It is officially FREEZING outside, even here in NC! The best thing about cold Winter nights, curling up with a good book under plenty of blankets and just embracing a story! I have discovered a book that warms and aches the soul at the same time!
I'm a sister, I'm a mother, so this book brilliantly pulls at my heartstrings!
SixtyFive Roses by Heather Summerhayes Cariou {with a forward by Celine Dion} is so touching yet so uplifting and is a perfect read for the Winter months!
Right from the beginning it's a tear jerker, a story about sisters, their bond, and their fight against a sad disease; this family's life was changed forever by Cystic Fibrosis and we thank Heather for sharing her story!
Here is an excerpt that I hope makes you run over to purchase this book:
My sister tries to breathe. Her lungs make crackling sounds as
she takes quick, shallow gasps, her chest heaving in short bursts
followed by long drawn out moments of utter stillness, each one longer
than the last. My heart jumps before she breathes again. Her lips are
blue. They flutter almost imperceptibly beneath the plastic of her
oxygen mask. Her eyes are closed.
My own breath comes hard against the pain of losing her. I hold
her hand, sitting next to her bed in the room where she once dreamed
her teenage dreams. Gray light bleeds through curtains drawn against a
late summer storm. We are cocooned by death and the sound of heavy rain.
As children, we loved to watch it storm - the wind flailing the
trees, the lightning stabbing the sky, the rain thrashing its way
toward earth. We stood together in the open doorway breathing in the
dank sweet air, squealing, clutching each other with fear and glee at
every clap of thunder. The mixing bowls, pots and pans we placed in the
driveway spilled over with soft rainwater. After the storm died, we
stood together at the kitchen sink using the rain we'd saved to wash
each other's hair.
But that was long ago, when rain was clean and hope was still a blessing.
She stirs, yanking the mask from her face, slowly focusing her eyes.
"Where's Mom?"
"Making tea. I'll get her."
We three are alone in the house. My brothers and sister-in-law
have not arrived yet. My father is out at the pharmacy picking up
morphine to mix with Pam's favorite peach brandy. "Bromptman's
Cocktail" it is called, a drink prescribed for death, to ease the pain.
Quickly I fetch my mother from the kitchen, but linger in the
hallway while she ministers to Pam. Our baby pictures hang along the
wall. There I am, the proud big sister, not quite three, with Pam
nestled up beside me, almost a year old. She has just learned to sit.
There we are again, our infant brother Gregg propped between us,
leaning on my sheltering arm. I am six and Pam is four. She grins
triumphantly, having just pulled a bow from her hair. I remember her
annoyance at that bow the moment before the shot was taken. I remember
her chesty cough, and the way she matter-of-factly explained it to the
photographer. “I have Sixtyfive Roses.” She couldn’t pronounce the name
of her disease. Cystic Fibrosis.
"Heather," my mother whispers behind me, "Pam wants to see you."
I go in and stand at the foot of her bed. My stomach lurches as I
realize that when she speaks, her words will be the last we share. She
sits upright, propped by pillows, her fragile arms stretched forward up
and over a hospital table to create more space for air in lungs filling
relentlessly with blood and mucus, lungs punctured and scarred,
frothing, folding in on themselves like wet plastic bags.
She wheezes, the humidity of August a granite slab weighing on
her chest. Her words come hard, slowly, one by one, punctuated by long,
trembling, tortuous breaths that she draws from the center of the
earth. Her hazel eyes bore into me. Her bony fingers, clubbed and
purple at the tips, clench the sides of the table as she struggles to
speak.
Write…our…story,” she commands.
My sister’s voice is not her own.
“Tell…what we…lived through…together.”
A great energy washes through the room, as if a veil between worlds has been lifted. My skin prickles with the sensation.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I will.”
She reaches out, fiercely grasping my hand. ”PROMISE ME.”
“I promise.”
She releases her grip and falls back. A soft roar fills my ears;
the hiss of the rain, maybe, the whirr of my own blood racing, the cold
hush of swift black water as my sister begins to drown and I am swept
alone downstream.
