My sister told paramedics I was faking while my heart had actually stopped. And that moment changed everything between us. She’s just faking it for attention. She does this all the time. Ma’am, we need to check her vitals right now. No, seriously, she’s fine. She’s done this since we were kids.
Her pulse is barely detectable. Step back immediately. You’re all overreacting. She just wants everyone to feel sorry for her. My sister told paramedics I was faking while my heart had actually stopped.
I’m Clarissa. Growing up with my sister Eleanor was like living with someone who viewed life as a zero sum game where only one of us could win.
We were only 18 months apart. But the way our parents treated us, you’d think we came from different planets. Elellanar was the golden child, stunning, magnetic, always commanding every room she entered. I was quieter, more bookish, the dependable one who melted into the wallpaper while Eleanor dazzled under the spotlight.
 I didn’t mind. Not really. I loved my sister despite her constant need to be center stage. I cheered at her cheerleading competitions, helped with the homework she couldn’t be bothered finishing, and covered for her when she climbed out her window to meet college boys. I thought that’s what sisters did. I thought eventually we’d outgrow the rivalry that felt so lopsided, her competing against me while I just tried to be her friend.
But Elellanar never outgrew it. If anything, the jealousy intensified as we aged. When I got into Stanford with a full scholarship, Elellanar locked herself in her room for a week and screamed that our parents loved me more. Never mind that she could have applied to the same university but chose not to because the application was too complicated.
When I graduated Sumakum laad and landed a position at Morrison and Associates, a top corporate law firm in San Francisco, Ellaner told everyone I was a soulless workaholic with no social life. When I got engaged to my boyfriend Derek, a gentle-hearted software engineer I’d met at a mutual friend’s barbecue, Eleanor crashed the engagement party and announced she was expecting.
 She effectively hijacked all the attention. Two weeks later, right before we were supposed to mail wedding invitations, she miscarried. The timing was convenient enough that I suspected she’d fabricated the entire pregnancy, but I couldn’t prove it and felt monstrous even considering it. Our parents enabled her completely.
They rationalized every manipulative stunt Eleanor pulled, attributing it to her being more sensitive and emotionally expressive than me. They expected me to be understanding, to be the mature one, to perpetually forgive and forget because that’s what family does. I tried for 32 years. God knows I tried.
 The real nightmare began when I developed heart problems. I’d been feeling off for months, experiencing chest pains, breathlessness, and dizzy spells. Initially, I chocked it up to wedding stress and the grueling hours at Morrison and Associates. But eventually, the symptoms intensified enough that I scheduled an appointment with a cardiologist.
The diagnosis was terrifying. Dr. Dr. Harrison Fletcher, a renowned cardiologist at California Pacific Medical Center, delivered news that made my world tilt sideways. I had a congenital heart defect that had gone undetected my entire life. The walls of my heart were dangerously thin, putting me at severe risk for sudden cardiac events.
 “I want to schedule surgery as soon as possible,” Dr. Fletcher said, his expression grave. “This condition is life-threatening. I was terrified. Surgery on my heart. I asked if we could try managing it with medication first, and he reluctantly agreed with strict orders to report any concerning symptoms immediately. I told my family about the diagnosis at our usual Sunday dinner at Mama Rosa’s, our favorite Italian restaurant in North Beach.
 I debated staying silent, knowing Eleanor would somehow weaponize my illness. But my parents needed to know in case something catastrophic happened. Elellanar’s response was exactly what I’d anticipated. Oh, please. There’s nothing wrong with your heart. You’re just anxious about the wedding. You always manufacture drama when attention isn’t on you.
 I’m not manufacturing anything. I have test results. Dr. Fletcher showed me the echo cardiogram. It’s documented medical fact. Convenient timing though, right? Elellanar’s eyes flashed with contempt. Now everyone will fuss over poor Clarissa instead of focusing on anything else.
 What else is there to focus on? I asked, genuinely confused. She glared daggers at me. I found out later she’d just been terminated from her receptionist position at a dental office for chronic tardiness and hostile behavior. She’d planned to announce at dinner that she was taking time to discover her authentic self, expecting financial support from our parents.
 My health crisis demolished her plan. Over the following months, Eleanor made it her personal mission to convince everyone I was exaggerating or completely fabricating my condition. She’d roll her eyes whenever I mentioned feeling unwell. She’d make cutting comments about me being a hypocchondric desperate for sympathy.
 She told our extended family I was perfectly fine and just being theatrical. She’s always been like this. Eleanor would say, “Remember when we were kids and she’d fake stomach aches to skip school? This is identical, just more elaborate.” I had never faked stomach aches. That had been Eleanor, actually. But apparently, she’d rewritten history in her twisted version of reality.
