My sister, Terese Langdon, learned she was terminal at the darkest time of the year.

The short days and overcast skies of late autumn seemed to mirror our sorrow. She knew she’d likely pass over the winter. And, she did.

She was buried in St. Louis during a wild snowstorm in February.

She couldn’t stop fate but she could have a say in her funeral proceedings. She requested a special memorial service for Chicago family and friends be held here in the spring. She’d hoped a nice day might remind mourners that life is beautiful and must go on.

The weather complied and the day seemed inspiring. But it was truly her efforts during those dark days that ingrained her final wish in me.

In the months before her death, despite incredible pain, fatigue and fear, Terese selflessly prepared us for her passing.

I understand now that end of life planning goes beyond beneficiary designations and the distribution of stuff. Getting your affairs in order also means preparing loved ones for your absence, as best you can.

I was with her last October when she first learned she was terminal. As the doctor left the room, she grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s talk every day, about everything.”

I believe we did just that, right up to her final week.

We talked about her health, her symptoms and her blessed life.

We recounted her many travels, the challenges she’d risen to, the obstacles she’d overcome, the relationships she’d treasured and the hurts she’d learned to dismiss.

We relived our childhood, the good and the bad. We talked about our adventures, our mishaps, our dreams, both realized and unfulfilled. We talked about our best days and our worst moments.

And she told me how much she hoped her family would be OK.

Sometimes she turned the focus to me – my strengths, my struggles, her hopes for me. She thanked me for the fun times we’d shared on trips to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,Florida beaches and Greek islands. And we dismissed our petty disagreements as a byproduct of sisterhood and proof of our humanity.

I told her how much I would miss her, that she’d been my mentor, sometimes my mother, sometimes my conscience, often my best friend. I thanked her for celebrating my biggest wins and consoling my smallest defeats and, mostly, for loving me.

We laughed at how age had seized us so quickly, seemingly overnight. I am convinced now that there are as many tears in old age as there are in babyhood, as we navigate this world of loss.

Most of our conversations were over the phone because we lived so far apart but I also visited every few weeks.

Despite her very heavy burden, her focus was outward, on her husband, children and grandchildren. I brought my recorder on one visit and she dictated specific words of encouragement to each. I turned them into keepsake letters for her to distribute.

She welcomed as many visiting relatives and friends as she could endure, always apologizing for being too tired to do more.

She even helped plan her memorial service, lightening the decision-making load on her family’s shoulders.

Terese lived most of her adult life as an Air Force spouse, so perhaps she was conditioned to put the needs of others first. The quiet heroes of the military are often the husbands and wives of those who serve. Not only do their career pursuits take a backseat to the soldier’s commitment, they are typically the ones charged with keeping home life calm amid a lifestyle that can be unsettling.

So many times, Terese put aside her own bundle of nerves at the prospect of starting at a new base — which meant new housing, new schools, new friends — so that she could quell the fears of her family.

I suppose you could say she was groomed for her final mission.

My sister’s resolve as she lie dying is what I hang onto in my darkest moments, when her absence seems unbearable. Yes, I remember the suffering, but I also remember the encouragement. And I will always carry her message of love and perseverance in my heart.

She is my model for how to die with dignity and grace: at home, at peace with the world, inhaling and exhaling love.

On one of my last visits, Terese handed me a poem and asked if I would read it at her service. She felt the message, derived from Jewish folklore and put into verse by poet and clergyman Henry Van Dyke during the 1850s, offered a comforting way to look at death.

I have modified it for our time. I hope its sentiment comforts you if, or when, you need it.

‘Gone From my Sight’

We are standing at the seashore, admiring a mighty, beautiful ship.

She spreads her white sails, greeting the breeze, and starts out to sea.

She is an object of strength. She is magnificent. Her bow glistens. Her deck is steady as she picks up speed. Her sails catch the wind and harness its power, amplifying her prestige, solidifying her purpose, ushering her along.

Farther.

Farther.

Farther away.

We watch, helpless, until at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud on the horizon. We squint and strain and hold fast to her disappearing presence – panicked, fearful, unbearably sad to see her go.

At last, she is a dot, just where the sea and the sky come to mingle.

And, someone says, “She is gone.”

“What?” We weep, eyes frantically searching the skyline.

But gone where?

Gone from our sight. That is all.

Even as her image seems to melt, she is just as large in mast and hull. She is just as powerful and beautiful and mighty and determined.

She is just as she was when she left our side.

Her diminished size is in us — not in her.

And, just at the moment when someone says, “She is gone,” there are other eyes watching her approach, and other voices ready to take up the cheer,

“Here she comes!”

“Here she comes!”

“She is here!”

And that is dying.

Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.

donnavickroy4 @gmail.com