WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A SISTER
Growing up, writer Claire Cantor and her sibling Laura could not have been more different. But when shattering adversity hit their family, they discovered the true power of the bond between sisters
The ties that bond
It is 7.30 on a Sunday morning and I am helping my sister Laura put on her clothes as she is too weak and sick to function alone. We are off to the London Clinic for a check-up, where she has just completed a punishing course of chemotherapy and a stem-cell transplant that will hopefully save her from the life-threatening, rare lymphoma that has invaded her body. I am trying to keep it together but it is almost unbearable to see my strong, capable, indomitable sister brought so low. My thoughts are consumed by the deep, almost incomprehensible fear that she might not get through this.
My big sister, this strident, clever woman who has never needed me before, has become helpless and reliant. My fierce need to protect her has taken me by surprise. For 50 years, Laura and I have lived our lives thinking that we just weren’t meant to be close. Yet now, adversity has drawn us together. Discovering our new and evolving relationship has been a revelation.
Our parents will tell you how different we were as kids. Fondly grouping us together as ‘the girls’, with only 21 months between us, we were a female unit until my brother Jonathan was born five years later. I was chatty, dramatic, and musical, gathering friends wherever I went. Laura was more bookish, organised, controlled and selfsufficient. While I would always make my sister laugh, she was the voice of reason. As the older sister, she was always right.
Laura always knew what she wanted. I never knew what I wanted. She would go shopping and come back with a selection of clothes, and I would come back with a pair of tights and a cassette. As we matured, our interests continued to differ. Laura would knit, sew and cook, while I would write for my fictitious newspaper and compose songs that I played on piano and guitar. Laura chose to go to an all-girls school complete with tunics, boaters and lacrosse sticks, whereas my preference was to be with my friends (and boys!) at the local comprehensive. As our teenage years dawned, we began to go our separate ways.
‘For 50 years, Laura and I had lived our lives not being close’
Laura was a first-class maths and science student and then became a pharmacist. I was artsy, and began my career in advertising. I spent a year off swanning around Israel, living on a kibbutz and studying at the Hebrew University. Meanwhile, Laura’s gap year was spent working in a busy hospital in Melbourne. The ultimate divergence came as I set off to live in Paris at the age of 25 and Laura married and started a family. I was living out my childhood dream in a romantic garret flat in the Marais with my now husband, Alain, while Laura was settled in north London with her husband, Colin, a successful businessman, and their two children. Even once I had returned to London and had my own children, there were few areas where our lives coincided. For many years, we only saw each other at family occasions.
Then, all that changed. The unexpected twists and turns of life can alter everything for ever. My sister and I learnt that lesson in the cruellest way possible.
In January 2015, Colin was diagnosed with Stage 3 pancreatic cancer. With this catastrophic news came a shift in our relationship. From living very separate lives, we found ourselves talking daily, analysing the situation endlessly and searching for positive signs that each series of treatments might bring. I tried to bolster my big sister in her time of need. The supporting role became my job, and I was happy to do it.
We tried to remain hopeful as Colin stoically went through rounds of treatments. We busied ourselves with organisational details. We spent hours discussing food – what she could make him that would be both nutritious and appetising, when in reality he only wanted to eat ice cream. And who were we to deny him that? Laura and I were on a joint mission, united in our purpose. We had forgotten about our lifelong differences. We were sisters in tune.
But then we fell deeper into our bleak tunnel. Four months after Colin’s diagnosis, and alone at a check-up for some unexplained lumps in her neck, the examining doctor told Laura, ‘You have lymphoma.’ Half an hour later I was sitting in my sister’s kitchen, holding her as she sobbed. All sense of control was gone.
A year after his diagnosis, Colin passed away. The loss is felt daily. I made myself available to Laura whenever she needed me. Supporting my sister was my full-time job, and it filled my mind.
Soon after, Laura began her debilitating and excruciating treatments. This devastating scenario set the scene for the real change in my relationship with Laura. I realised for the first time what it means to be a sibling. No need to explain anything – a look, a movement, and a silent understanding.
I had been catapulted from the position of the practically ignored younger sister, to chief confidante. I was on speed-dial day and night. I was a place for her to cry, agonise, to take out her stress and to seek solace. She knew she could repeat the same story to me and I would listen.
For nearly three years we have spoken on the phone almost every day. Laura would often call me at six in the morning, crying in disbelief at how her world had come crashing down. There was suddenly a crack in her armour that needed healing. A softness and vulnerability that none of us had witnessed before. I sensed that the deep sibling bond had become her lifeline because I felt her pain acutely. It had become my pain, too.
After 10 months of gruelling treatment, Laura received the news that she was in remission. She is trying to ‘get on with her life.’ And I am now part of that new life in a way that neither she nor I could ever have imagined. In our 50s, we have found a new connection. Nowadays, we go to the theatre together, have dinner and go shopping. We laugh. She asks my opinion. This is all new – and I like it.
When Laura was told she was in remission, she wrote me a letter. ‘I know that, were it not for you, I would not have coped,’ it said. ‘Truthfully, I don’t remember in those awful days exactly what I spoke to you about. I just know that I needed you and you were always there. I came to rely on our conversations. I know they were repetitive and still are as I try to adjust to what has happened to me but not once have you complained, or told me we’ve spoken about something already. Your selfless devotion to me and to my children, the sense that you would be there to catch me if I fell, helped enormously in my recovery. I always felt that we were so different in every way but I see now that those differences will not stop us being close. All that really matters is that I have a sister I love and who loves me.’
Those words wrapped me up like a warm blanket. They were far beyond a simple thank you. I have learnt how precious it is to be appreciated, valued and treasured. Laura’s strength and resilience constantly amazes me. At the time of her deepest torment, I told myself I was just being a sister, as anyone would. Yet before it was threatened and tested, I’d never considered just how deep that sibling bond is, and how much it mattered to us both. We have discovered that out of tragedy, new friendships can be born.