For the first time, I am not looking forward to the new year.
I should, given how godawful 2023 has been. But I already know 2024 will bring even more sadness.
Impending hurt must happen to everyone at some point. Divorce, job loss, foreclosure are all events that can straddle the holidays and knock at the door of a new year like an apocalyptic horseman.
Yet, how do you welcome a year that will bring the death of your beloved sister?
She was diagnosed two years ago with pancreatic cancer, an aggressive and deadly beast. Because she was lucky to catch it early, all of us believed she could at least derail it for a good amount of time. She underwent wrenching chemotherapy, searing radiation and three invasive surgeries, including the Whipple.
Most of 2022 was hell for her. We figured the universe owed her a decent reprieve.
And this past August, barely a year into her recovery, it seemed she’d gotten it. “The cancer seems to be at bay,” everyone whispered.
The experts laid odds of five to 10 years so, of course, we expected her to get at least five.
But anyone who knows cancer knows it cares not about a person’s age or past suffering or life plans.
I just happened to be visiting her in the hospital this past October when her surgeon walked in to deliver the grim timeline. With luck, she’d get to the new year.
Is this the only sadness on earth? Of course not. There are children battling deadly illness. There are young parents struck down in their prime. There is war, famine, terrorism, accidents, babies who die en route to what is supposed to be a better life.
My sister has enjoyed a relatively long, and relatively good life. She married her high school sweetheart and traveled much of the world, courtesy of her husband’s military career.
Of course, she endured challenges, many of them in childhood. I know, because I was there. She struggled with an undiagnosed reading impairment that she paid for with mediocre grades, lifelong anxiety and a few rounds of summer school. When she was 8, she was bitten by the neighbor’s dog, which left her fearful of animals. And, because she was the oldest, she was too often left in charge of her many younger siblings.
Her childhood was harder than mine in so many ways. And yet it seems whenever I needed help, she was there.
On my first day of kindergarten, she walked me to school. Our mother had given her strict orders to walk me home. Her second grade class was dismissed earlier than mine and she mistakenly opened the door to my classroom, walked in and announced she was there to pick me up.
I can’t remember my teacher’s name but it could have been Sister Merciless because she marched over to my sister, picked her up and threw her out the door. All of us were terrified, especially my sister who suffered a scraped knee and no doubt countless nightmares. But she stood her ground, shaking, and waited for me.
Once when I was about 5 and our family was at Rainbow Beach, my sister and I waded out a bit too far. Soon, I was in over my head. Not knowing how to swim, I panicked, bobbing up and down, heart racing. My sister, who at 7 also didn’t know how to swim, dog paddled over to me, grabbed my arm and pulled me to safety.
Another day that same summer, a couple of neighborhood sisters did the unthinkable — invited us to play inside. Back then, there were rules in our South Side Chicago neighborhood that was teeming with kids. You all played together but you all played outside.
It was enough for parents to deal with their own brood making a mess than to allow entry to neighborhood riffraff. But on this occasion, we were assured the adults weren’t home. The friends cajoled us to come inside. We were playing in the basement when someone yelled, “Grandma!” and everyone — else — headed for the back door.
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In my panic, I ran straight for the front door, swung it open and felt someone push it closed behind me. I was trapped between the heavy main door and the metal screen door. I stood there, like a slice of bread in a toaster, and watched my breath fog the glass.
Suddenly my sister was there, on the other side, tugging at the screen door handle. Unsuccessful, she did the unthinkable: She rang the bell.
“Noooooo,” I screamed. Far better to die in a toaster than at the hands of an angry grandma. Within seconds, the matriarch was back, whipping open the main door, releasing the lock and pushing me with what I imagine was a Polish expletive right onto the porch.
I didn’t care about the trauma or my bloody palms or even if someone told my parents. I was free. And I had my sister to thank for that.
Not that we didn’t fight. For many years, we shared a bed, a bunch of clothes and housekeeping duties. We often tussled over space, outfits and whose turn it was to wash dishes.
But it seems that whenever I needed something, it was my sister to the rescue. She helped me navigate high school and land my first job. Once when the heat went out in my college dorm on a frosty winter day, she and her husband drove three hours to bring me a space heater and a slow cooker full of spaghetti.
Of course, I’ve done nice things for her over the years, including delivering some of Chicago’s finest food — Palermo’s, Rubino’s, El Milagro — to wherever she and her husband were living.
Because of her, the world has been a safer, more joyful place for me. Whenever I had big news, or even small news, she was the first person I’d call.
Is it selfish to want more time?
Now, the clock ticks loudly. The days pass quickly. The new year is ready to pounce. And while it seems the whole world will celebrate, I am terrified for the calendar to flip.
The inevitable punctuates everything I do, everything that happens. “…but she is going to die.”
She is adrift in a tiny boat and a storm is bearing down.
And I am watching in horror from the safety of the shore, unable to do for her what she has done for me so many times.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.