F. still loomed.

Grandma’s living room was cool and dark, with the blinds pulled and the curtains drawn against the sun. Electric fans chugged softly side to side, strategically placed to circulate the air. Leaving the others in the backyard, I slipped indoors to sit and watch a man perform miracles on television.

“HE-al, HE-al,” he drawled, pressing his hands dramatically on the heads of sick and dying people. The lame walked; unseen cancers disappeared. “Praise the Lord,” the man shouted, “Hallelujah!”

As she opened the door and entered the room, I squinted at my sister’s silhouette, the light from the

kitchen a lemon halo around her. “What are you watching?” she asked, plopping down beside me on the carpet.

“Oral Roberts. He heals sick people.”
“Oh.”

We watched, agape, as Oral Roberts pressed his hands to another head, incanting “HE-al, HE-al!”
“Maybe we can get Mom and Dad to take you there,” I blurted.

Pam looked at me as if I had three heads. She got up, turned off the TV, and sat down cross-legged in front of me, taking both of my hands in her own.

“Heather,” she said. “Oral Roberts can’t make me better. Nobody can.”

My throat clotted as I fought back tears, my lips drawn tightly downward. I studied my little sister, her face pale as moonbeams, hazel eyes charged with intent. She sounded grown up; more grown up than I. How was this possible?

“When I was in the hospital last spring, I figured that out. It scared me, and it made me mad. I hated being sick. I hated being told what to do. ‘Pam, take your mask. Pam, take your pills. Pam, have your treatment.’ I was sick of it. They couldn’t fool me. I knew I was going to die no matter how many treatments I had, or pills I took, or needles they gave me. I thought it was all for nothing, and that I was too much trouble for everyone. If that was the way my life was going to be, I just wanted to die right then and get it over with. So I locked myself in the bathroom. I crawled under the bathroom sink, rolled up in a ball, and prayed to God to strike me dead right there and then. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for it to happen!”

She let loose a self-conscious giggle, then continued soberly. “I don’t want to be a burden on the family. I hate being sick, but mostly I hate seeing what it does to everyone.”

“It’s all right,” I squeaked.

“No,” she said. “It’s not all right.”

We sat for a few moments in silence, staring at our intertwined hands. My heart thudded loudly.

“What I finally realized,” Pam softly continued, “was that God gave me a life, and it’s up to me to live it the best I can, for as long as I can. All we can do now is to love each other, and to keep hoping the doctors find something new.”

My sister hugged me, and looked away. Then her eyes turned steely and she set her jaw. “Don’t worry,” she promised, “I’m not giving up.”

What I learned from my younger, wiser sister has become my creed for living: I can’t control life by being afraid of it.

If I can’t change my circumstances, I am challenged to change myself. The only true power I possess is to choose my response to those circumstances. It is my responsibility to seek out; or even better, to create joy. I understand the difference between giving up and surrender.

My sister, Pam, taught me to become a warrior on my own behalf. As long as I am blessed with life, I must never, ever give up. The 5 Pillars of Pam