Having That Hard Conversation

February 19, 2026

 Tension, strife, struggle.

Something’s on the other side.

A wink and a smile.

The hardest conversation I have ever had, maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was to tell my sister that it was time for her let go of living and to prepare for the end of her life. Some of you may know parts of this story. Perhaps it’s coming to mind today because there is a very hard thing that we are all facing and may not know how to move forward on it, or in it.

After my sister had finally received a correct diagnosis, her cancer was already in stage four. Neither her doctor nor the hospital handled her care well. Her treatment plan didn’t help, and even though they should not have offered her any more chemo, they did. Even harder to watch was her getting excited about the possibility of a better outcome. She still wanted to try.

My father taught all seven of us how to work together as a team when we were young. All of the siblings were on a conference call when my sister’s daughter shared this news that the doctor wanted to try another round of chemo. My sister had lost her voice by that time and could only write messages. This was before Zoom.

Both of my sisters and my niece came to my house. We were sitting at the dining room table while on this call. When my niece read that my older sister had written that she wanted to return for another try at chemo, no one said a word. The phone had dead air. My niece, my younger sister and I all exchanged silent, shocked glances. But my older sister was so excited. Joyous. Smiling. Clapping her hands. The cancer was affecting her brain.

Who’s going to tell her? Who’s going to tell her that the doctor should never have offered another round?  Who’s going to tell her that truthfully, her sun is setting?

Yes, we all prayed for miracles. But this miracle would be of a different sort.

I went to church that Sunday, found a section that had some empty seats around me because I needed to be alone. I spent the entire service weeping. Some friends noticed and kept looking over at me, but I got a chance to get a good cry out. How do I tell her? But I can’t let the doctor abuse my sister any longer. What words work? How do I start the conversation? My friends checked on me after service, but what could they say? Sometimes a hug is all you have.

Since my father was being treated for cancer simultaneously, my younger sister and I split duties. My house was 2 miles east of my parents, and in walking distance of his hospital, so I would transport him to his appointments. My younger sister would give my older sister a lift to the hospital, which was on her way to work.

Once we knew that treatment was a lost cause, my younger sister relieved herself of that trip. But the following week she got a text from my older sister in all caps. Apparently all caps is how you yell at someone when you no longer have a voice. She was demanding to go to the hospital to resume treatment. My niece happened to stop by her mom’s place and walked in on that tantrum. Distraught, my niece phoned me and asked if I would intervene.

And that is how the conversation began.

Come and sit. Let’s talk.

I told my big sister that I hated what was happening to her. That she had been treated carelessly while this disease was taking over her body. That I loved her. That I was not going to allow the doctor or the hospital use her for data. That it was time to let go.

I let that rest with her for a few minutes before telling her that I wanted to take her somewhere because this was a lot to sit with. There is a fabulous greenhouse run by the city, tucked away a few miles from my house. It’s in the community where we grew up. Rooms are filled with all manner of botanical wonders. Gurgling fountains provide the perfect spot for meditating. She took a bench while I strolled from around indoors and outdoors.

After some time I peeped in to check on her. She was writing on a notepad. More time passed and I came back through. She was smiling as she showed me the note pad’s cover. It was from a hospice center. My sister was ready now.

On the ride back to her place, a thought came to me. Sometimes the miracle that we get isn’t the one we’ve been hoping for. It’s not the magic wand waving things away. It’s not about that one specific thing we need to make our lives or our situations better. That one specific way we need things to work out. Sometimes the miracle is when we change ourselves. It’s when we show up differently. When we stop trying to control the circumstances and take our hands off the wheel and let God do what God knows how to do. She agreed.

About two weeks after my sister entered that hospice center my parents got a call that she was non-responsive and they should get there as soon as possible. I drove them over. My younger sister had already arrived. Surprisingly my older sister had awakened. But before we went in to see her, one of the staff members took us to a private space and told us that we should say our goodbyes to her. I’m terrible at closing things off. I didn’t “hear” what the woman was saying.

We went to the room, and my sister was sitting up and smiling, full of energy – so alive. That’s probably why I didn’t take in what the woman was saying. I visited for a few minutes before leaving to take my father out and attend to his schedule. I said that I would see her the next day. She was smiling one of her really big smiles. She winked, blew some kisses and started waving. I didn’t get it.

 Looking back, it was the kind of wave that people give when someone who has been visiting is about to leave and make that long trip home. When everyone walks out to the car, and you say good-bye over and over. It starts in the kitchen while you’re sitting at the table. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.” Then you walk to the front door and say good-bye again, but keep talking. Move onto the front porch to talk some more. Walk to the car and say good-bye, but no one gets into the car. Finally, into the car and starting the engine, but the car is not in gear yet. Eventually, the car pulls off, and that hand goes up and waves with so much enthusiasm.

Enjoyed spending time with you. Hate to leave, but I gotta go home now.

It was that kind of wave. That kind of smile.

She went home that night.

Maybe in that non-responsive state she was getting her first glimpse of heaven. I missed that cue. But if I did what I was supposed to do, which was have that difficult conversation, then I will have to be okay with not having given her one last kitchen table-front door-front porch-driveway hug.

There was so much tension and struggle before. After the conversation, which was really a monologue, she stopped struggling. Away from the noise, the greenhouse helped her be still and see the big picture of everything. Reaching in her purse, she found her next right step.

Miracles bring peace. She found hers.

If you are faced with having a hard conversation, take time to feel all the angst, then walk into it. If you believe in God, trust that the infinite Creator of the universe will show up.