Staying focused on the positive through grief

Like many Californians, I monitored with alarm last month’s potentially disastrous failure of the emergency spillway at the Oroville Dam.

Particularly troubling were warnings that the episode was not an isolated case, and that it was symptomatic of the perilous condition of the nation’s aging infrastructure.

As the Los Angeles Times reported, the failures at Oroville were “long in the making.”

Yet as emergency crews worked feverishly to avert catastrophe at Oroville, I couldn’t help but feel that it also was a fitting metaphor for so much of what we go through in life: the structural instability, the mistakes, the dangers and the sometimes slapdash, sometimes heroic, attempts to fix complex, entrenched problems.

For me, the crisis reflected something deeply personal. It seemed to mirror the valiant efforts of a team of dedicated doctors trying to save the life of my big sister, Felice. For many years, those efforts were successful. They managed to hold the storm waters at bay.

But their medical and surgical interventions –– like plugging holes in a failing dam –– could only work for so long. Felice’s many health issues, also long in the making, were finally insurmountable.

She passed away on Valentine’s Day, as I held one hand and her devoted husband held the other.

In the days since, I’ve been doing my best to focus on the positive. And I’ve come to realize, through the eyes of grief, just how much easier my big sister made that task for me.

Now I would like to share with you three characteristics that defined the kind of person she was –– characteristics that I believe are worth noting because they demonstrate a wisdom earned from battling against brutal, relentless forces.

The first is resilience. This is a trait that has been having a moment for the past few years. Many books and articles have been written about the value of resilience. Psychologists and educators have promoted this quality as one that should be held in greater regard and encouraged in our children. We should let our kids fail and feel pain, we are told, so that they might grow stronger from the experience.

For decades, Felice was the epitome of true resilience. Although she was frail in body, she was tenacious in spirit. She was knocked down many times, had numerous brushes with death, lived in near-constant pain and endured long hospital stays and countless surgeries. Often I would wonder how much more one person could possibly take. But then she would defy the odds, persevere and carry on with the business of living every moment to its fullest.

She was a fighter to the last, and I take comfort in knowing that she squeezed as much happiness from her life as she possibly could.

The next point I wish to share about my sister is that she never felt sorry for herself. Not a bit. Not ever.

Felice viewed self-pity and despair as pointless. The most practical of women, she thought that feeling hopeless because of the raw deal she received in the health department would have been a colossal waste of time and energy.

Instead of focusing on what she didn’t have, she reveled in all that she did. If something wasn’t possible for her, she turned her attention to what was possible. She did what she could, when she could, and she didn’t complain about missing out on anything.

Finally, Felice was grateful.

Every week, she and I would have a long phone conversation — the type that sisters often have when they catch up on each other’s lives and offer support. During those talks, we would naturally discuss her health, and she would matter-of-factly update me on the most recent developments. No matter what she was going through, she lavished praise on her doctors and other caregivers.

Her voice would brighten as she talked about the things she loved. Her husband. The fruit trees at their farm. The flowers in her garden. Her dogs. The lustrous view of mountains from her bedroom window.

Felice always looked for the joy in the little moments and small pleasures, from our family’s idiosyncratic holiday traditions to “Jeopardy,” which she rarely missed. (She could have made a small fortune as a contestant.)

A few weeks before my sister died, a half-starved stray dog wandered onto their property. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Sadly, people would sometimes abandon their pets in the rural area where Felice lived, and she and her husband would take them in, nurse them back to health and find them new homes.

This time Felice announced, “We’re keeping him.” I take this as a sign that she remained hopeful to the end. That dog will never know that he owes his life to her, but I like to think she’d be pleased just to know that he’s settling in to his new home.

Sometimes our lives can feel like a swollen dam; the pressure seems uncontrollable and we fear we’ll be overcome. My sister probably experienced that feeling almost continually for half of her life.

But for as long as she could, she defiantly withstood the onslaught. As I continue on without her, my memories of her resilience, hopefulness and gratitude will serve as my guideposts to help me on my way.

PATRICE APODACA is a former Newport-Mesa public school parent and former Los Angeles Times staff writer. She lives in Newport Beach.