The trip.

 

There was to be an exchange trip through the school. 

Students from Frobisher Bay, Nunavut were to make an exchange with students from our school.

They said she could apply to go.

They were saying, ‘yes’ a lot more now. 

 

She was so excited when the school chose her as one of the exchange students. 

Her good friends were going too. 

I wanted to be excited for her but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. 

The trip took over all the conversation at home. 

They kept repeating, ‘what an opportunity for her’. 

They planned a shopping trip for all the things she would need...who gets this excited about long underwear?

The school required a physical be completed by her doctor.

 

She returned from the doctor’s office in tears.  She was devastated.

The doctor was suspect of a heart murmur and declined to give permission for the trip to Frobisher Bay until further testing could be completed.

There was a timeline conflict.

She was removed from the list.

She was no longer an exchange student. 

 

All conversation stopped. 

I saw her defeat.  I felt sorry for her.  Poor her. 

She accepted the rejection silently, head down.

I didn’t know how to help her. 

 

She went for further testing reluctantly and submissively but, not quietly, thinking it was pointless. 

 

Ironically, tests results showed her heart to be fine. 

There was no heart murmur. 

No heart murmur. 

Oh boy.

 

One of the exchange students had to drop out of the trip.    

There was an opening. 

Her friends rallied and advocated for her to be re-instated. 

I saw the look on her face when the school called.  Her head lifted, her eyes sparkled and her smile said it all...

She was an exchange student once again! 

 

I was so happy for her.  I knew it meant so much to her.  I knew it was a big deal. 

I never told her.  Not once. 

The first born.

“Wake up! Wake up! Come on, I need you to wake up!” Mom pleaded.

It was dark and I was struggling to break free from the deep sleep I was enjoying.

“You have to sit by the phone in case she calls,” Mom said as she guided me to the chair, by the phone, in the kitchen.

What?  Who calls?  I am freezing.  What’s happening?

“Your sister has not called from the school.  She is at rehearsal for the spring production.  It is so late and I am worried.  I am going down there.  You tell her to stay there if she calls.”

Mom was frantic.  She gathered her things and put on her shoes while she dictated the information to me.

She left.  The house was completely quiet.  The only sound was the ticking clock. 

The clock.

I turned to look at the clock’s face. 

It was nine o’clock.  

The initiation.

It had been four years since we had been in the same school together by the time I reached high school.

She was excited for me to become a secondary student. 

The school was huge and the number one fear for all new students was getting lost. 

She took me for tours.

She showed me every classroom on my timetable.

She showed me the short cuts to different areas of the school.

She gave me tips on managing books, getting lunch and where to sit.

She reassured me and gave me courage. 

She walked with me to school the first day and every day following that year. 

‘Minor Niner Day’ was approaching...the traditional day of fear for the juniors and triumph for the seniors. 

I was nervous.  I knew I was supposed to be a good sport.  I knew I couldn't be a suck. 

The day arrived. 

She walked with me into the school. 

Her locker came first.  I waved bye as I kept walking.

‘Deep breath,’ her eyes said. 

Boom!  I was shoved into the lockers. 

I looked up in surprise to see two of her male friends.  They both wore football jerseys and they were huge!  They also sported wicked smiles. 

I knew I was supposed to smile and not freak out but I was secretly scared to death.

They picked me up...picked me up and took me back to her.

She was laughing but her finger was pointing at them in reprimand.

They shoved me into her locker.

I said nothing.  I did not protest. 

I could hear them talking to her through the slats in the door.

“That’s her right?”  Laughter.

“We just wanted to be sure we knew which Minor Niner we were forbidden to touch!”  Laughter.

Suddenly, the door opened and they pulled me out of the locker, apologized and told me to let them know if anyone gives me any trouble.

They strutted away. 

I looked at her and she smiled. 

I never thanked her.

Not once.

The runaway.

They argued a lot. 

It was never like this before.  I didn’t like it. 

They were always telling her no.  She would get angry when they said no. 

Why can’t they just say yes and then she won’t get mad?

I was bored.  She was out a lot. 

I was allowed to go to my cousins and stay for a week. 

I was glad to go. 

I was just enjoying my stay when I saw my Aunt on the phone. 

Something was wrong. 

My Mom needed to speak to me. 

SHE HAD RUN AWAY!

Wow!  I couldn’t believe it? 

Secretly, I was impressed!  She was brave to be that defiant!  Wow! 

