By Jennifer Sauers

        My great-grandmother, Gigi, picked up my hand at dinner one night when I was 7-years-old. We held hands for a moment and, squeezing mine three times, she turned to me and said: “Sometimes this is how Bapa and I show we love one another. One of us squeezes the other's hand three short times.”

        Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze, Gigi demonstrated, clasping my hands. She confided, “This means: "I Love You.' To secretly tell someone you love them, just pick up their hand wherever you are and squeeze it three times. They will squeeze back, and that means they love you too.”

        At that young age, I did not understand the importance of what Gigi had taught me. Only later in life would I realize the significance it would have for me and the one who also knew its secret.

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In My Life is about recent significant moments — big and small — in people's lives. Readers are invited to submit columns, which become the property of the Enquirer.   • E-mail: Nancy Berlier, Deputy Features Editor, at nberlier@enquirer.com.   • Mail: In My Life, Tempo, Cincinnati Enquirer, 312 Elm St., Cincinnati 45202   • Fax: (513) 768-8330.

        The relationship between my sister Bitsy and me was often tumultuous. In our teens and early 20s, our sisterhood was damaged by competitiveness and criticism, jealousy and judgment. When I saw other sisters sharing secrets and hugs, I felt bitter that we traded jabs and silence instead.

        I wondered if someday we would break through the wall between us. Old habits die hard; it seemed doubtful. I even wondered at times if we loved one another.

        Yet I mostly pushed these concerns aside. We had all the time in the world to put our past behind us — if we ever wished to deal with it.

        In our late 20s, our relationship warmed when our daughters were born three months apart. Although we never discussed it, I believe the babies sparked our desire for a better relationship between us.

        I think we wanted our girls to experience the feeling of sisterhood we missed. We tended to our daughters' relationship like a beloved flower garden. And with our second chance, their devotion bloomed into a beautiful friendship for them and a feeling of satisfaction for us.

        It's easy to avoid dealing with feelings when there isn't a deadline. But what was endless time soon became mere months. At age 31, Bitsy was diagnosed with brain cancer. Three hard years of surgery, radiation and chemotherapy followed. I felt sadness, anger and disappointment as I watched the illness wreak havoc on her body and her mind. Our family went through relentless ups and downs, dashed hopes and unceasing turmoil.

        I sealed of my raw emotions about Bitsy's impending death. I was concerned, but emotionally detached. As her disease progressed and she lost her mobility, I felt like a turtle, my hard shell protecting me from the pain and realization of losing my sister.

        Not only was the tumor limiting her lifetime, but stealing her ability to express her thoughts. It caused Bits' words to appear in broken shapes when writing and in odd fragments when speaking. The words she wished to say to us were tortuously trapped inside her and caused all of us — mostly herself — utter frustration.

        With awkward attempts, we said we loved each other, but caring feelings were new ground for Bitsy and me. There was so much to say, but our words were swallowed by the formality of our relationship and the encroachment of the tumor.

        In late October, Bitsy's husband invited my spouse, children and me to spend Halloween night in the neighborhood. The dads and kids trick-or-treated together while I stayed at their house with Bitsy and her sister-in-law to visit and give out candy.

        Bitsy was lying in her hospital bed, but her bedroom was bright. She was propped in a sitting position, her cat keeping watch at the foot of her bed.

        I walked in the room and said “Hi, Bits” and started some small talk. She was piecing words together, but they came out jumbled, and I couldn't understand what she was saying. She reached over and took my hand. Bitsy and I rarely offered each other more than a perfunctory hug or kiss. So I was surprised at the tenderness she showed as she wrapped her fingers around mine. I didn't know what to do except let her hold them.

        To bridge the awkward silence, I finished her sentences, but then it hit me that I should just keep quiet. She looked at me with sleepy eyes and murmured: “I . . . something . . . for you.”

        Poor thing, I shrugged. she is really confused. Bewildered, I looked around her bedroom and thought, “There is nothing in here for Bitsy to give me.” But she held my hand tight. A small smile crossed her lips as she pressed my hand three times. I paused, puzzled, in the stillness of the moment. She squeezed again — three squeezes. Three distinct squeezes!

        Like a thunderbolt it struck me: she was silently signaling her love for me. I squeezed her hand back three times to return the gift, kissing her forehead as tears dripped down my face.

        Our fleeting and unexpected encounter lasted less than a minute, yet in that whisper of grace, I understood that love transcends pain and hurt.

        With her physical body crumbling, Bitsy could no longer say or write the words “I Love You” but her spirit triumphed. In that timeless moment, she unlocked the invisible barrier between our hearts.

        Author Joan Borysenko wrote in her book A Woman's Journey To God that “God is never closer than when the space between two hearts narrows.”

        I am grateful to you, dear Bitsy, for signaling the return of our sisterhood. We are now the sisters I wanted us to be, the kind of sisters connected by hearts.

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