As I read of the mounting deaths due to Covid-19, my heart connects to the families mourning the loss of their loved ones. I know it sounds trite to say every number is a person who was, and still is, loved and cherished by their families, but it’s true. Loved ones being tallied into an unimaginable death toll, desensitizes others to the pain and sorrow of inconceivable loss. 

Ten years ago today, my younger sister, Angie, 45, died of cancer. A month earlier she began experiencing pinching-like pain in her chest, originally thought to be acid reflux. Pain and shortness of breath sent her to the ER on November 22. Blood work and x-rays diagnosed cancer and pneumonia, which was followed by a blur of procedures and hospitalizations over the next two weeks–a lung biopsy, PET scan, lymph node biopsy, a liter and a half of fluid drawn from her lungs, supplemental oxygen … hopelessness.  Angie’s death, the result of an unspecified, rapidly growing cancer, possibly adenocarcinoma, occurred at 4:57 p.m. on Sunday, December 5, 2010, 13 days after she was diagnosed. 

A few similarities can be drawn between Angie’s illness and Covid-19—a rapidly progressing illness affecting the lungs, the need for supplemental oxygen, death coming shortly after diagnosis, and compassionate, caring medical staff who helped shoulder the pain. A striking dissimilarity is that we were able to be with Angie as she died. 

As devastated as we were by her loss, her husband, her son, and my brother and I were able to be with Angie during the final days and hours before her death. My brother and I had flown in to Denver less than 24 hours before she died, from Illinois and Pennsylvania, respectively. We were able to talk to her, hold her hand, stroke her face, rub her feet, kiss her forehead—meld our love for her into every touch, speak words of love and comfort. It made a world of difference to us; we trust it did for her, too. 

We all want to believe that life will be kind and nothing bad will ever happen to us, or if we have had something bad happen, it acts as a kind of insurance against future misfortune. Sadly, lightning can strike more than once. Angie died five months after the cancer death of my eldest sister, Judy. Our sister, Mary, 15 months my senior, died of cancer in 2000. Never in a million years did I ever imagine I’d live much of my adulthood without my sisters.

I know most people reading this follow the scientific information provided to wear masks, social distance, avoid large gatherings, stay home, even if it means not seeing family and friends during the holidays. For anyone who still questions the need for such measures, please consider the families of the 280,000 people who’ve died, and do what you can—wear a mask, show compassion, love people. I saw a post several months ago from a healthcare professional regarding a person disagreeing with the need for masks. The healthcare professional simply replied, “This isn’t an area where opinion is helpful.” Facts are facts.

Wearing a mask wouldn’t have saved my sister, but wearing one now could very likely save someone, as well as their family from experiencing the indescribable anguish of losing a loved one … and not being there to hold their hand and tell them goodbye.