Elizabeth was just 48 and a mother of a 14 year old son when she passed away in 2021. In this moving essay which she chose to write, her sister describes how blindsided the family was when she got her diagnosis.
I sometimes think doctors do this on purpose to let you get used to the idea of what might be coming. This thing. That’s what we kept calling it. Like it was an enemy, an intruder, a predator. In fact, it was just part of Lizzy that had randomly malfunctioned, possibly years before. Thishad taken hold. We needed solutions, we told ourselves as we talked late into the evening, Lizzy, shellshocked and wild-eyed. My older sister was pragmatic and bullish. I was realistic and petrified.
The nurses, the amazing, amazing nurses joked with her and kept us sane. Different energies in different rooms. Her son remained silent, a haunted look replacing the sullen teenage curl we’d gotten used to. Then one morning, the nicest nurse nodded and said it was “probably soon”. Lizzy had been sleeping a lot, she seemed peaceful. We each took some time in the room with her and said what we needed to say.
For a long time we sat with her, around her, talking about her. But my grief was stuck in the process. Later, I was told it was common to fixate on the physical aspect of death. I wanted to know exactly how death had happened. Was it the cancer that had killed her or had it caused her organs to fail which had killed her? The granular details suddenly seemed so important somehow.