When Life Happens: Remembering My Sister and Her Fight with Parkinson’s

I had set August aside to work on commissions. I thought I’d have a quiet month to focus, paint, and catch up.

And then life happened.

There has been a lot of joy this summer, but also a deep sadness. My big sister, Shamsher—Sheri to most of us—lost her long fight with Parkinson’s.

She was the oldest and I was the youngest. Technically, she was my half sister, but that was never a distinction anyone in our family made. Not my brothers, not my mother or father, and certainly not me. She was simply my sister.

Sheri was married two years before I was born and had already settled in Seattle. I never imagined that when I got married, I would end up settling here too. Somehow, our lives brought us to the same city, and I was given the gift of having my sister close by for 26 years.

She was there when I had my kids, and I was able to be there as she became sick. But when I think about her, I don't want to think only about those later years.

I think about all the stuff in between.

Sheri was part sister, part mother. She taught me how to make roti, took me camping, taught me how to paint a house and make a blackberry pie, and was there for so many of the everyday moments that make up a life. There were family gatherings, countless conversations, and those very Seattle moments.

She took me for my first Dick’s burger. It doesn't get more Seattle than that.

She was my biggest fan and supporter, especially when it came to my art.

Her strength was quiet. She was graceful—with a capital G—intelligent, creative and an entrepreneur. She had an incredible ability to do so much and somehow do it all with a smile on her face.

And she was interested in everyone. She wanted to meet your friends, know what they were up to, and somehow remembered them all. She'd ask about people I hadn't mentioned in years. She genuinely cared about the people in our lives.

My Sister and I at my featured show at Columbia City Gallery

I think what I’ll miss most are the everyday things. Being able to pick up the phone and tell her something completely mundane. A funny story. Something one of the kids did. Something I was working on. Something I knew she'd find interesting.

Just being able to call her.

Those are the things you don't realize you have until suddenly you don't.

I’m going to miss her terribly.

But I also feel incredibly lucky that we had those 26 years in the same city. That she was close when I needed her, that I could be close when she needed me, and that we got all those years of being sisters—whatever the calendar or technicalities might have said.

For now, I'm letting myself be a little distracted from the commissions and the studio. There will always be paintings to finish.

Right now, I'm just grateful for the memories—and for having had a sister like Sheri.