Blow followed blow. Could I rebuild after so much loss?

I was a post-seminary graduate when my 13-year-old only brother, Chesky, started feeling lethargic.

The diagnosis: leukemia.

“Leukemia?” we asked the doctor, stunned.

“Leukemia,” he confirmed.

My family was thrown onto the cancer rollercoaster. With his positive attitude and upbeat personality, Chesky was a trooper. All he wanted was to get through this and be done. Chemo, radiation, blood transfusions, and hospital stays became part of his life. Part of our life. My parents, and us four sisters, rallied around him with lots of love and support.

He did well. He even went into remission.

It was a dark day when he went for routine bloodwork and was told the cancer was back. Three weeks later, the day was even darker when the doctor gently told my parents there was nothing more to do for him. It was up to them to decide if they wanted him to die at home or in the hospital.

It feels like yesterday that my parents came home and repeated those words to us. The way my mother broke down into sobs will forever be seared into my being.

I was all of 20 years old when I watched my brother die.

I remember clearly that Erev Shabbos morning when my father called his rav and in a tear-choked voice asked, “How do I say Vidui with such a young child?”

The rav said Vidui isn’t necessary; Chesky didn’t have a chance to do aveiros. But my brother wanted to say it. He shouted out “Shema Yisrael” twice and was niftar.

As I sat shivah, I thought the way only a naive 20-year-old can think: Many people go through a big nisayon. This is mine. From here on it will be smooth sailing.

I got engaged shortly afterwards and had a healthy baby 14 months after the wedding. Things were good. My parents had infinite nachas from my and my sisters’ growing families.        Talking about Chesky was never taboo. We spoke about him, remembered him, and clearly felt my parents’ pain at his absence. Nevertheless, there was a simchas hachayim that permeated my parents’ home, even with the pain of this tremendous loss. Even with the pain of my older sister Esti still being single.

Esti.

She was the most beloved person in the world. She was warm, kindhearted, funny, and on the ball. She filled her days with chasadim. She took lonely women shopping; she volunteered for Chai Lifeline and Rachel’s Place; she stepped in to help out her married friends who were in a pinch.

On a Tuesday in February 2006, eight years after Chaim's petirah,  I called Esti on her office number. She didn’t answer. That wasn’t unusual. It meant she was in a meeting. But something compelled me to call her cellphone. She never answered her cell while at work. So when she did, I panicked and said, “Esti, why are you answering your cell? Is everything okay?”

And with her inimitable sense of humor, she said, “Oh, how did you hear already? I’m in the hospital. I just found out I have cancer.”

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Please, Hashem. Not Esti. Not my beautiful, funny, beloved older sister. And then: Our parents! What will we tell them? How could they handle this?

Esti insisted on not saying a word to them until she went for further testing and had clearer results. My lips were sealed, and I played pretend. I cheerfully talked to my mother about the supper I was making, the trouble the baby was getting into, the expected weather for the upcoming few days.

I also played the pretend game at home. I went through the motions, changing diapers, singing Modeh Ani, and telling bedtime stories. But inside I was numb. I was so scared about Esti’s outcome, and worried about how my parents would respond to a second child having cancer.

By the time Friday rolled around, I was a mess. All I wanted was to bentsh licht and go to sleep. When the phone rang close to Shabbos, and I saw it was my mother, I decided not to answer. I’d spoken to her earlier that day, and I just wasn’t up to talking.

But she left me a message. “Miriam, I know that you’re busy. But I must speak to you. Please, if you can call me back before Shabbos…” I lunged for the phone. What could it possibly be? Did she find out about Esti? Did something happen?

“Ma,” I screamed. “I’m here. Is everything okay?”

“Miriam,” she said. “I don’t know how to tell this to you. I just came back from the doctor. I have cancer.”

I wanted to say: What? No, Mommy. Esti has cancer, and you don’t know that yet. She found out four days ago and is planning on telling you next week. What are you saying?

Instead, I responded, “Oh.” What else could I have said?