I had to come home on the bus I was told.  That was weird.

When I arrived, I could see Mom standing on the sidewalk waiting for me.

My heart sank. 

My Mom was broken hearted.  Her nose was red.  I knew she had been crying.  I had never seen my Mom that sad before. 

I vowed, right there and then to NEVER, EVER do anything to cause Mom hurt like that again.  

I tried to be invisible for the next while.  I just didn’t understand the dynamics of what was happening to our family.  No one thought to explain anything to me.  Everyone was too full of emotion, and there were hushed conversations on the phone. 

I didn’t know where she was.  I was worried.  Where would she go?

The boyfriend’s. 

She was at the boyfriend’s house.

Oh oh.

Mom didn’t even try to hide her emotional response to this information. 

I wondered if she would be different now.  I wondered if she forgot about me.

I was asked to stay in my room.  She was coming over and they were having a meeting.

A meeting.

What does that mean? 

This was serious business. 

They told me she was coming home.

She had to pay board now. 

Ok? 

She has to pay to live here?  Really?  I was confused.

Not right away, but eventually, I realised things were better now. 

She was happier and they stopped saying no. 

I never really ever understood what went on but I was glad to have her home.

It seemed like our family grew up. 

We were all a  little less childish. 

The labels.

Is that your Mom?

It was never the question really...it was the look on her face. 

You and your Mom can have a seat here.

Can we? Well, thanks, but, she is NOT my mother!  We are four years apart!  Sometimes I wanted to scream at them. 

 

These are my, “DAUW-GH-TERS”. 

Is that your son? 

God, it was confusing.  Adults...

What do they mean?  Are they stupid?

“SHE HAS BOOBS!” I wanted to yell.

I never did.  Not once.

 

It evolved.  No longer perceived to be of the male gender, she graduated quickly to being a senior citizen. 

The first few times it happened I pretended it didn’t, almost as well as she did.  I quickly learned to be pro-active, as my Mother had before me. 

 “This is my SISTER and we would like....”

Echos of ‘these are my DAUW-GH-TERS...’

It was futile.  She heard them. She felt their words.  Their words hurt. 

 

 

It was years before we joked about it.  I tried to make the ignorant people absorb the brunt of the joke but she and I both knew she owned the role.  

‘The girls’, for definition.  ‘The girls’, for clarification.  ‘The girls’, for reference.  ‘The girls’, for affection. 

Our identities amalgamated into one. 

It was a prerequisite for the future existence of the dynamic duo.

The interference.

The wig was my great Aunt’s idea.  She was rich.  She was from the city.  She lived in the United States.

She purchased it and presented it to her like it was a brand new car.  It would fix everything. 

As far as my Aunt was concerned, the wig was the missing piece to a ‘normal’ life for her. 

The adults chatted excitedly. There was a mission to convince her of their mindset.

“OOOOHHHH! Look how beautiful you are?”  She was taken to several mirrors to see her beauty.

I watched carefully.  I was trying to see if their faces were sincere. 

I could see her being swayed. 

I saw her reach up and touch the hair that brushed her shoulder. 

I watched her look at her reflection.  She liked it.

I remember thinking she looked like she was wearing a wig.  Period. 

The next day, she wore that wig to school. 

It was picture day.

The inevitable.

I could feel it coming.  I just knew it was never going to happen.  The melting asphalt was telltale.

I could smell the chlorine but my stomach ached nervously.  If I just kept facing front – maybe, I could prevent the inevitable.

Hurry up in there!  Let us in! 

But, even though I couldn’t see them, I could hear it starting; the concerned whispers, the stifled upset and then my name being called.

We had to leave. She was sick.

No swimming today. 

I hated her for always wrecking all the fun. 

I never told her that.  Not once. 

The lovelies.

Mom told us she needed to talk to us...very serious, loads of mystery. 

We conspired.  We debated.  We couldn’t imagine the reason for this ‘talk’.

Left alone with our imaginations, we easily fell into the silly banter of sisterhood.

‘Come on, do it!’ I begged her.

She couldn’t resist.  ‘Welcome to Miss Snicky’s laundry.  Today we will learn to fold a sheet,’

I barrel laughed at her imitation of an old lady!  She was hilarious.

It was our game.  It was our chore game.  It was so much fun. 

‘Remember when you would get the hiccups in the car?’ she prompted me. 

‘And you would make me sing...’

