By Paul Melkonian

My sister Ruthanne died on New Year’s Day, 2012. She fought a short, vicious battle against the bully cancer. Like much of her life, the process was meticulously planned and carried out: Inform siblings. Inform close family & friends. Inform the world. Pack your shit. Close the factory. Turn out the lights.

I’d add “put your affairs in order,” but Ruthanne had probably put her affairs in order before she moved out of our house in 1967. In the midst of a bitter battle of wills with my father, Rin moved down the street to the spare room in Gram and Gramp’s house. Like my cousin Jack before her, but he’d only moved downstairs.

But maybe Rinny didn’t have her shit together back in ’67. Unbeknownst to me, she was already in the grips of addiction. Dad was in the grips, too, but his condition was very beknownst.

I don’t remember any of their arguments, or either of them speaking badly of the other. Did they know what it would’ve done to the five-year-old me if one of them had badmouthed the other in front of me, and shield me from that? A nice thought, but I doubt it. When two messed up people have each other in their respective tractor beams, “care and concern for those around you” is not generally a consideration. More likely is my five-year-old brain was breaking in its denial capability, so I don’t remember events like Dad burning Rin’s clothes out in the yard. All I knew was two of the people I most loved in the world didn’t love each other.

I was very happy when they reconciled. I remember a visit to Ruthanne’s apartment on Charles Street in Boston. Dad came with us, and my recollection is it was a big deal, a turning point in their relationship. That could be selective memory on my part. I remember clearly finding Rinny’s stash in a compartment in her Chinese Palace Dollhouse, but that’s a story for another day.

Sometime around late spring of 2011, Connie and Rin wanted to “talk to me about something.”  I had relapsed in the months before, after almost 10 years clean, but was pretty sure I was maintaining appearances. Did they know? Was this an attempted intervention? Hmm. I got myself in the right frame of mind (“Try not to be a prick; they love you”) and went to face the music.         

“So…what’s up?”

“I’m sick, Paul.”

God forgive me, I almost Forrest Gump’d her. “You got cough due t’ cold?” My questions led to the realization that this process hadn’t just started. Diagnosis: confirmed. Prognosis: terminal.  Rin could go through some hellacious treatments, maybe live a little longer, but more than likely the bastard would come back and kill her anyway. She’d decided to forego treatment and make the best of whatever time she had left.

Ruthanne would die the way she’d lived: her way.

Rin was going to move in with our sister, Connie, and Connie’s husband Brian. As she was packing her apartment, she set aside items she wanted certain people to have. One of the first times the situation hit home for me was when I went over to help her with something and her wall of books, a most prized collection, was gone. I can’t imagine what it was like for her to pack them up and give them away. She handed me a package. Inside were sheets and pillowcases she didn’t want to throw away. Matched, pressed, folded, tied meticulously in a clear plastic bag, a perfect rectangular cube.

Morbid? Fucking right. Death can be like that.

At first it wasn’t hard to ignore what was happening (see above, “denial”).  There weren’t any symptoms. Then there were. Then they got worse. Then they got really bad. Then she died.

I left my sister Connie’s house late on New Year’s Eve. We had dosed Rinny up, cried. I told her how proud and lucky I was to have a big sister like her. I went to my buddy Frank’s house. I was telling him how it wasn’t looking too good when Connie called. Rinny was dead.

Six years ago I came back from that relapse. I live in a great apartment, have a huge bedroom, and my good ole queen bed. Thing is, I had no sheets. I’d spread out a comforter, drag a blanket over my ass, and I’m good.

Ruthanne would not approve. One does not sleep upon a comforter. A comforter goes on top of the blanket, which goes over the top sheet tucked snuggly with hospital corners, over, of course, the fitted sheet.

So this morning I finally opened that seven-year-old gift from my sister. Six AM, putting my dead sister’s sheets on my bed, crying like a baby. When I lay my head down on her pillowcase tonight, I’ll sleep like one, too.