Opinion: One family's grief at the loss of a sister

Something final about death.

But is it really?

Or is death just the beginning?

Over time, in wrestling with the spiritual side, I’ve come to believe that death is the gateway—eternity for those of both good and evil, the yin and the yang of the universe.

Just my view…It’s taken me a while to get there.

I was tested on this recently.

My older sister, Maureen, a beautiful woman of all accounts—oldest in family of ten, a career nurse in Manhattan and Westchester County where we all grew up in Rye—died recently of a heart attack after suffering from a rare form or blood cancer. Early on, she was a summer resident of Eastham at the family cottage off Cestaro Way, and regularly visited the Outer Cape for six decades.

I was born on Maureen’s birthday, the second oldest, and for 71years we shared the same birthday— kinda like twins. And like “twins,” we pushed each other around a bit over the years, challenging our respective place in a large Irish family. Maureen usually won. Early on, we dubbed her “Mother Superior” for her take-charge manner in herding the rest of us like cats. She later persuaded everyone to call me “Lunchie,” given my penchant then for the “free lunch.”

Maureen’s moniker “Mother Superior” gave way to the self-appointed sobriquet “The Queen,” and well deserved at that. Maureen, indeed, was “The Queen,” and every bit of an angel. She was one of the most caring, upbeat, positive individuals I’ve ever known. In so many ways, she was (and is) the essence of good that we all strive for.

Our family grief is no greater than anyone who has lost a love one. Maureen’s story, in many ways, is a window, a mirror, to grief that we’ve all shared in different ways.

Windows are good for reflection. We often take life for granted, and assume death the universal end.

But is it?

I confess to taking life for granted at times—self-absorbed in my own milieu to the point of not smelling the roses of a loved one. I suppose I’m not alone in this.

Said her son, Stephen, in an eloquent eulogy in a crowded Resurrection Church in Rye, with his sister Amy, and all the grandkids in the front row:

“I think the real essence of Maureen is how happy she always was, and how much joy she found in life and in people. She was always smiling and loved to laugh at anything. You could tell her the sky was falling and she’d start to giggle… She absolutely adored her grandkids. Probably the greatest joy in her life at the end: Vincent, Stella, Dominic, Matthias, and Pia. She lived for them.  Even at 73 years old, she recently showed up at Amy’s son Matthias’ birthday party at Playland in Rye and rode with him in the front seat on the (monster) Dragon Coaster.”

“Maureen’s joy, love of life, and ‘no nonsense’ ability to get things done are traits that will live with me forever,” Stephen said.

A few weeks before Maureen died, she spent precious time on Outer Cape Cod with me, my wife Mary Catherine, and my sisters Lauren and Bernadette—walks on the beach, brilliant sunsets, and some good chardonnay. She loved the peace of the Cape, as did Carl, her husband. We never realized it was a farewell. Such is life…

My last communication with Maureen was via text a few days before she died. I asked how she was feeling, told her how much I loved her, along with more than a score of siblings, grandkids, nieces and nephews. In recent years, the handle “Lunchie” gave way to another name. Maureen began calling me, the “Patriarch.” In her final text to me, perhaps a premonition of what was to come, she wrote: “The Patriarch has spoken…Now do your job!”

I wish I had done a better job early on; birthdays will be lonely now, but resolved in love to follow “The Queen’s” final directive.

The loss of a loved one can yield fruit.

Greg O’Brien, of Brewster, is a former editor and publisher of The Cape Codder and author of 'On Pluto: Inside the Mind of Alzheimer’s.' He is a regular contributor to the newspaper.