‘RUDOLF THE RED NOSE REINDEER!!!!!’ We hollered in unison.

Oh, how we laughed at those memories.

Mom entered the room and sat on the bed.  She waited while we tried to compose ourselves.

We were just in control of our emotions, when Mom stated she had come to a decision based on the maturity we have shown lately...

That did it...we were rolling on the bed, tears running down our faces...Mom’s too.

When we grew tired from all the laughter and had quieted, Mom told us we were getting our ears pierced.

GETTING OUR EARS PIERCED!!!

It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to us! 

We were wound up for the rest of the night. 

We had two weeks to wait.  Two weeks. 

We spent hours talking about everything earring related. 

How would we look?  Hoops or studs?  Silver or gold? 

Was it going to hurt?  Who cares!  

We were submerged in the fantasy of being the girls with pierced ears...we were going to be sooooo cool!

Life was good!

 

Late one night, when my parents thought I was asleep, I overheard them talking.

I listened closely when they lowered their voices and mentioned her name. 

Yes, he agreed.  People wouldn’t be able to ignore the earrings.  People couldn’t possibly mistake her for a boy then.  No, we don’t want her to know the reason.  Yes, good idea...having them both go, then she will never know.

 

This adult reality slapped me hard.   

Woosh.  The fun of the last few weeks soured in my head.

The joyful anticipation of getting pierced ears was gone. 

A little of my childhood innocence was also gone. 

 

I knew something she didn’t.  Something they didn’t want her to know. 

I wished I didn’t. 

I never told her. 

The argument.

We only ever had one argument. 

This one argument lasted a long, silent, awful while.

I believe she was spreading her wings, leaving the co-dependent relationship we shared.

Hindsight is a beautiful thing...so is maturity.

She dared to have a boyfriend. 

A boyfriend. 

It occurred to me, their relationship became more important to her than ours.

It didn’t occur to me, my large social circle was becoming more important to me than our relationship.

 

She ratted me out!   

RATTED.  ME.   OUT.

Our bond broke right down the middle.

 Snapped. 

Disintegrated. 

Poof, it was gone. 

 

I had a party without my parent’s knowledge.  I had done this before.  The difference was, she wasn’t at my party hanging out with my friends anymore.   She was dating.

HE THOUGHT SHE SHOULD RAT ME OUT BECAUSE IT WAS THE RESPONSIBLE THING TO DO. THERE WAS ALCOHOL AND BOYS AT MY PARTY AFTER ALL!

We had never squealed on one another before.  Not once. 

 

It was brand new, this way of living with someone but not liking them. 

The house became eerie quiet without our ‘us’ in existence. 

We used to giggle a lot.  I didn’t’ realise how much we giggled when I liked her.

Supper was the worst.   Mom worked hard to keep the conversation going.  I avoided making eye contact with Mom.  When I did, the shame would woosh and flip in my stomach.  It was difficult to maintain my aloofness, my false demeanour, my arrogance and judgement when I saw Mom’s eyes. 

The knowledge and acceptance that I was breaking my Mom’s heart outweighed my need to punish her.

I missed our warm and comfortable home. 

I missed sharing and happiness.

I missed her.

The day Mom begged me to forgive her and cease the silent protest was a great day.  I didn’t know how to stop without Mom’s interference.

I was grateful. 

I never told her.  Not once. 

The question.

‘Poor her.’

 ‘Poor her.’

They called her that.  As soon as her name was mentioned, the immediate response was ‘Poor her’. 

Even in the context of something comical or even positive, she was still ‘poor her’.

Sometimes they called me “darlin’” but never poor. 

It was said so often that I didn’t even hear it. 

Bet she did. 

It wasn’t until I was nearly finished high school when someone asked why they call her that.

I laughed.  It seemed such a comical observation... a silly question.

Upon reflection, I had no answer.

 I had no idea why she was called that.

Bet she did. 

 

The separation.

I was to stay with our friends, Mom told me.  Mom was going to stay at the hospital with her.

It was a long week.  I wrote letters to them.  I was told she was ok.

I waited and waited for the day I could go and visit. 

I missed them.  I couldn’t wait to tell her about everything she had missed.

The room was full of beds.  Maybe ten beds on either side of the room.  Most of the beds were empty.  My eyes searched the room, looking for her face.  I didn’t see her.  I scanned the room again. 

This time I saw someone waving. 

