“After my sister passed in her sleep, I never slept again quite so easily”
“She isn’t breathing, she isn’t breathing, call 9-1-1!” I was nine years old and woke up to frantic yelling from my parents. I jumped down from my neon blue, metal bunk-bed and ran across the hallway. I saw my older sister’s body lying there still, on her white metal trundle bed that had the missing gold final ball at the end that we accidentally kicked off during a sleepover. My parents were yelling, looking at each other, searching for answers, but were only able to move in a forward erratic motion. It was just barely 6:30 AM; her face looked peacefully asleep and her feet were cold to the touch. Her alarm clock continued to keep going off, buzzing, trying to wake her up as it did every school morning. The next thing I remember was the paramedics running in with their backboard, their heavy work boots slamming on the creaky wood floors. One of them hits the glass ballet shoes hanging from her door and it instantly shatters. My mom says to leave it as she watches them perform CPR. I kind of remember her backing out into the hallway and closing my bedroom door-presumably to shield me from seeing them shock her naked chest.
I later ended up having to go to school with a friend’s family, though I didn’t want to go. It didn’t matter much as I would be taken out of class soon after. I wasn’t paying much attention in class. On any other day I’d be all too eager to comment and wisecrack, but not today. Today, I was pleading with God on a scratch notepad. I was begging Him “not to take her” and bargaining “oh God, please take me instead. I swear I’ll be good, just don’t take her.” I did not believe I had any power over how the next moments would happen.
I remember it was a dark October day and it was raining when my principal pulled me from my classroom. I can still smell the fresh rain on the blacktop that I walked across as I followed her, both our heads down in silence. Then the abrupt, pungent old-oaky smell of the main office hallway. I soon approached the nurse’s office, my stomach in knots. I looked up and saw my mom’s swollen, red face, surrounded by friends and family. Nobody had to say anything to me. I already knew- she was gone.
My fourteen-year-old sister stopped breathing in the middle of the night, in her sleep, for no particular medical reason. I didn’t know that the moment I heard the words, “she isn’t breathing,” my relationship with the basic human need of sleep, would forever change.
As a child, I was an active sleeper and kicker, I am told; a sleep talker, even. I had no problem sleeping in till noon sometimes, if I was allowed. I loved to sleep in my bed upside down or hanging off, during a ten minute car ride, on the couch, on the armrest, under the dining table… I was a kid that could sleep anywhere and through anything. After my sister passed in her sleep, I never slept again quite so easily. I became a light sleeper, often startled awake, constantly tossing and turning in my bed. Some nights, I’d be awoken by the presence of my mom’s face a few inches from mine, watching me sleep, holding her breath as she watched for my chest to rise and fall. It happened so frequently, I started to believe myself that I was going to die in my sleep. At times, I wouldn’t fall asleep till 4, 5 even 8 in the morning and then, I couldn’t get out of bed till the afternoon. I later realized that part of the vicious cycle was due to me asking myself, “Why bother getting up when I don’t want to go to school? What’s the point?” I was the girl whose sister died in her sleep, in a tight-knit community, where everyone talked. I felt lonely in my trauma, scared to die in my sleep and uncomfortable with all the overbearing parenting. I was also in a world of pain that needed time to heal.
After many adolescent years of more interrupted sleep in various forms, I eventually developed a moderate depression disorder, followed by an anxiety disorder. Years later I would be diagnosed with OCD of racing, ruminating thoughts. I was also no stranger to having late night, manic-like bursts of energy, where I would start projects, cook full meals, or call and message friends asking “you up?” I could not sleep.
It is no surprise that in my later teen years, instead of fighting to fall asleep, which felt nearly impossible, I would instead sneak out late at night to visit friends and stay out till morning. Other nights, I’d stay at home and drink, take a few Advils or even Nyquil if I was desperate enough, anything to facilitate some drowsiness. This was a quick fix I’d resort to at times. I wasn’t trying to hurt myself; I just wanted to sleep- at least that’s what I would tell myself each time. I didn’t realize at this point, that this was a gateway to future, greater physical and psychological risks that would eventually become a substance abuse problem.
After an unavoidable overdose incident, resulting in a trip to the ICU and a lot of therapy immediately after, I vowed to always remember that just because I felt alone in my pain, does not mean I was the only one experiencing it. I hurt my family and friends in ways I didn’t realize or intend to. They suffered through the pain with and because of me. I knew then that I needed to practice better, healthier boundaries in all my relationships, including the one with myself. I realized I only have one life to live, and should live the life my middle sister never got to. But most importantly, I realized I actually wanted to live.
To this day, almost 25 years after my middle sister’s passing, I still bear the invisible scars of my past, but at least now I am able to channel my anxiety into healthy practices. I do this by balancing a mental diet of meditation practice and various breathing techniques, specifically for stress and anxiety. At night, I put myself to sleep with melodious soundscapes and soothing children’s sleep stories. I also have rituals in place, like applying lavender lotion on my hands and feet, using a diffuser for aromatherapy, drinking herbal tea and often practicing deep stretches or cardio exercises to tire myself out at night. The practice of meditation, just being present and accountable for my overall wellbeing, has made all the difference. I can confidently say that meditation saved my life. Getting up in the morning still isn’t super easy and I do struggle falling asleep at times. However, every day I do get out of bed is a win for me. I live the life I almost lost to my depression. I live the life I inherited from my sister. I live this life that is honest and present. These reminders are the reasons I can sleep at night. I am so grateful to have another day and can’t wait to wake up and meet tomorrow.
My name is Noelle Blanco and I am UNCrushed.
