I never imagined I’d be writing this about the loss of Tammy. Even now, the words feel unreal. She wasn’t just a part of this blog she was its heartbeat. Her unwavering encouragement, her fierce belief in me when I faltered. Those echoes still live in every post, every idea I dared to pursue because she said, “Keep going.”
During the final two years of her life, Tammy did everything she could. She went to her checkups like clockwork, and each mammogram came clean. We breathed sighs of relief. But what we didn’t know, what no scan showed was that the cancer was hiding, silently growing elsewhere in her body. That betrayal by her own biology is hard to accept.
She told me near the end that she was grateful, grateful that those last years were spent with her younger sister, Tanya, surrounded by a whirlwind of laughter and love. Tanya’s eight children adored her. Each one built a bond with Tammy that radiated pure joy. Even amid the storm, she found light in them. It’s hard. It’s cruel. But her love hasn’t left us, it’s woven into the fabric of our lives. Into this blog. Into me.
In the final year of her life, Tammy had fallen off the wagon. She was using drugs constantly and barely eating. Her body grew frail and skeletal, her energy drained, and each movement became painful. Walking was difficult for her, and it seemed like she was in agony all the time.
At the time, she was living in a basement apartment with her boyfriend. He grew increasingly frustrated with her declining health, and their relationship became strained. On Christmas, Tanya and I picked her up, we couldn’t bear to let her stay there any longer. We brought her home and refused to take her back.
In the new year, she had an appointment with the oncologist. When the prognosis came, it hit her like a storm: six months to a year left to live. She was in shock. Despite the diagnosis, she continued using drugs and drinking, perhaps trying to cope with the pain and the gravity of what was happening.
Tammy had one final dream, she wanted all of us sisters to live together during her last months. I didn’t know if I could do it. Tanya and I didn’t get along very well, and the idea of sharing such an intimate space felt daunting. It took me months to find a second job that I could manage while keeping my regular one.
Moving day was bittersweet. My bed was strapped to the back of the truck, and all my belongings were packed tightly into the cab. I was one step away from leaving my ex-husband behind for good. I knew I wasn’t coming back, but the full weight of that realization only struck me in that moment.
He didn’t kiss me goodbye. No “good luck,” no “take care” not even a nod of acknowledgement. Instead, he simply turned his back and walked away. As he reached the front door, he slammed it shut behind him without so much as a glance in my direction.
As I pulled out of the driveway, I caught one final glimpse in the rearview mirror. That house, that life, shrinking in the distance. And then I was gone.
While driving down the highway, my mind wandered toward the hope that maybe this new beginning would bring peace, especially for Tammy in her final days. I imagined a warm and supportive home, full of quiet joys. But reality met me with a harder truth.
When I arrived at the house we rented, Tammy was sitting quietly in a chair, her body frail and weakened. Walking was a true effort for her, she had no sensation in one leg, which she dragged behind her as she carefully navigated with a walker. Each step was a slow, determined shuffle, and every movement seemed to drain her energy.
One day, she asked if I could help her take a bath. I filled the tub with warm water and gently assisted her. Lowering her into the bath was a delicate process; her limbs trembled and her skin felt paper-thin. But in that moment, it wasn’t just about bathing, it was about dignity, care, and holding space for someone whose strength had been tested beyond measure.
Tammy couldn’t manage the stairs anymore, so she remained on the main floor. At first, she slept in a chair in the living room, it became her constant spot, day and night. Eventually, we got her a hospital bed, and it overtook the space. The sight of it sitting right there in the heart of the house made her declining health painfully real. It was a daily reminder that she was dying, and seeing it every time I walked into the room was gut-wrenching.
Tammy didn’t want to go to hospice; she insisted on staying at home where things felt familiar. Tanya and I agreed to honor her wish and care for her ourselves, for as long as we possibly could.
We created a ritual every night. The three of us would smoke a little pot, sink into our chairs, and laugh, really laugh. We’d reminisce about our wild childhoods, hilarious mishaps, and sweet moments that stitched our lives together. Tammy cherished that time; she looked forward to it each evening. It was when she felt most alive, surrounded by stories, laughter, and love.
During the day, I was working, while Tanya was home full-time. She carried the brunt of caregiving, tending to Tammy’s needs with unwavering dedication. Watching her hold it all together with such grace was humbling. Tammy’s passing hit Tanya especially hard; the emotional toll was immense.
The last three months were especially difficult. Home care aides visited four times a day, helping with everything from hygiene to pain management. The rhythm of their footsteps, the medical routines, it changed the entire energy of the house. But through it all, we held space for Tammy’s dignity and comfort.
Tanya and Tammy had good relationship, but it centered around drugs and alcohol. More drugs than alcohol for Tammy. I remember coming home one night to find that they were doing cocaine. I could not believe it, Tammy just stated that I should keep my nose out of their business. So I went to my room and in disbelief I went to sleep. When I asked Tanya about it next day, all was said was; “I hope when I am on my death bed someone will bring me a line of cocaine too.” I was in shock by her statement that I left with my mouth hung open.
Tammy’s condition was worsening she couldn’t move herself in bed. Her legs were paralyzed and she had no strength to pull herself to one side or the other. Tammy made the decision to go to hospice as she was requiring more care than we could provide in the home and decided to go to hospice. The main reason why she went to hospice is because she wanted to see Trevor, our brother. Tanya did not want him at the house that we rented, so Tammy knew she had to leave. Tammy wanted to see him before she past away. Also, she wanted to see her boyfriend. Tanya did not want him at the house either. Tammy was happy to go to the hospice so she could see the people she wanted to see to say her good-byes.
In Tammy’s final days, one of the hospice nurses pulled me aside and gently told me the truth: Tammy was dying. She urged me to gather the family so they could say their goodbyes. I informed everyone, and together we went in to be by her side.
Tanya couldn’t accept it. She kept asking Tammy pointed questions, trying to prove she was still mentally present. But Tammy struggled to respond, the answers weren’t coming. We tried to encourage Tanya to stop, but she couldn’t. Denial had its grip on both of them. Tammy herself was adamant that she wasn’t dying, even as her body clearly showed otherwise. Her abdomen had turned a deep purple, her legs were growing cold, and she was visibly fading.
The nurses did their best to help Tammy understand. They came into the room and gently explained that her time was near, but she refused to accept it. So I did what felt impossibly hard. As a nurse myself, I knew I had to be the one to tell her. I sat beside her and explained, as compassionately as I could, that she was dying. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.
Tammy still resisted the truth. She told us she wanted to hold on until the New Year. But her body had other plans, it was simply too weak to carry her that far.
After that moment of clarity, everything happened quickly. Within just a few days, Tammy passed. Her family was gathered around her, and her nephew Conner, a pastor, stood near, quietly praying. When she took her last breath, I was told a single tear traced down her cheek, as if to say she wasn’t quite ready to go.
I don’t think anyone ever truly is. Maybe death isn’t something we prepare for, it’s something we eventually accept. And in that moment of surrender, I believe someone is waiting on the other side. Someone who gently reaches out, takes your hand, and guides you home.
25% Percent 