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Not long ago, I pulled out some boxes of my sister's old toys. I picked up one of the dolls and showed my mom.

"Look at these ugly dolls we used to play with," I said, laughing and crying at the same time.

Laughing, because Amy and I had so much fun playing together. Even though we were sisters, we were best friends and we hardly ever fought.

We were in marching band together, and each week we'd go out with our friends after youth group. And I remember family vacations and making up silly songs along the way— especially when we were going to Hocking Hills, a state park in Ohio. There's just something about that name—Hocking Hills—that's begging to be made fun of.

Yes, lots of laughs.

But I was crying too, because Amy was gone. Five years ago, Amy died of a rare infection. She was 18, and I was 16.

Even now, five years later, I still grieve. I remember the good times we had together. But I wish they could have lasted forever …

The sad journey begins
"Something terrible has happened."

My parents had just returned from taking Amy, who was 15 at the time, to the doctor. Dad called us all into the living room to tell us the news.

"What's wrong?" asked my oldest sister Christy, then 17.

"The doctor found something," Dad continued. "He thinks it's cancer."

Mom was crying next to me on the couch, but I didn't fully grasp how serious it was. Cancer? I thought. All my 13-year-old brain could think was that Amy was going to lose her hair. Other than that I didn't have a clue.

Over the next three years I would get a better idea, as Amy went through many rounds of chemotherapy and several surgeries—including a hip replacement that forced her to use a wheelchair for a while. I sort of became her "personal assistant." I'd ride the bus with her and sometimes push her around school in her wheelchair. And when she couldn't make it to school, I would pick up her assignments.

It didn't seem fair for this to happen to Amy. She had been a good athlete, and she was so young.

Still, I dealt with it the best I could. I had always been strong, and people always expected me to be the jokester and help lighten things up. So when Amy got cancer, I decided I wouldn't mope around. It would be easier for my family that way.

But behind closed doors, I cried all the time. I never let anybody see it, though—especially Mom. I figured she had enough to deal with. I didn't want my crying to add to her agony.

The cancer's gone, but … After battling the cancer for three years, we got some great news from the doctor: The cancer was gone!

But Amy had to go in for one more test. Incredibly, they found something else: Amy had pre-leukemia.

In order to stop it from becoming leukemia, Amy needed a bone marrow transplant. But first, doctors needed to find a match—a donor with the same blood type. They said siblings were the best possibility, so Christy and I were tested.

We waited at the hospital with my family for the results. They told my father first. Dad came into the waiting room and told me, "Laura, you're a match." He paused and added, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

"What are you talking about?" I said. I didn't even take a moment to question it. "Of course I have to do it. Don't be silly."

So into the hospital I went. I was nervous about the procedure, but I comforted myself by remembering it would help Amy. I wanted to do anything I could for her sake.

They hooked me up to a machine, and over the next five hours, recycled all of my blood through the machine and back into my body. Through this process, they took out all of my extra stem cells that produce bone marrow. It wasn't very painful.

Amy's bone marrow transplant was a success, and I felt really good to know I had helped out. I thanked God that another obstacle was out of our way, and I prayed that we would have smooth sailing from then on.

Maybe things would finally return to normal.

Tragedy strikes—twice
And things did pretty much return to normal … for a while. But six months later, something totally unexpected happened: Amy developed a rare pancreas infection, totally unrelated to her cancer or pre-leukemia. Unfortunately, it was too much for Amy. She died on March 9, 1997.

The possibility of Amy dying had never really crossed my mind. I was in high school. I felt like I was invincible, and I thought everyone else was too.

I handled Amy's death pretty much the same way I'd handled her illness—by trying to be strong for everyone. But inside, I hurt a lot. I wished life were like it was back in elementary school, when my only worries were forgetting my lunch or getting my name written on the board for talking.

After Amy's death, I felt guilty for how I'd treated her at times. For instance, after one surgery, Amy's leg would sometimes cramp up and hurt her. She would ask me to massage it, and I would respond like a bratty little sister with "No."

Thinking about it now really rips me up, because Amy couldn't do anything about her cramps. And there I was; my hands were capable. I mean, we'd just be sitting there watching TV and I'd be like, "I'm not massaging your stupid leg." It makes me so sad to think about it now.

My family was still reeling from Amy's death when, six months later, tragedy struck again.

We went to a Sunday night service at church, and afterward, Dad stayed for an elders' meeting. On the way home, Mom and I picked up some fast food. When we got home, another elder's wife was waiting in the driveway.

"Just leave your food in the house and come with me," she said as we got out of the car, a worried tone to her voice. "We need to go to the hospital."

I remember that drive so well—a short drive that seemed to take forever. I sat in the back seat praying my heart out. My mom was asking a million questions about what was going on.

When we got to the hospital, it seemed as if our whole church family was in the waiting room. Our minister ushered us into the conference room. "Your dad had a heart attack," he said. "We tried everything we could."

This couldn't be happening, I thought to myself. The doctor confirmed our minister's words. Dad was gone.

Mom began bawling her eyes out. It was the saddest thing I've ever seen. When we walked outside the conference room, our church family just embraced us and we had a big prayer time right there.

Completely dead inside
I think sometimes your heart and your brain go at different rates. The whole month after Dad died, I didn't really feel anything. It was like I was completely dead inside. With Amy we had three years to prepare. But with my dad, it was so sudden.

Christmas came a month after Dad died. I hated life at the time. Lying in bed the night before Christmas Eve, I wrote in my journal about the previous Christmas, when I had five members in my family and not just three. My biggest concern at that time was that I wouldn't get everything I wanted. Now my biggest concern was how I would survive the terrible nightmares that haunted me.

I furiously wrote in my journal: "I miss every minute I was too selfish to spend with my sister or dad. I want all of this back so bad I can barely take it anymore. What I wouldn't give for my life four years ago on this night—before I knew what chemotherapy or heart attacks were."

But I couldn't go back four years. And things didn't change. Every day I had to face the fact that I'd lost two people I loved dearly.

But life went on and I graduated from high school that year. That fall I enrolled at Cincinnati Bible College—the same college where Christy went, and where Amy had intended to go. I'm now a junior at CBC.

God gives me strength
Amy's death and my father's death still affect me, usually when I least expect it. Like when I was driving back to college on Halloween day. I passed a dad with three young girls walking down the road, and I just lost it. It reminded me of when Dad took us three girls out trick-or-treating while Mom stayed home, handing out candy. I cried the whole way to school, and then sat in the parking lot crying after that.

And there are still reminders. As I sat on the floor at my mom's house looking through those boxes of Amy's old toys, I laughed and cried as the memories flooded my mind. But I realize it was one more small step toward healing. Reminiscing about the good times can do that.

I don't feel as invincible as I used to anymore. Losing your sister and your dad in six months will do that to you. But those things have also helped me mature. Tragedy will do that to you too. A lot of people have told me, "You know, you've already been through more than many people go through in their entire life."

I don't know why I've been given these tremendous losses in my life.

Still, I know God loves me. And I know he's preparing me for something, though I don't yet know what. And through it all, I know God will never give me more than I can handle.

Amy handled it for several years, and now she's with him. And Dad handled it before joining his daughter in heaven.

And until the day I join them on the other side of eternity, I'll handle it too.

For more help on handling grief, check out www.gospelcom.net/rbc/ds/cb921.

Read more from 'It Happened to Me'

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