My sister has pulled herself out of a life of drug addiction and street living. In her sixties she finally managed to kick the habit and now lives in assisted living for the elderly in a nice little apartment, enjoying her life. She loves a visit, a meal out, getting her hair done, or just listening to the radio and playing cards.

Diagnosed as schizophrenic in her early twenties, my sister has had a tough life, with some good times among the tough terrain. She has spent quite a bit of her life in psychiatric wards and rough housing. My mom was always there to pick her up after a drug overdose or beating and get her back to a new life with new housing and new doctors. My sister has tried to kill herself numerous times, with pills, by sheer dangerous neglect with horrible men, or once by jumping off a bridge.

The last ten years or so she has been on crack, and her life was deteriorating even further. I always visited her, no matter where she lived. We have always been close and even at her worst she was a loving sister. From my high school years on I prepared for her death. I expected one of her suicide attempts to work, or even worse, I tried to prepare myself for her broken body being found in an alley.

Before she managed to fight off her addiction, she lived in the lowest form of subsidized housing. The type of housing that accepts the presence of crack dealers. One day, years ago, when my other sister and I went for a visit for her birthday we had to sit in her trashed room with a young dealer in a new leather jacket. My sister was getting older and weaker and that life was hard. She was scared of people beating her for her ‘debts’.

In that particular time of her addicted life she was saved from drug over dose a few times by a doctor that happened to be visiting when she almost passed. This same doctor, Dr. Patricia Cavanagh, continued to offer rehab and never gave up on her. Before rehab my sister was living rough, a dirty street person muttering about the devil and staring into space. It is because of this CAMH doctor, and her careful doctoring with my sister’s antipsychotic meds, that my sister has a safe and comfortable life right now.

This would all be remarkable enough, but there is more to say. I have noticed that every time I visit that my sister continues to improve. She takes more care with her clothes and appearance (and even at her worse she dressed nicely), she is easier to understand when she is speaking, and most amazing, she is expecting more from life. She talks about cutting back on cigarettes and getting more exercise.

In my last visit to Toronto I was exhausting myself rushing all over town with errands but I would always make the time to visit her, pretty much every day, because I know she misses me a lot. One day I had my two sons with me and we made our way over to her place on the streetcar. She met us at the smoking bench outside the building raring to go.

We got her wheelchair and headed down to her favorite breakfast place, a friendly spot that treats her well, but it was closed! As we stood on the street a place appeared across the road, as if from a mist, that I had never noticed before. A charming French bistro with a sidewalk café. I think it was called Bijou.

As we settled into our seats a casually dressed but young and attractive server came over. My sister, completely toothless, sitting up in her wheel chair, looking a bit like a powerful witch with her black dyed hair and black nail polish, ordered very clearly, ‘I’ll have the steak and frites, blue’ winning over the server staff forever more. The last time my son took her there they gave her a free glass of red wine.

My boys shared a bit of food and some drinks, we all enjoyed the perfect late summer evening and I felt the presence of my passed mom’s spirit hovering happily When my sister received her ‘blue’ steak (which she ate without chewing) she took the steak knife in her hand and staring at it with her huge expressive eyes, she said, ‘Et tu, Brute?’, which made us all laugh. She is quite the character, a lot of fun, witty, silly and self deprecating.

I was delighted to have this lovely evening to rest my feet and relax. In the past she was always anxious to keep moving and I didn’t want the evening to end so I started asking her about herself. When I asked her where she had traveled in her lifetime I was reminded of the full life she has led. She has been to Paris, to L.A. and to Jamaica. All places I have never been.

For a moment she was just a regular person telling a story at a dinner party. Then she suddenly stopped herself, censored herself, with a ‘No, I won’t tell that story’. Maybe she stopped that story to protect me or maybe it was for some other reason. Maybe she suddenly felt shy with all of us looking at her with love and admiration.

When I said goodbye to her on my last day we stood looking at each other, eye to eye. She said something about someone she knew who hated life, and I said, ‘But you don’t hate life now, right?’ and she said ‘No, I am happy, I am alright, I am happy’.

And then she surprised me with a full hug and kiss. And I have to remember, I am her little sister. She is my doting older sister who always guesses how I am feeling and wants me to be safe and well.