EDITOR’S NOTE:
On the evening of March 4th, I had the pleasure of joining Ann Cutbill Lenane as a guest at her monthly Wise & Wonderful Women event to discuss Grief Dialogues: The Experience. Alongside Director Dani Davis and death doula and artist Lauren Seeley, I took part in a meaningful conversation on grief, guided by thoughtful questions from our gracious host, Ann.
A few of Ann’s guests shared their own stories of loss and grief, and several allowed me to publish them on this website. I am honored.
Today, we share this story from Jami Bernard, an award-winning former film critic, author of 10 books, and a developmental editor. Her essay, What Sisters Don’t Say, is a poignant, deeply personal reflection on the complex, often contradictory bond between sisters. Through moments of estrangement, awkward reconnection, shared humor, caregiving, and final goodbyes, the author traces a journey from confusion and emotional distance to intimacy and grief.
Marked by sharp wit, unflinching honesty, and emotional vulnerability, the piece captures the lifelong dance of sibling relationships—how they can wound and heal, push away and pull close, all at once. At its heart, the essay is a love letter to a sister who was both a thorn and a lifeline, a story about forgiveness without resolution, and the enduring echoes of a final, long-awaited “I love you.”
-Elizabeth Coplan
When we were in our early twenties, my sister and I didn’t speak for a few years. She even wrote me out of her will with the ominous codicil: “Jami will know why.”
To this day, I do not know why. Later, Diane and I would laugh about it; even she could not remember why.
In my early thirties, I decided it was time to get to know my sister, who was two and a half years older and a complete mystery to me. Every Friday night, we would go out to dinner and she would sleep over. The first of these dinners was so awkward, I wanted to crawl out of my skin — we had nothing to say aside from anodyne comments on the food, usually veal parmigiana. “Mmm.” “Delicious.”
After a few months of this, I realized that somewhere along the way, we had stopped being awkward and had started nattering away and were back to making the silly jokes of our childhood, finishing with a laugh that would turn into a cackle and end on a series of duck quacks. Don’t worry, these were not high-end restaurants.
When I had breast cancer in 1996, Diane slept over whenever I had chemo. I screamed in the night: “There are bees!” (I am terrified of insects.) She rushed to my side: “There aren’t any bees; I checked.” We figured out it was the sound of her snoring.
She always finished my sentences when I flailed about for a word. We smugly corrected each other’s pronunciation, gleeful to one-up each other. I still held it against her that when I was five, she talked me out of my Catherine doll and made me trade it for a piece of string. Diane was very persuasive.
As a child, she stole from me, lied about me, called me stupid. As an adult, with her bipolar disorder and OCD, she never let me hug her, not even on birthdays. She worried about me. I worried about her. She was a thorn in my side. She was the last person I called before I went on airplane mode on transatlantic flights. Sister relationships are complicated.
For the entire past year, I was her primary caretaker as she succumbed to metastatic stage four bile duct cancer, which slowly robbed her of all her pleasures — reading, researching our family tree (she didn’t want to actually meet the new cousins she found, only make spreadsheets listing them), listening to Enya, collecting the most hideous (my opinion) figurines. The last time I was able to coax her out to a restaurant was in April: veal parmigiana, of course, although she could barely swallow any. She went through the motions anyway: Mmm. Delicious.
Hospitals. ECT. Meds, dozens upon dozens of them. She had never let me see her naked; I bathed her. Her best friend, Patty, and I spoon-fed her what turned out to be her last meal: mashed potatoes and Coca-Cola. I played Enya for her, trying to hide my sobs: Sail away, sail away, sail away.
We never got to have the Big Conversation that I assumed would come, but there was a moment when I thanked her for running interference with our parents so that I could have the fancy, high-flying life I craved. “You’re very welcome,” she said, as if she had expected me to realize this all along. When I am overcome with grief now, I repeat aloud, like a mantra: “Thank you, Diane.” “You’re very welcome.”
We are a family that never said I love you. On one of my sister’s final days, I got up the courage: “Diane, I love you.” Her eyes FLEW open in shock and wet-eyed happiness; she mumbled back something garbled, but I knew what it was.
Diane died Dec. 19. I am furious at her for leaving me. I want to call her twenty times a day: Diane, how do I handle probate? Diane, what was the name of the summer camp we went to? I look up at the ceiling and speak aloud: Diane, what’s the word I want? Where can it be?
6 Responses
My sister is still with me. And my daughters are finding their way to one another. Thank you for this. Says it all.
==I spoon-fed her what turned out to be her last meal: mashed potatoes and Coca-Cola. I played Enya for her, trying to hide my sobs: Sail away, sail away, sail away.==
Hard not to feel that deep within. My sister is four years younger, still loves me, and knows me better than I know myself. But she’s gentle about it.
Thank you, Jami. You found the right words.
(h/t Myron)
Thank you for sharing this story about your relationship with your sister.
Jami thank you for sharing the story about your sister and you ! I’m sure she love you too !
so touching and raw. loved this! so sorry for your loss Jami!