Oh crap.  Oh no.  Please don’t let that be her! 

I was being gestured to enter the room. 

"NO!  I don’t want to go in there!  That is NOT her!" 

I screamed silently. 

My feet defied me and moved forward. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her and yet I needed to look away.

There she sat in her hospital bed.  Her head as round as a basketball.  Her face so swollen her features were completely unrecognizable. 

She was bruised solid.  Her mouth was wired shut.  She was  scarey.

I was terrified. 

She patted the bed and indicated I was to sit beside her.  Mom gave me a squeeze of encouragement with her hand, and pleaded with me with her eyes to be brave.   

Somehow I did just that.  I dug deep for the courage and swallowed hard to stop the nausea.  I wanted to run away but I knew she needed me to stay. 

She was sixteen years old.  A surgeon broke her bottom jaw, moved it back and then wired her jaw shut.  She couldn’t eat anything.  Fluids only.  She was in a lot of pain. 

Beside her on the pillow lay a pair of wire cutters.  To this day, I wish I had not asked why they were there. 

Poor her.

She begged and begged Mom to let her go back to school! She missed her friends at school. 

She begged. 

Her half hour walk to school suddenly took an hour because she needed to stop and rest.  It is hard to breathe when your jaw is locked. 

She went back to high school with her jaws locked and her head held high.  She sat in the cafeteria sucking baby food off her finger.

Sucking baby food off her finger.             

For six weeks she lived this way.

The pain medication in the fridge was never used.

She never complained.

I thought she was the bravest person on the planet.

I never told her that.  Not once.

The misdiagnosis.

Hair- cartilage syndrome.

That was the childhood diagnosis.

The reason her hair is fine and thin.  The reason why there is little hair growth.  The reason her nails, her bones and her joints are weaker than others.  The reason she will be prone to arthritis.  The reason she is short. The reason she can’t tolerate the heat. 

A gene.  A mutated gene. 

Period.  Genetic.  Carry on. 

When she was five  she looked like a beautiful toddler.  

People mistook her correct gender from birth through to puberty.

People mistook her correct age from puberty through to present day.

Physically, she worked hard to keep up in gym, at dance class and in life.

Mentally she grew stronger and stronger. 

Emotionally she had to dig deep to survive. 

It turns out, she was misdiagnosed.

Unfortunately, the geneticist she visited prior to becoming pregnant did not catch the misdiagnosis. 

She was given the green light in the world of procreation.  Her odds for any birth abnormalities were in the same percentage as everyone else.  He smiled upon announcing this information.

(Yep, I was there at that appointment)

When her baby was born, the true diagnosis was made. 

I was shown a medical book with a picture of a patient with the same diagnosis.

Creepy enough, a picture of my sister with dark hair smiled at me.  They were identical.

How did the geneticist miss that?  She was a text book photo of a genetic anomaly.

I did not know she had a diagnosis.  I did not understand what she would be diagnosed for.

I never thought there was anything ‘wrong’ with her.

Ever.

 

The team.

She lived vicariously through my post secondary education.  She helped me move into my first apartment.

In my absence, she enjoyed short sheeting my bed, putting lampshades on upside down and removing labels.  We always made everything fun for each other.     

My first day there alone, I felt her love with each silly thing I discovered. 

Her regular letters helped stifle any homesickness.  

I couldn’t wait for her to come and spend the weekend.  She gladly drove us around my new city and helped me make it feel more familiar. 

We went and checked out the night life together. 

It was so much fun. 

She wanted to be a part of it all.

Often, she called me long distance only to hear me speak non-stop the entire time!

She met all my new friends and they always liked her.  People found it strange how close we were. 

We became special to others because of our close relationship. 

We had always liked each other’s company.  It was only unique to them.

‘The girls,’ label, from our childhood had evolved.  It was no longer a term used just for her.  Now it was about both of us.  It was used to define us.

We were a team and others admired us for it. 

We both enjoyed our fame...but we never said so, not once. 

 

The beginning.

I could always count on her – even when I was very young.

I was incredibly shy. 

I remember the burning tears at the back of my eyes when strangers attempted to engage me.  It was terrifying.  I would hide behind her.  She would hold my hand.  She would speak for me.  I would feel so relieved when she would explain I was shy and the stranger would accept that and walk away. 

She never complained about my behaviour even when she had to bring me into her Sunday school class or dance class.  I was simply unable to stay in my own age group class without her and I would cry at our separation.  Someone would always take me to her.

