Eulogy for a sister

When Rachel was twelve, she kept a notebook titled "Things I Will Do." Number one was "become a doctor." Number two was "see the ocean." Number three was "make sure Emily is okay." I'm Emily.

Thank you all for being here. I know many of you came from the hospital, and she would be embarrassed and very pleased.

Rachel did become a doctor. She was a pediatrician in this city for eighteen years, the one parents called at eleven at night and who always called back. She saw the ocean, finally, at twenty-two, and after that she went back every summer. And she made sure I was okay for forty-one years.

When I was nineteen and dropped out of college, our parents were furious. Rachel was in medical school, working impossible hours. She called me every single night for three months. She never told me what to do. She just asked, "What did you do today?" and listened. By spring, I had an answer I was proud of. I went back to school because she made me want a good answer.

To her husband, David, and to Leah and Ben: she talked about you the way she talked about the ocean, as the best thing she had ever seen.

Last month, going through her things, I found the notebook. She had checked off every item. Next to number three, in newer ink, she had written "still working on it."

Rachel, I'm okay. You can check it off. I love you, and I'll keep asking myself what I did today.

People always asked us what it was like to be twins. We never had a good answer, because we didn't know anything else. I'm going to have to learn now. Kim made it look easy to be one of two.

My sister was the boss of our family from the age of seven. She organized birthdays, vacations and, when we were older, every one of our weddings. I don't think any of us will know where to stand in photos anymore.

Through two years of treatment, Laura never stopped being Laura. She corrected the nurses' grammar, she planned her friends' birthdays from a hospital bed, and she laughed at her own jokes before she finished them.