Nine years ago, my older sister, Ana, began a long and arduous struggle with cancer. She endured many surgeries, multiple rounds of chemotherapy (which included nausea, hair loss and exhaustion), a permanent ostomy bag, severely painful occlusions and the emotional roller coaster of “there is no more cancer” to “I’m sorry but your cancer is back.”
Through it all, my sister was a valiant survivor. She was brave, she was strong. She did not lose her faith but rather relied on Jesus to help her through. And she relied on family. Our parents taught us that family was so important. My sister’s three children, their spouses and their children were there for Ana-loving her, supporting her, bringing cheer and laughter to her when she needed that most.
Ana lived in Costa Rica, where my family originates from. We would Skype on a regular basis just to keep up, as siblings are wont to do. When she was in remission, looking great, she looked wonderful. When she was sick and in treatment, she still looked wonderful to me because I love her so much.
Over the summer of 2013, Ana relapsed yet again. In September 2013 she was to undergo a very risky operation. My brother and I decided we needed to be with her because there was a chance that she would not make it off the operating table. So we flew-he from California and I from New Jersey-to be with her, the first time in 10 years the three of us were together.
After our September 2013 reunion, Ana began a slow and long decline. By January we knew she was terminal. Her surgical wound from September hadn’t yet healed. She was jaundiced. She was too weak for chemotherapy. She wasn’t eating. I made plans to fly again to Costa Rica in March, hoping that she would still be alive.
When I arrived, my sister was clearly near death. She slept almost all day, drank very little and was minimally responsive. My nieces were convinced Ana was waiting for me to come so that she could die. When she didn’t die, my wife suggested perhaps Ana was waiting for me to leave so that she could die.
I guess death comes when the individual and our loving God reach some type of accord.
Ana lingered two more weeks after I left her bedside. She died at 11:30 the night before Palm Sunday, just in time for a celestial version of Holy Week.
Palm Sunday at my parish of Sacred Heart, Camden, is a visually spectacular celebration. After processing into the church from an outside location, the assembly waves massive amounts of palms while singing, “Hosanna!” As a lector I was fortunate this year to carry the cross at the head of the procession and into that stunning sea of waves of palms. It took me right into the Gospel story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem and my heart united with Ana trying to visualize what she was experiencing in heaven at that moment. Do cherubim wave palms while singing “Hosanna?”
On Holy Thursday after we strip the altar and empty the church, at Sacred Heart we process to the lower level where the Holy Eucharist is carried. During the long reverent silence of deep prayer, I imagined Ana sitting quietly with Jesus. No words were exchanged between the two. There was just a calm and soothing sitting with each other-the two of them together at long last.
For Good Friday I go to Christ our Light Parish, Cherry Hill. For their liturgies are extraordinary and the music ministry is exceptional. During the reading of the Passion of Our Lord, I was so moved by the well-placed musical interlude of singing “Give me Jesus.” During the veneration of the cross, I thought about Jesus’ suffering and death, all because of my sins. But I also thought about Ana’s cross of cancer for nine years, how much she endured and how she was now finally at rest.
Mass on Easter Sunday brings an awakening of the five senses-a beautifully decorated and festive church and a brand new Paschal Candle; the rich readings from Scripture and the joyful proclamation of “Christ is Risen!”; the taste of the Body and Blood of Jesus; the luscious fragrance of lilies and flowers welcoming paschal springtime; firm handshakes or warm embraces accompanied by “Peace be with you” with people all around us.
My brave and wonderful sister who was with me all my life has gone home to the Lord. Her spirit will live on in her family left behind. I am most grateful that I was able to pray this past Holy Week with her in a most unusual and different way.
Rod J. Herrera, LCSW is director, Office of Child and Youth Protection, Diocese of Camden.
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