I would immediately feel safe again. 

I needed her emotionally. 

She has always been stronger emotionally.

I never told her that.  Not once. 

I called her from a payphone. 

He called me those names.  He made me feel dirty and ashamed.  I was scared.

She comforted me and helped me through. 

The details have left me but I know, in my heart, she saved me. 

I was scared and lost.  I didn’t know what to do. 

She was my first phone call. 

I knew she would help me. 

 I knew she wouldn’t judge. 

I needed her emotionally. 

The empowerment.

She is looking at me again.

I pretend to be oblivious to her staring.

I know what she wants.  Her desire makes me automatically reject her.

The longer I ignore her, the greater the impact. 

She will ask eventually....I anticipate it with a ballooning ego. 

In fact, I kind of want her to ask, in a smug kind of a way.  It gives me power.

I only know this power when I am with her. 

I am learning I have control over this power more and more.   

I taunt her by playing with my hair....wait for it, wait for it.... ‘Can I play with your hair?’

‘No.’  

Without.  Any.  Hesitation. 

Hell, I don’t even look up at her.  Just, ‘No.’

My voice echoes in my head, ‘No. No. No. No. No. No. No.’

The look on her face causes my triumph to crumble.  My power weakens.

She quietly accepts my answer.  Head down. 

Sometimes she would beg.  Then I would get mad. 

I never apologized.

Not once.

 

I do not remember being taught to be her idol.   It was instilled regardless.

She learned it too. 

God, I hated that.

Her acceptance of the lesson took away all of my power and left me feeling guilty and defensive.

Suddenly... my hair, my height, my features, my intelligence, my strength, my health and my sense of humor were gifts that I was personally responsible for receiving. 

As if I created myself.

Her admiration and compliments landed sour or so she thought.

 I remember the internal conflict.  I believed my need to be complimented was a weakness. 

I could not appear weak. 

To protect myself, I criticised her for even trying to compliment me. I had to reject her words in order to disguise my insecurities. 

I was empowered by manipulating her. 

I never said ‘thank you’.  Not once. 

 

I could out run, out dance, out do her at everything. 

I was taught to know this. 

I was expected to do things she was never asked to do.

I was expected to help with everything, know how to do everything and be the leader if the two of us were alone. 

It was subtle, or at least well done, but, it was clear.

I was smarter and more able because I was not her.

 

‘Get up! God!  Get up!’   I am so embarrassed. 

‘Shit! You almost got hit by a car!’  Ugh.

 I walk away fast and furious only glancing back long enough to give her the stink eye. 

Why does she always fall down?  Why can’t she just stop doing that?

I just want to leave her there and keep walking.  Knowing I have to help her infuriates me.

I see the look on her face.

That face....the one that says; ‘It’s all good’. 

Her face hides any anger or sadness she may be feeling due to the pain and/or the humiliation I am forcing upon her. 

I know I am being a bitch.  I know I am being unkind.  I know she can’t help it.

I never let her know that.

Not once.

The bully.

I could see them, standing around her, laughing.  She was laughing too. 

I watched her trying to get them to NOT do it.  She was trying to be a good sport, but, they just couldn’t let her alone. 

They did it.  They pulled off her wig... her wig.

Her hands shot up to her hair as she tried to straighten it.

 She continued to be a good sport.

She was asking, nicely, for them to give it back.  She was asking nicely.

I raced over to her side of the playground and I screamed at that boy!

‘You give that back to her right now!’

Faces of laughing boys, ill effected by my reprimand, taunting me to chase them. 

And chase them I did.  I ran and ran all over that playground trying to catch them.

I had to run, I had to get it. 

It was MY job to get it for her... although she never asked, even once.

I could not catch him.  He was bigger and older and faster.

I felt defeated when he threw the wig back at me, discarded it, like he didn’t want it in the first place. 

The bullies walked away, patting themselves on the back for a job well done.

I turned to find her and I saw her brave face.  It took my breath away.

As she replaced the wig onto her head, she told me to get back to my end of the playground.

There was no discussion. There was no praise.  Just a stoic sadness as she walked away. 

Did I make it worse?

Why did I feel I needed to interfere?

What is worse, being bullied or being bullied while your younger sibling tries to protect you?

Oh, god, she must have been so embarrassed.  I must have made it worse.

If I did, she never, ever said.  Not once.