Ask anyone with ALS. We are all fighting for our lives, but we have a list (sometimes a very short list) of the people for whom we’re truly fighting. My sister is very, very high on my own list. She is one of the MVPs of my story, a long-time fact that has only been underscored by my present situation. It was her birthday yesterday, so we celebrated. But the truth is, she is worth celebrating every day (or…at least once a week.)

I’m four years older than Liz, and when we were younger, we didn’t always get along. I found her to be very annoying and also cuter than me, which—if you’re someone’s younger sister—is the recipe for getting punched in the head. And I’m sure that did happen to her, although it was a great number of years ago, and so I conveniently forget the details.

At some point after I left for college, things changed and we became incredibly close. You know the old adage: Absence makes the heart stop being jealous of its sister’s clothes. Or something. She moved to San Francisco shortly after I did, when I was pregnant with Scarlett. We both loved the idea of living in the same city again for the first time in 14 years. She and her now-husband, Rob, moved to an apartment a mile from us and the good times commenced.

The day Scarlett was born, Liz and Rob were the first visitors at the hospital, and they were with us pretty much every day after that while my own Rob and I got our bearings as new parents. I had a lovely 7-month maternity leave, thanks to the pregnancy-is-a-disability laws in California (that first foray into disability was infinitely more fun than the current one). When I went back to work, Liz quit her job in advertising to be Scarlett’s nanny. She spent all day caring for my little girl, who now loves her more than she loves possibly anyone else in the world.

My sister was with me the first time ALS took me down, a physical fall on the streets of San Francisco. After my diagnosis, I went straight to her house. She was 8 months pregnant and she held onto me and sobbed. We told each other we were going to get through this.

Now Liz helps with everything. When Rob is out of town, she’ll come over in the morning and help us get ready, take Scarlett to school, make sure I’m set. She looks through my refrigerator, rolling her eyes at me, and throws out the stuff that’s gone bad. She has loaded up my wheelchair and driven me around this city so many more times than I can count. She is freakishly strong, and has carried me up the stairs to her apartment, picked me up and placed me in her car, and also walked around holding both Scarlett and her own 2-year-old son, my nephew and little love, Jack.

She can make me laugh like no one else. Even if we’re simply giggling over something one of our ridiculous children has done, the laugh is so prolonged and contagious because its us. The way she tells a funny story almost always has me in tears. Our laughing has gotten us into trouble in the past, when we are overcome in inappropriate places. Like churches.

When Liz leaves our house, Scarlett cries and throws herself at my sister’s feet. Literally. Every. Time. Sometimes when Scarlett is crying over a stubbed toe or something, she bypasses me and runs straight to Liz. This doesn’t make me feel bad. On the contrary, it’s a giant relief that my daughter has this kind of relationship with someone who I love and trust so much.

When Liz got married last year, I was her maid of honor. Ok, technically, I was her MATRON of honor, but I mean, I can’t even. That word. I was nervous about giving a toast at the wedding, so I practiced it every night for weeks. And the words became a kind of mantra for me. My sister: Her generosity. Her creativity. Her strength.

She gives me something to fight for. I don’t want to leave her, not for a long time. Even if I can’t throw myself at her feet and whine about it. I have absolutely, truly, ZERO idea of what we would do without her, and so today, I am celebrating her again. Because she is amazing.

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