There is perhaps only one circumstance in which it is acceptable to suggest to a loved one what I was about to suggest to my sister, and I unfortunately found myself in that agonizing position as I settled into the chair beside her bed.
“It’s Rare Disease Day today,” I told her, trying to sound nonchalant.
My sister Kim opened her eyes and shot me a sideways glance. Of the many things we unequivocally agreed upon, one was that I am a terrible actor.
Despite that, I continued to try to sound casual.
“I just didn’t know if you realized it was a leap year — that today is Feb. 29,” I said.
I knew she had no clue, though. She was too doped up on opiates to be cognizant of things like the date.
“Isn’t it interesting that it will be four years from now before your boys have to wake up on a day … that is … Feb. 29?”
I knew the barely hidden agenda behind my questions was starting to sound ridiculous, so I was relieved to see this last remark had finally gotten Kim’s attention.
She squinted her eyes open and studied my face. I looked back at her, trying to force an expression that made it seem like I merely found these to be fascinating facts about this extra day in February.
But she knew the real reason I was pointing out that it would be four years before there would be another leap day.
“Are you suggesting I should try to die today?” she asked with genuine nonchalance.
“No!” I feigned being offended, even though we both knew it was exactly what I was doing.
I paused briefly and then quietly added, “But … it would be a pretty poignant end to your story.”
Earlier that day, when Kathleen, my other sister, told me Feb. 29 is Rare Disease Day, we had both agreed that it would be a fitting day for Kim to die.
It wasn’t that we wanted our sister to die. Far from it. But her death wasn’t a question of if, but when. We were, after all, having this conversation in a hospice center.
Kim was nearing the end of her battle against a combination of…
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