Since I am the baby of the family, there was never a time I didn’t have two sisters and a brother -- until a few weeks ago. Now I have just one of each. The eldest, Marlene, left us for a better place gradually over this past summer.

First came her email with “Here goes” in the subject line. She delivered the prognosis of recurring nodular melanoma in early June. Medical treatment was almost guaranteed to fail, but for my ever-faithful sister, a healing touch from God remained high on the list of viable possibilities. When that was not to be, she quickly turned her attention to quiet acceptance.

By mid-August, she had ended her job and lost all energy. We lined up three lawn chairs – Marlene, Elaine, and I – and sat in the sunshine most of the day when Elaine came from Texas and we crossed the state to visit Marlene and Vern in Cumberland. The following day, Marlene served us her wonderful baked oatmeal for breakfast and felt up to a short walk.

Brother Lee, now in the midst of a heavy art show schedule, took a day in late August to make the trip to Marlene’s. He was shocked to see how frail she was, but gave her his last big hug nonetheless.

Hospice became a real blessing to Vern, Marlene’s loving and patient caretaker, in early September.

When I went to stay with her later that month so Vern could attend a few days of business meetings, she needed solid support in order to walk. Her world reached from bed to bathroom to recliner. Nights were long with discomfort from protruding tumors covering her neck and torso as well as digestive problems. We shared intimate talks lying next to one another in bed throughout the night. I only wished we hadn’t waited so long to have a “sleepover.”

I was honored when Vern asked me to come again in early October. He’d planned to attend a business seminar in the Cities for a few days, but by the time I arrived, it was clear things had changed. He would be gone only a few hours rather than days. Instead, Marlene and Vern’s three children and grandkids were planning to be there on the weekend. Marlene’s world now reached from hospice bed in the sitting room to wheelchair and toilet.

Two days later, we retired the wheelchair. She was confined to bed. Her lack of energy made speaking difficult and interpreting frustrating. Even opening her eyes required effort.

Another day passed and she gave up trying to communicate. With effort, she produced a gentle smile from time to time, as we took turns quietly massaging her heavy, swollen legs and telling her the things we wanted her to remember…the things we wanted to remember.

“Miracle” alone would explain her lack of pain those final days. To see the angry tumors one would expect pain, yet she rested peacefully. I imagined her with one foot on earth and the other on the threshold of heaven’s door.

I had the privilege of curling up in the recliner next to her bed on her final night. The house was quiet. I watched her for a long time as I wrote in my journal. Despite a peaceful countenance, she seemed not to know quite what to do with her hands, her arms. Reaching above her head felt right for a while; she stroked her hair, felt her face. When she felt a chill, she’d rest her hands on her chest and pull the covers to her neck. The repetition of motion suggested a restlessness I’d been prepared for. I considered a sedative, but the contentment on her face said she needed only to cover and uncover at will, to be “on her own,” taking care of herself.

I closed my journal around midnight, dimmed the lights, and drifted off to sleep. She would do just fine, she had everything she needed for the journey if she chose to embark, and thus she stole away when no one was looking early Monday morning, the 12th of October.

(The photo of Marlene, Elaine, LeRoy and Mary is circa 1955. I didn’t know the photo existed until this summer; it has become one of my fondest treasures.)