I was headed to Kansas City to meet my friend Tyler for a concert when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. As I flipped open my pink RAZR phone and read the text message from my mom, my heart sank. “Call me,” was all she said, but I knew what those two words meant, and I quickly hit the dial button.

My mom broke the news that my sister, Karla, had lost her year-long battle with bile duct cancer. I wasn’t surprised, but I was no less devastated. Tears began to stream down my cheeks and the rest of my drive that afternoon was a blur.

My sister was 49 years old when she died, while I was just 18. My siblings span generations because my parents span them — my 75-year-old dad is almost 23 years older than my mom. They were both married before and had children in those marriages. Because 30 years separated Karla and me, she often felt more like an aunt than a sister.

Because of our age difference, my sister always seemed overprotective and I often resented the authority she had over me. It seemed that during every vacation she was constantly bugging me to apply more sunscreen or to accept her offering of hand sanitizer after touching anything that could be germ-ridden. Since Karla was a passionate librarian, I could always count on her for a new book under the tree each Christmas, and she continued to send them even though she knew they’d likely end up gathering dust in my closet. Ultimately, she did finally accept my disinterest in reading for leisure and sent me a new wristwatch for my high school graduation instead.

Karla was diagnosed with bile duct cancer in the fall of 2005. Her cancer was so rare (only about 2,000 people are diagnosed in the U.S. each year) that the only treatments available were experimental methods and the survival rate was not encouraging.

I vividly remember the day Karla called my dad from her home in Rhode Island to tell him about her diagnosis. I was in a rush to get out of the house that Saturday morning to get to my high school for a marching band competition when I found my dad sobbing in my mom’s arms in the kitchen. I was running late, so my mom told me about my sister’s call and sent me on my way, promising to update me later. I went through the motions with my school band that morning but was constantly checking my cell phone as my mom sent me details of Karla’s diagnosis. These updates were my constant companion over the next year as she went through each treatment and went in and out of remission.

Instead of taking her diagnosis as a death sentence, Karla spent her final year celebrating her favorite things in life. Without hesitation she bought season tickets to the Broadway series at the Providence Performing Arts Center in Rhode Island. She traveled to the Florida Keys, Puget Sound and accompanied my niece on a school trip to Selma, Ala.

It was hard for me to fathom how my sister always managed to keep such a positive attitude. Shortly after her death, my dad told me a few things about Karla’s life that helped me understand where her undying resilience came from. During their 27-year marriage, Karla and her husband, Jason, had four children. In 1989, my nephew Lane died in a freak accident when he was just 2 years old. While playing with his brother, Lane choked on a piece of the carrot he had been eating and he was unable to be resuscitated.

A few months later, Karla was overjoyed to become pregnant with her third child. However, after carrying my niece for eight months, doctors advised my sister that because of complications, her baby wasn’t likely to live long after birth. Karla named her unborn daughter Hope and carried the baby to term. Hope died just two hours after she was born. Despite the loss of two children in just one year, Karla refused to give up her dream of

GRASPING FOR HOPE

How one text message changed my life forever

having another child. In 1992, my niece Hannah was born. Hannah is 18 now and is quickly turning into a spitting image of my sister.

In August 2006, Karla made one final visit to our family in Kansas. One highlight of her visit was the trip we took to get my niece’s ears pierced, an experience Karla wanted to make sure she shared with Hannah. In the four years since, I’ve made it a tradition to send a new pair of earrings to Hannah for Christmas or her birthday.

On the last day of her visit, my sister spent hours playing with one of our kittens, a memory I cherish so much that I eventually got a tattoo to symbolize it.

In the tattoo designed by my childhood friend, Johnny, my sister is memorialized on the left side of my back in the form of a cat with blue eyes, the color of Karla’s, sitting on a book bearing Karla’s initials and holding a ball of yarn because she was an avid knitter. When I sent a picture to Hannah, she loved my new ink, but my brother-in-law remarked that Karla would’ve been mortified that I had a tattoo in her honor.

The month of October 2006 was by far one of the hardest months of my life. Karla’s illness was getting worse by the day, my parents had to put one of our cats to sleep, I was going through my first real break-up and my brother Mike filed for a divorce. All of these things combined with the stress of my first semester at college were beginning to get to me.

When I received that awful text message from my mom, it felt like I’d reached rock bottom and my first thought was to turn my car around and return to my dorm. However, I knew that if I did I’d end up crying in bed the rest of the night. Sobbing, I pulled over and thought back to all of the things Karla overcame to make the most out of her life, even in her last year. In the spirit of my sister, I decided to go to the concert, trying my hardest to have a good night. Remembering Karla’s undying hope is the only thing that got me through that night — and many more difficult ones since.

It’s been three years since my sister passed and she still inspires me on a daily basis. Her memory helps me to look at difficult situations and see hope and beginnings instead of endings.