My wedding was scheduled for June at the Fairmont Hotel overlooking San Francisco Bay. Despite my health concerns, I was determined to go through with it. Derek offered to postpone everything, but I wanted to marry him. I wanted one perfect day where I was celebrated for the right reasons, where my life moved forward positively.
Elellanar was a bridesmaid at our mother’s insistence. I’d wanted to sidestep the inevitable drama of excluding her, so I reluctantly agreed, hoping she could be supportive for once in her life. Then came wedding week. Out of town guests flew in from Chicago, Boston, and Seattle. Final preparations accelerated, and despite trying to remain calm, I felt the stress physically.
 My heart had been misbehaving more frequently, strange flutters, and skipped beats that Dr. Fletcher warned me to monitor carefully. The rehearsal dinner was at Boulevard, an upscale restaurant near the Embaradero. Everything was perfect until it wasn’t. Derek’s family had traveled from Portland and Sacramento. My extended family filled half the restaurant and the wedding party buzzed with excitement.
 Everything felt magical until halfway through the entre when something went catastrophically wrong inside my chest. My chest constricted violently, my left arm tingled with pins and needles. The room seemed simultaneously too bright and too dark, like someone was playing with the dimmer switch on reality. I tried taking deep breaths like Dr.
 Fletcher had taught me, but the sensation was escalating, not subsiding. I don’t feel right, I whispered to Derek. Something’s very wrong. He immediately shifted into protective mode. What kind of wrong? your heart. I think so. It feels different than usual. Worse. Derek signaled for the check and told his family we needed to leave immediately.
Eleanor, eavesdropping from across the table, rolled her eyes with theatrical exaggeration. Oh, here we go. Can’t let anyone else have a pleasant evening, can we? Eleanor, not now, our mother said, but without any real conviction. We made it to the parking garage before I collapsed. One moment I was walking toward Dererick’s Tesla.
 The next I was on the concrete with no memory of falling. I could hear people shouting, feel hands touching me, but everything seemed distant and muffled like I was underwater. Someone called 911. The paramedics arrived within 6 minutes, which Dr. Fletcher later told me was the only reason I survived. But those six minutes nearly killed me because of Eleanor.
 I was barely conscious, but I could hear her talking to the paramedics as they tried to assess me. She’s just faking it for attention. She does this all the time. Ma’am, we need to check her vitals right now. No, seriously, she’s fine. She’s done this since we were kids. One of the paramedics, a woman named Gabrielle, was attempting to find my pulse while her partner prepared emergency equipment.
 Her pulse is barely detectable. Step back immediately. You’re all overreacting. She just wants everyone to feel sorry for her. This is ridiculous. You’re all enabling her attention-seeking behavior. Ma’am, if you don’t step back right now, we’ll have you removed from the scene. This woman is in cardiac distress. I tried to speak to tell them I wasn’t faking, but I couldn’t form words.
 My vision was darkening around the edges, tunneling down to a pinpoint. I heard Gabrielle say something about losing my pulse entirely. Felt the violent jolt of the defibrillator. Then nothing. I woke up in the ICU at California Pacific Medical Center 2 days later. Derek was asleep in a chair beside my bed, his hand holding mine.
 When he realized I was awake, he broke down crying with relief. “You died,” he said, his voice cracking. in the parking garage. Your heart stopped completely. They had to shock you three times to restart it. Then you crashed twice more in the ambulance. We almost lost you, Clarissa. We almost lost you. The full story emerged slowly, each detail more horrifying than the last.
 My heart had stopped in that parking garage. Complete cardiac arrest from the congenital defect finally failing catastrophically. The paramedics had initiated CPR immediately, but Eleanor had physically attempted to stop them. “She kept insisting you were faking,” Dererick said, his voice shaking with rage. “Even after they couldn’t find a pulse, even after they started CPR, she was screaming at them to stop, that you were just performing for attention.
” Gabrielle, the paramedic, had to have two bystanders physically restrain Eleanor so they could work on me. Where is she now? Your father took her home. The police wanted to charge her with interference with emergency services, but I asked them to wait until you woke up. I wanted you to decide how to handle it. Dr.
 Fletcher came in shortly after and explained what happened. My heart had completely stopped due to the defect causing a severe arrhythmia. Without immediate intervention, I would have died within minutes. The delay caused by Elellaner’s interference, though brief, had been extremely dangerous. “Every second counts in cardiac arrest,” Dr. Fletcher explained solemnly.
 The paramedics reported they lost approximately 30 seconds to a minute dealing with someone insisting you were faking and physically trying to prevent treatment. That delay could have resulted in permanent brain damage or death. You’re incredibly fortunate they recognized the severity immediately and didn’t listen to her.
