About three and half weeks ago I got a panicked call from my Dad too late on a Sunday night telling me that my sister was unresponsive and I should get there fast. The drive to their house, a mile from mine, was the longest drive of my life. Ten minutes before I was trying to shake off sleep and find a bra - because that somehow seemed important.
When I got to the house my Dad said, "I think she died."
She did die. There were police SUV's and police officers and no paramedics. No one was trying to save her life. She was gone. Through all the noise and confusion and the strange people in my parents newly remodeled house, there was a deafening silence. And I lost my footing. I gagged. It felt like I was in a airplane that hit turbulence.
But somehow I was still standing.
Waves of pain hit me. I would regain semi-consciousness and recognize the shock and horror on my parents face. I could smell alcohol on my mom's breath. I wanted a drink, too. But that wouldn't help matters.
They wouldn't let me see her. They wouldn't let me get her two month old puppy from her room. They wouldn't let her boyfriend stay in the same room with my parents and me.
Everyone had to be interviewed. They asked me questions I can't remember answering about her health.
They found a needle and empty bags from some drug.
She had been in treatment for heroin addiction just a month prior. And three months prior. And in the hospital with infiltrate induced pneumonia from smoking crack that winter. And in treatment for an eating disorder just a few months before that.
I had seen her the night before. We hugged and said, "i love you," and I noticed that she was sweaty and clammy and not right but she really hadn't been right for some time. I didn't think anything of the silly thing that she made me do - the thing I used to do when she was a kid and I was a teenage to make her laugh - a thing no one will ever understand except us.
I still can't believe she's gone.
It's been three weeks and I still wake up in the morning confused about this new reality - the one where my sister can't text me late at night because she's dead.
The coroner came to the house to get her body. It was a young woman - younger than me. She was nice and she explained that they would have to do an autopsy to find out the cause of death.
And that we could have her body picked up by the funeral home after the autopsy was completed.
A detective came to talk with us and ask questions about Angela's life, her friends, her comings and goings. They took her phone. They took her boyfriends phone.
After all the police and the coroner left my Dad and I went to our family business' office and told people what happened. We weren't even sure except I heard him say that my sister died from a drug overdose.
I called my friends. I called them before it was okay to call people especially on a Monday morning. I had to call members of the family. I needed to be strong, present and helpful. I couldn't hide under the covers and pretend this wasn't real. I couldn't drink.
My friends came and saved me. They let me cry and be stunned.
The next day I stayed busy with activity - finding pictures for the obituary, having coffee with a friend - helping pick out the urn for my sister's ashes. Picking relatives up from the airport. Making arrangements.
I posted the news on Facebook. Someone wrote message on the board at the AA Fellowship - Angela and I were both members. Once upon a time we went to meetings together.
The service was lovely - hundreds of people were there. Angela's friends from high school planned a real service. My friends came - they hugged me and made sure I drank water so I didn't dehydrate from crying.
This is what happens the first week after someone dies.
Now, I am trying to build a life without my sister. I haven't know a world without her. I was three when she was born.
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