Three weeks with my brother - Nicholas Sparks [126]
Members of Bob’s family would sometimes visit with me in the hours after dinner. One night toward the end of April, Bob’s stepmother, Carolyn, and I were talking with Dana, when Dana finally announced she was going to bed. She’d grown steadily worse—for the most part, all she could do was mumble—but she’d smile that half-paralyzed smile of hers, and I was struck by the thought it might be the last normal conversation we’d ever have. As soon as she was behind closed doors, I broke down and cried in Carolyn’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably for nearly twenty minutes.
In May, the horrible progression seemed to intensify. Dana could no longer hold a fork, so I’d feed her; a week later, she couldn’t walk or talk at all. A week after that, she’d been hooked up to a catheter and could ingest only liquids; she’d have to be carried from her room.
During my last visit, in mid-May, my family came with me to say good-bye.
On our last day in town, I remember bringing Landon into her bedroom. Her eyes were the only feature that had remained immune to the ravages of the tumor, and they shone as I held the baby against her cheek. I held Dana’s hand against the baby’s skin; she seemed to revel in the sensation. When we were finally alone again, I knelt by the bed, taking my sister’s hand in my own. I didn’t want to leave her; in my heart, I knew this was the last time I’d ever speak to her.
“I love you,” I finally whispered. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” I said, and my sister’s eyes softened. With effort, she raised a finger, and pointed to me.
“You are,” she mouthed.
Cody and Cole celebrated their sixth birthday the following day; my sister was carried outside and sat in a chair to watch them. That night, she slipped into a coma and never woke again. She died three days later.
Dana was thirty-three years old.
Dana was buried next to my parents, and the funeral was packed. Again, I saw the same faces in the crowd, faces that had witnessed my mom’s and dad’s burials. The funerals were the only time I’d seen some of these people in the last eleven years.
In the eulogy by the graveside, I told everyone how my sister and I used to sing to each other on our birthday. I told them that when I thought of my sister, I could still hear her laughter, sense her optimism, and feel her faith. I told them that my sister was the kindest person I’ve ever known, and that the world was a sadder place without her in it. And finally, I told them to remember my sister with a smile, like I did, for even though she was being buried near my parents, the best parts of her would always stay alive, deep within our hearts.
Micah had only been to three funerals in his life. When the service was over, we stood near the graveside, staring at the flowers covering the coffin.
Micah put his arm around me in silence. There was nothing left to say. Nor could we cry. At that moment, neither of us had any tears remaining.
I could feel the stares of others, I could sense their despair. We were too young to have lost them all, I imagined them thinking, and they were right.
It was lonely by the grave. I should have had the rest of my family to lean on in a moment like this, but they were the reason we were here. Standing beside Micah, it dawned on me that we were the only ones left in our family. It was just the two of us now.
Brothers.
CHAPTER 17
Tromsø, Norway
February 13–14
We arrived in Tromsø, Norway, a picturesque coastal town located three hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the following afternoon. Because of the latitude, the sky was already a darkening blue, but the temperature struck me as merely chilly, not cold. Though only a thousand miles from the North Pole, the coastal waters are warmed by the Gulf Stream, making the winters far milder than other Norwegian cities farther to the south.
Boarding the bus, we wound through the town. Tromsø is set amid the mountains and a layer of snow coated the ground,