Last spring, as soon as she was diagnosed with a cancerous tumor, my sister and her husband Frank traveled from their home in Clovis to UCLA, where she met with a highly-regarded surgeon who was upbeat about her prognosis. The operation to remove the tumor was scheduled for the next day. Frank and Tris spent that night at our house. She went over with us everything the surgeon told her, reassuring us that the situation looked quite hopeful. And, as she sat on our den couch watching one of the final episodes of "Lost," she fielded cell phone calls from her concerned adult children. "I'll be just fine," she told them.
Because they planned to leave the house long before we woke up the next morning, Tris and I hugged each other before saying goodnight. Had I known it was the last hug I would ever receive from her, I would have held on for dear life.
Initially, the outlook was good. But once the surgeon discovered how invasive the cancer had become, all bets were off. Within a short time after she returned home she was told she had stage 4 lung cancer. The fight was on.
Per our agreement, she would call me whenever she felt up to talking. That amounted to fewer than a half-dozen calls over the past six months or so. I understood completely and gave her the space she requested. Things seemed to be looking up a couple of weeks ago, when she felt strong enough to drive her car to do errands. In fact, she mailed me a hilarious birthday card then. The last time we spoke she sounded chipper, and I felt hopeful that we would have her in our lives for years to come.