Hannah has completed her Journey

My little sister is loosing her lifelong battle with brain cancer. I never thought I would be writing those words, I have been putting off writing this since before Thanksgiving, as I don’t want to fully believe it myself. After 23 years…

My little sister Hannah Kunkel, 28, soon to be 29, on the 28th of December has recently returned home to our mothers to live the rest of her days on hospice.

4 months ago, Hannah was admitted into AGH through the Emergency room after being hit on her head. After a MRI, they found a mass again at the center of my sisters brain. After a week of a extremely fast decline, from walking into the hospital talking, texting us, answering questions, eating, telling stories, living on her own…to bedridden, not being able to communicate, to not being able to use normal functioning movements, to basically dying more every day and leaving a shell with a little bit of my sister left hidden inside.

Hannah’s cancer is irreversible. It’s like a faucet, it’s pouring cancer cells from a pocket of her tumor into her spinal fluid which coats, and flows through the brain. Thus, the doctors said there is nothing more they can do. She has received only 5 treatments of radiation, which the doctors said would just keep the cancer at bay for a short time to have more time with her family. She has lost big patches of hair all over her poor scar filled head. I have never in my life known such a strong fighter. From when she was 5 until now. She’s a warrior, a miracle.

Our mom, older sister and I have been taking shifts over these last 4 months visiting and caring for her…never in our life did we think we’d ever be here again with Hannah. I was 8, when I was last preparing to loose my sister. She was diagnosed when she was 5 with an extremely rare brain cancer and was given 6 months to live…but apparently that wasn’t how her cards were supposed to play out. She was gifted, we were gifted 23 extra years with her. 23 extra years of friendships, family, experiences, love, heartbreak, growing up, sibling fights, nieces and nephews, figuring out life, but most importantly, memories.

Hannah is now at a point where she has her good and bad days.

-Her bad days are filled with utter confusion, sleeping all day, not being able to form a word to answer a simple question, pain, not eating…along with her bad days come our bad days. You feel discouraged. You pray for a miracle…

-Her good, are as good as we can get and pray for. They are something I will have to hold on as another happy memory with her. They are spent trying to get her just to smile, if you’re lucky you can even get a belly laugh out of her. (I’m good at making her belly laugh). It’s spent singing to her at her bedside while trying not to drop food on her chest while feeding her. It’s getting her to “wet her whistle”. It’s bringing up childhood memories trying to see if any of her memories are left and if she can find them. It’s spent her looking at us with so much love and wonder in her eyes. My mom described the look perfectly, it’s like she’s seeing heaven itself. I feel she’s with me when I am with her, but only what’s left. Her mind has passed already, and I’m afraid a lot of the memories I have with her, are already where she will go when she eventually passes. I sometimes try to dream about her so I can talk to her again.

Hannah requires around the clock care, from bathing, changing her, administering all 30 of her medications at the right time of the day, making sure you turn her so she doesn’t have skin breakdown and form bed sores, feeding her, making sure she’s as happy and comfortable as possible. Doctor appointments, phone conferences, visits from nurses, visits from aids, cooking her breakfast, lunch, and dinner…all while trying to care for yourself, your own household and family, and making sure the rest of the family is doing the same.

As a mom to 6 kids, I myself, have struggled through this whole experience. It’s waves of emotions, sadness, anger, the constant ‘what if’s’. It’s seeing my mom breakdown, but still stand so strong for her daughter’s. It’s hours of driving back and forth from home to hospitals, it’s hundreds of dollars spent on parking garages. It’s the reality of having her here physically, but not psychologically. It’s having to think of the simplest way to ask a question. It’s looking at her, deep into her soul and knowing what she’s thinking without her speaking.

It’s her mustering up enough strength to put her arm around you when you’re laying on her chest crying telling her how much you love her and how you loved being her big sister. It’s the not knowing what’s next, but praying with all your might that it’s the most beautiful, peaceful next step. It’s hoping she’ll be pain free, and with past loved ones watching over us and waiting to meet again until we are called home. It’s having breakdowns in the car while listening to sad country songs. It’s singing those same country songs to her while trying to hold tears back to make her smile. It’s cancer, FUCK CANCER. It has robber her, of everything, it’s robbed us of her.

I am not the type to ask for help, my family isn’t the type to ask for help…but we need it. We are hoping to raise money to fund her funeral when the time will eventually come, but for now, for daily expenses for her care. A lot of her medication is not covered by hospice, so after it’s out, it’s out and we’ll have to pay out of pocket. I myself haven’t been able to work as I just had my 6th child in September, and this is a full time job which doesn’t give me time to have an open schedule unfortunately. My mom is also newly retired, and lives on a fixed income.

I pray, if you or someone you know may be able to donate, our whole family greatly appreciates it. It hurts to ask for help, but we are at the point of no return, and it’s our only option.

Thank you for taking the time to read this.

Hannah’s heartbroken sister,

Collyn