Gabrielle visited me the next day. She wanted to check on me and needed to give a formal statement about what happened. I’ve been a paramedic for 14 years, she said. I’ve seen family members in denial before, but I’ve never witnessed someone so aggressively insist that a person in cardiac arrest was faking.
 Your sister tried to pull my partner away while he was doing chest compressions. She kept screaming that we were all falling for your performance. Even when we lost your pulse completely and you were clinically dead, she was still saying you were faking. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. You have nothing to apologize for, but I need to know.
 Did she have any reason to believe you’d fake a medical emergency? Any history of that behavior? No, never. She’s accused me of faking before, but I’ve never actually faked anything. She just couldn’t tolerate me getting attention. Then I’m recommending the prosecutor move forward with charges. What she did was dangerous and potentially lethal.
 If we’d listened to her, if we’d hesitated even a moment longer, you wouldn’t be here. The police charged Eleanor with interference with emergency services and reckless endangerment. My family was shocked. Our parents tried convincing me to drop the charges, insisting Eleanor had just been confused and frightened that she didn’t understand what was happening, but that wasn’t true.
 The paramedics body cameras captured everything. The footage showed Elellanar clearly understanding I was in medical distress, but insisting I was faking anyway. It showed her trying to physically prevent treatment. It showed her continuing to interfere even after I was clinically dead and being shocked with a defibrillator. She knew.
She knew. I told my parents when they came to the hospital to plead Eleanor’s case. She knew I was dying and she still told them I was faking. She literally tried to stop them from saving my life because she couldn’t stand me being the center of attention. She loves you, my mother insisted desperately. She just made a mistake.
 A mistake that almost killed me. She watched me die and told the paramedics not to help me. That’s not a mistake. That’s attempted murder. My father flinched visibly at that word. That’s extreme, Clarissa. Is it? What do you call standing between a dying person and the people trying to save them? What do you call actively preventing life-saving medical care? If those paramedics had listened to her, I’d be dead right now.
 Elellanar would have killed me because she was jealous of the attention I was getting for having a heart attack. They didn’t have a response to that. They left disappointed I wouldn’t be the understanding, forgiving sister one final time. The case went to trial at the Superior Court of San Francisco. Eleanor’s lawyer, a slick defense attorney named Bernard Lawson, tried arguing she’d been in shock and not thinking clearly, that she genuinely believed I was faking due to what he claimed was a pattern of attention-seeking behavior on my part.
My lawyer, Amanda Chen, demolished that argument by presenting my complete medical history, demonstrating I’d never faked an illness, never sought unnecessary medical attention, and had actually delayed seeking help for my heart condition until it became critical. The body camera footage was played in court.
 Watching it was surreal and horrifying. I saw myself collapse, saw the paramedics rush to help, saw Eleanor pushing forward and insisting loudly that I was faking, that this was typical behavior, that everyone should ignore me. “Ma’am, she has no pulse,” Gabrielle said clearly in the footage. “Then she’s gotten really good at faking,” Eleanor responded coldly.
 The courtroom was silent except for audible gasps. My mother was crying. My father looked devastated. The jury looked horrified. Gabrielle testified about having to have Eleanor physically restrained while they performed CPR and used the defibrillator. She explained how dangerous the delay had been, how every second mattered in cardiac arrest.
 In my professional opinion, Gabrielle stated clearly, “If we had taken seriously the sister’s claims that the patient was faking, Clarissa would have died. The defendant’s actions directly endangered the patients life by attempting to prevent emergency medical care for a person in cardiac arrest. The jury convicted Ellaner on both counts after deliberating for less than 3 hours.
 The judge sentenced her to two years in prison and 3 years probation, calling her actions shockingly callous and dangerous. “You stood by while your sister died and insisted she was faking,” the judge said during sentencing. You attempted to prevent trained medical professionals from saving her life.
 You prioritized your need for attention over your sister’s life. You showed no remorse even after learning she’d been clinically dead. This court finds your behavior unconscionable. Elellanor screamed that it wasn’t fair, that I’d always been the favorite. This is just one more way you’re making everything about you.
 Eleanor shrieked as security guards approached her. Security removed her from the courtroom while she was still screaming, but the criminal conviction was just the beginning of her consequences. The story went viral. Sister tells paramedics dying sibling is faking made headlines across the country. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, everyone covered it.
 The body camera footage was released publicly as part of the court record. And millions of people watched Eleanor trying to prevent my resuscitation. She became infamous overnight. People recognized her on the streets of San Francisco and confronted her before she reported to prison. She lost the few friends she had left.
