I probably never would have thought of participating in the Big Climb if my sister Celia hadn’t died of leukemia almost a year ago. If you’ve read my previous posts, you know that there’s a bit of hero worship going on when I talk about her. Celia was a terrific person, the kind of sister anyone would love to have. I did the Big Climb in her memory. But I felt more of a sense of loss than accomplishment at the top of the 1,311 stairs I climbed in the Columbia Center. I felt like Celia should have been climbing with me, but we’ll never have that chance. I was glad to see posters of leukemia and lymphoma survivors posted on many of the floors in the Columbia stair well, but I couldn’t help feeling a little resentful. Why didn’t my sister make it? Why was her poster “in memory of” rather than “in honor of”?

Supposedly time heals all wounds, but this one feels as raw as it did that day last May when my dad told us Darren was going to take Celia off the ventilator because she had a blood clot in her brain and the doctors couldn’t detect any brain function. That day I thought there was still time for a miracle — but the one I wanted didn’t happen. God took my sister without asking my permission or anyone else’s. I still can’t think of a good reason why. But I firmly believe that Celia is still being her wonderful self and helping others find more purpose in their existence.

Climbing the Columbia tower was hard, especially because I hadn’t done any training for it. I had thought about climbing the stairs on the Fremont side of Queen Anne hill — 15-20 times up the 80 stairs should have been decent training — but I let general grad school busyness get in the way. Even with my flabby, untrained legs, I would do back-to-back Big Climbs every day for the rest of my life if it would bring my sister back. It won’t. But I’ll try to keep climbing. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough and make it high enough to get to where Celia is.

Those of you who knew Celia know what an amazing person she was. Those of you who didn’t know her, I wish you could have. She was smart, funny, kind — everything a big sister should be. She encouraged my love of reading even before I could tell an A from a Q. We had a deal that I could get in bed with her at night and she would read to me if I let her put her cold feet on my legs to warm them up — I still think I got the better end of that bargain. She always made up original games for me and my brothers and sisters to play, and she came up with the best characters for playing make-believe; Old Dame Dob and Gretchen von Klutz were two of my favorites. Unfortunately, neither of those characters ever made it into any of the numerous family plays she wrote and directed. The audience (Mom, Dad, grandparents) always seemed to love those plays, even though the acting was far from Tony-worthy.

As we grew older, I loved spending hours talking to her. Often when I’d visit her, we’d stay up talking and laughing (she was always laughing — one thing I loved about her) until 2 or 3 in the morning. Then she’d get up at 6 the next day to make sure her kids had everything they needed to make it to school prepared and on time. And she was always cheerful doing it. She was one of my best examples of love, compassion and selflessness in life, and I’m eternally grateful for the time I’ve spent with her.

Update: Here’s a slideshow from Celia’s funeral.