 Our extended family was horrified and severed ties with her. Even our parents, who’d enabled her for decades, finally had to confront what she truly was. “We failed you,” my mother told me months later after Elellanar had started her prison sentence. We let Elellaner get away with so much because it was easier than dealing with her tantrums.
 We made you be the understanding one, the bigger person. Over and over, we ignored how cruel she was to you, and it almost got you killed. It was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever received from her. My relationship with my parents has been strained since then. They want things to return to normal.
 But normal was them enabling Eleanor’s abuse of me for three decades. I’m not interested in that normal anymore. I had the surgery to correct my heart defect. Dr. Fletcher said the cardiac arrest had actually made the surgery more urgent, but also provided them crucial information about exactly what was wrong. The surgery was successful, and my prognosis is excellent.
 Derek and I got married in a small ceremony at San Francisco City Hall after I recovered. We’d cancelled the elaborate Fairmont wedding after everything that happened. Neither of us wanting to recreate that rehearsal dinner atmosphere. It was just us, two witnesses and the officient. It was perfect. My recovery, both physical and emotional, took considerable time.
 I had PTSD from the cardiac arrest and from knowing my sister had tried to let me die. Therapy helped tremendously. So did distance from my family and their expectations that I just forgive and move on. Elellanar served 18 months before being released on parole for good behavior. She tried to contact me immediately, sending letters about how she’d changed, how prison had helped her understand what she’d done, how she desperately wanted to rebuild our relationship.
I didn’t respond. I’d spent my entire life trying to have a relationship with someone who fundamentally resented me for existing. Someone who was so jealous and competitive that she’d rather see me dead than successful or happy. Someone who watched me die and felt annoyed that I was getting attention.
 There’s no coming back from that. No amount of therapy or remorse can erase the fact that she tried to prevent people from saving my life. She chose her jealousy over my survival. That’s not a mistake or a momentary lapse in judgment. That’s who she is at her core. Eleanor has tried multiple times over the past two years to reconnect.
 She shows up at Morrison and Associates, forcing security to escort her out. She sends gifts I return unopened. She tells anyone who will listen that she’s changed and I’m being cruel by shutting her out. But I was there. I heard her telling the paramedics I was faking while my heart had literally stopped beating.
 I saw the body camera footage of her trying to physically stop them from performing CPR. I know that if those paramedics had believed her, I would be dead. You don’t come back from that. You don’t rebuild a relationship with someone who chose their ego over your life. Eleanor lost everything. her freedom, her reputation, her family relationships, and any chance of reconciliation with me.
 She’s working minimum wage jobs at places like Target and Starbucks because her conviction makes her unemployable in most professional fields. She’s alone because everyone who knows what she did wants nothing to do with her. Part of me feels guilty about that. The old Clarissa, the understanding sister, wants to forgive her.
 But then I remember lying on that parking garage concrete, hearing her tell trained medical professionals to ignore me while I was dying. I remember Dr. Fletcher telling me that if they’d hesitated even 30 seconds longer, I might have suffered permanent brain damage or death. She was willing to let me die rather than admit I was genuinely sick and needed help.
 That’s not sisterly rivalry. That’s not jealousy gone too far. That’s sociopathic. Dererick and I are happy now. We bought a beautiful Victorian house in Noi Valley. I’m still at Morrison and Associates recently making junior partner. My heart is healthy. We’re talking about starting a family. Though Dr.
 Fletcher wants to monitor me closely through any pregnancy given my medical history. Sometimes I see Eleanor from a distance at the grocery store or walking down Market Street. She always looks at me with this expression of longing and resentment mixed together. She wants forgiveness, but she also still resents me for existing, for being successful, for being happy. I don’t engage.
 I turn and walk the other direction. My parents still hope we’ll reconcile someday. They invite both of us to Thanksgiving and Christmas, hoping we’ll magically heal our relationship over turkey and pie. I’ve stopped attending their holiday gatherings. I host my own now with Dererick’s family and the friends who supported me through everything.
 People ask me sometimes if I’ll ever forgive her, if family isn’t worth a second chance, and I tell them the truth. If your sibling had tried to prevent paramedics from saving your life because they thought you were faking a medical emergency, could you ever forgive them? or would attempted interference with your life-saving care be an unforgivable betrayal that ended the relationship permanently? Most people get quiet when I put it that way, because the answer is obvious.
 Some betrayals are too fundamental to forgive. Some actions reveal someone’s core character so completely that there’s no path forward. Eleanor tried to let me die. That’s not something you come back from. That’s not something I’ll ever forgive. And I’m finally after 32 years at peace with that decision.
